Read Online Time Will Darken It by William Maxwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Maxwell
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tilted the coffeepot and it gave out a last thin trickle.
“
Now
where are you going?” Nora asked anxiously.
“To make a fresh pot of coffee.”
“Can’t I do it?”
“I’d better go do it myself,” Martha said. “Rachel’s in a bad mood this morning. She might bite your head off.… They’re not real?” she asked, with her hand on the swinging door.
“Cousin Martha, that bed!” a voice said. Mrs. Potter swept into the dining-room, wearing a lace cap to hide her curl papers and an old brocade dressing-gown that Nora had begged her to leave at home. “Good morning, daughter.”
“Nora and I have been having such an interesting conversation,” Martha King said.
“I hope she hasn’t been talking about Life, at the breakfast table.”
“Oh no,” Martha said. “Nora and I have been talking about voices.”
“I can’t always follow her, before my eyes are open. Nothing but toast and coffee for me,” Mrs. Potter added as she sat down. “Mr. Potter likes his two eggs and a little fried ham, if you have any, but I just have toast and coffee. My dear, it was like sleeping on a cloud.”
3
The law office of Holby and King, on the north side of the courthouse square, was reached by a flight of rickety stairs in which deep grooves had been worn by the feet of people coming to inquire into their rights under the Law, or to be treated by Dr. Hieronymous, the osteopath whose office was across the hall.
In the outer room of the law firm, surrounded by tier upon tier of fat calf-bound books on jurisprudence and equity, Miss Ewing guarded the gate through which people were usually but not always allowed to pass. She was a thin, energetic, nervous woman with a raw complexion, pale blue eyes, and pince-nez that reflected no mercy upon mankind. Around her cuffs she wore sheets of legal foolscap held in place by paper clips, and her hair was a grey bird’s nest full of little combs, bone hairpins, puffs, and rats. The age of anyone born and raised in Draperville was either common knowledge or easily arrived at by mental calculation—Miss Ewing was fifty-one. But how she did her hair up the same way every morning of her life was a secret known to no other living person.
Miss Ewing was friendly with clients, rude to insurance salesmen and peddlers, and self-important generally; but she did the work of two secretaries and an errand boy, was never ill, and gave up all claim to a life of her own in the sincere and fairly accurate belief that without her the firm of Holby and King would not have been able to function. She alone understood the filing and book-keeping systems, and she had dozens of telephone numbers and addresses in her head, including some that belonged to people who were now retired from business and in certain cases dead.
This morning she was sitting at her L. C. Smith double-keyboard typewriter thrashing out five copies of an abstract that Austin King had left on her desk, and waiting for a farmer named John Scroggins to come out of Mr. Holby’s office so she could go in and take his dictation. There were a number of matters that Mr. Holby ought to have been attending to, but instead he was addressing the farmer as if they were both in a crowded courtroom. “We had more enjoyment in the days of bare rough floors and mud chimneys than the people of today, who tread upon velvet and recline upon cushioned seats, clothed in purple and fine linen …”
The farmer was clothed in an old dark blue suit, and he had come to consult Mr. Holby about the mortgage on his farm. It was coming due shortly and the bank was threatening to foreclose.
“Life then,” Mr. Holby said, “was more real. Humankind possessed more goodness. Virtue had a higher level, and manhood was set at a higher key …”
Miss Ewing went on typing.
Austin King’s door was closed. Although he was the junior partner in the firm, his office was the larger of the two, and looked out over the square and the stately courthouse
“
Now
where are you going?” Nora asked anxiously.
“To make a fresh pot of coffee.”
“Can’t I do it?”
“I’d better go do it myself,” Martha said. “Rachel’s in a bad mood this morning. She might bite your head off.… They’re not real?” she asked, with her hand on the swinging door.
“Cousin Martha, that bed!” a voice said. Mrs. Potter swept into the dining-room, wearing a lace cap to hide her curl papers and an old brocade dressing-gown that Nora had begged her to leave at home. “Good morning, daughter.”
“Nora and I have been having such an interesting conversation,” Martha King said.
“I hope she hasn’t been talking about Life, at the breakfast table.”
“Oh no,” Martha said. “Nora and I have been talking about voices.”
“I can’t always follow her, before my eyes are open. Nothing but toast and coffee for me,” Mrs. Potter added as she sat down. “Mr. Potter likes his two eggs and a little fried ham, if you have any, but I just have toast and coffee. My dear, it was like sleeping on a cloud.”
3
The law office of Holby and King, on the north side of the courthouse square, was reached by a flight of rickety stairs in which deep grooves had been worn by the feet of people coming to inquire into their rights under the Law, or to be treated by Dr. Hieronymous, the osteopath whose office was across the hall.
In the outer room of the law firm, surrounded by tier upon tier of fat calf-bound books on jurisprudence and equity, Miss Ewing guarded the gate through which people were usually but not always allowed to pass. She was a thin, energetic, nervous woman with a raw complexion, pale blue eyes, and pince-nez that reflected no mercy upon mankind. Around her cuffs she wore sheets of legal foolscap held in place by paper clips, and her hair was a grey bird’s nest full of little combs, bone hairpins, puffs, and rats. The age of anyone born and raised in Draperville was either common knowledge or easily arrived at by mental calculation—Miss Ewing was fifty-one. But how she did her hair up the same way every morning of her life was a secret known to no other living person.
Miss Ewing was friendly with clients, rude to insurance salesmen and peddlers, and self-important generally; but she did the work of two secretaries and an errand boy, was never ill, and gave up all claim to a life of her own in the sincere and fairly accurate belief that without her the firm of Holby and King would not have been able to function. She alone understood the filing and book-keeping systems, and she had dozens of telephone numbers and addresses in her head, including some that belonged to people who were now retired from business and in certain cases dead.
This morning she was sitting at her L. C. Smith double-keyboard typewriter thrashing out five copies of an abstract that Austin King had left on her desk, and waiting for a farmer named John Scroggins to come out of Mr. Holby’s office so she could go in and take his dictation. There were a number of matters that Mr. Holby ought to have been attending to, but instead he was addressing the farmer as if they were both in a crowded courtroom. “We had more enjoyment in the days of bare rough floors and mud chimneys than the people of today, who tread upon velvet and recline upon cushioned seats, clothed in purple and fine linen …”
The farmer was clothed in an old dark blue suit, and he had come to consult Mr. Holby about the mortgage on his farm. It was coming due shortly and the bank was threatening to foreclose.
“Life then,” Mr. Holby said, “was more real. Humankind possessed more goodness. Virtue had a higher level, and manhood was set at a higher key …”
Miss Ewing went on typing.
Austin King’s door was closed. Although he was the junior partner in the firm, his office was the larger of the two, and looked out over the square and the stately courthouse
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