“Come in,” Leander said. “I expect you’re looking for Mrs. Wapshot?”
“I think you’re the gentleman I’m looking for,” she said with a look so troubled and shy that Leander glanced down at his clothes. “I’m Miss Helen Rutherford. Are you Mr. Wapshot?”
“Yes, I’m Leander Wapshot. Come in, come in out of the rain. Come into the parlor. I have a little fire.” She followed Leander along the hall and he opened the door to the back parlor. “Sit down,” he said. “Sit in the red chair. Sit by the fire. Give your clothes a chance to dry out.”
“You have quite a big house here, Mr. Wapshot,” she said.
“It’s too big,” Leander said. “Do you know how many doors there are in this house? There are one hundred and twenty-two doors in this house. Now what was it that you wanted to see me about?”
She made a sniffling sound as if she had a cold or might even have been crying and began to unbuckle a heavy brief case that she carried.
“Your name was given to me by an acquaintance. I’m an accredited representative of the Institute for Self-Improvement. We still have a few subscriptions open for eligible men and women. Dr. Bartholomew, the director of the institute, has divided human knowledge into seven branches. Science, the arts—both the cultural arts and the arts of physical well-being—religion …”
“Who gave you my name?” Leander asked.
“Dr. Bartholomew thinks it’s more a question of inclination than background,” the stranger said. “Many people who’ve been fortunate enough to have a college education are still ineligible by Dr. Bartholomew’s standards.” She spoke without emphasis or feeling, almost with dread, as if she had come about something else, and she kept her eyes on the floor. “Educators all over the world and some of the crowned heads of Europe have endorsed Dr. Bartholomew’s methods and Dr. Bartholomew’s essay on ‘The Science of Religion’ is in the Royal Library in Holland. I have a picture of Dr. Bartholomew here and …”
“Who gave you my name?” Leander asked again.
“Daddy,” she said. “Daddy gave me your name.” She began to wring her hands. “He died last summer. Oh, he was good to me, he was like a real daddy, there wasn’t anything in the world that he wouldn’t do for me. He was my best beau. On Sundays we used to take walks together. He was awfully intelligent but they cheated him. They did him out of everything. He wasn’t afraid, though, he wasn’t afraid of anything. Once we went to a show in Boston. That was on my birthday. He bought these expensive seats. They were supposed to be in the orchestra but when we came to sit in them they put us in the balcony. We paid for orchestra seats—he told me—and we’re going down and sit in that orchestra. So he took my hand and we went downstairs and he told the usher—he was one of those stuck-up fellows—we paid for orchestra seats and we’re going to sit in that orchestra. I miss him so much it’s all I can think about. He never let me go anywhere without him. And then he died last summer.”
“Where is your home?” Leander asked.
“Nahant.”
“Nahant?”
“Yes. Daddy told me everything.”
“What do you mean?” Leander said.
“Daddy told me everything. He told me how you came there after dark, like thieves, he said, and about how Mr. Whittier paid for everything and how Mother kept me from drinking her wicked milk.”
“Who are you?” Leander said.
“I’m your daughter.”
“Oh no,” Leander said. “You’re lying. You’re a crazy woman. Get out of here.”
“I’m your daughter.”
“Oh no,” Leander said. “You’ve thought this all up, you and those people in Nahant. You’ve made it all up. Now get out of my house. Leave me alone.”
“You walked on the beach,” she said. “Daddy remembered everything so’s you’d believe me and give me money. He even remembered the suit you had. He said you had a plaid suit. He said you walked on the beach and picked up stones.”
“Get out of my house,” Leander said.
“I won’t go away from here until you give me money. You never once asked was I living or dead. You never gave me a thought. Now I want some money. After Daddy died I sold the house and I had a little money and then I had to take this work. It’s hard for me. It’s too hard for me. I’m not strong. I’m out in all weathers. I want some money.”
“I don’t have anything to give you.”
“That’s what Daddy said. He said you’d try to get out of helping me. Daddy told me that’s what you’d say, but he made me promise to come and see you.” Then she stood and picked up her brief case. “God will be your judge,” she said at the door, “but I know my rights and I can bring you into court and blacken your name.” Then she went down the hall and when she got to the door Leander called after her, “Wait, wait, wait, please,” and went down the hall. “I can give you something,” he said. “I have a few things left. I have a jade watch fob and a golden chain and I can show you your mother’s grave. It’s in the village.”
“I would spit on it,” she said. “I would spit on it.” Then she went out of the house to where the taxi was waiting and drove away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A week or ten days after his dinner with Betsey, Coverly moved into her apartment. This took a lot of persuasion on Coverly’s part but her resistance pleased him and seemed to express the seriousness with which she took herself. His case was based—indirectly—on the fact that she needed someone to look out for her, on the fact that she did not have, as she had said herself, the thickness of skin the city demanded. Coverly’s feelings about her helplessness were poetic and absorbing and when he thought of her in her absence it was with a mixture of pity and bellicoseness. She was alone and he would defend her. There was this and there was the fact that their relationship unfolded with great validity and this informal marriage or union, played out in a strange and great city, made Coverly very happy. She was the beloved; he was the lover—there was never any question about this and this suited Coverly’s disposition and gave to his courtship and their life together the liveliness of a pursuit. Her search for friends had been arduous and disappointing and it was these disappointments and exasperations that Coverly was able to redress. There was no pretentiousness in her—no memories of either hunt balls or razorback hogs—and she was ready and willing to cook his supper and warm his bones at night. She had been raised by her grandmother, who had wanted her to be a schoolteacher, and she had disliked the South so much that she had taken any job to get out of it. He recognized her defenselessness, but he recognized, at a much deeper level, her human excellence, the touching qualities of a wanderer, for she was that and said so and while she would play all the parts of love she would not tell him that she was in love. On the week ends they took walks, subway and ferryboat rides, and talked over their plans and their tastes, and late in the winter Coverly asked her to marry him. Betsey’s reaction was scattered, tearful and sweet, and Coverly wrote his plans in a letter to St. Botolphs. He wanted to marry as soon as he had passed his civil-service examinations and had been assigned to one of the rocket-launching stations where Tapers were employed. He enclosed a photograph of Betsey, but he would not bring his bride to St. Botolphs until he was given a vacation. He took these precautions because it had occurred to him that Betsey’s southern accent and sometimes fractious manner might not go down with Honora and that the sensible thing to do would be to marry and produce a son before Honora saw his wife. Leander may have sensed this—his letters to Coverly were all congratulatory and affectionate—and it may have been at the back of his mind that with Coverly married they might soon all be on Easy Street. It would be way at the back of his mind. Sarah was heartbroken to know that Coverly would not be married at Christ Church.