Matters of Honor by Louis Begley Page B

senile. That’s what Father thinks, and he should know. Hibble does all the legal work for the family.
    I told George that my father would be glad to hear about Mr. Standish’s opinion of Mr. Hibble, but my parents had confirmed the story. It had to be true. George fell silent. I am trying to think this out, he said after a while. There is something fishy about it, my grandfather stepping in like that. And setting up a trust! I think I see it. My sisters are older than I am and you are a year younger. That makes it simple: by the time you were born, Mother and Father had been married for six or seven years. Grandfather wasn’t more than sixty-five, maybe younger, and he was in fine health. Hey, you might be my uncle! My sisters’ and my uncle! Unless you’re our half brother. Mother always says that Father was wild before they got married. Perhaps he hadn’t stopped. How about that?
    I told George that for a while after the meeting with Mr. Hibble I had thought of very little except the adoption, and the conclusion I’d come to was that there was no reason to believe anything of that sort. Abortions were easy to arrange, I said, if you had money. That’s what would have been done in your family. More than likely some young woman your grandfather knew—perhaps an employee at the bank, perhaps the daughter of an employee, perhaps a servant, perhaps the daughter of a friend—anyway, some girl he knew got into trouble and it was too late to fix it. So your grandfather stepped in generously and solved the girl’s problem. At the same time he did his nephew and the nephew’s wife a great big favor.
    Could be, said George. But the family resemblance?
    I replied that it extended to half of the Anglo-Scottish population of the Berkshires, there being nothing especially distinctive about the Standish looks. In any case, he could be sure of one thing: it wasn’t his father. He had never paid attention to me, one way or the other, and although he seemed to know who I was, I would bet he couldn’t remember my name.
    We agreed that we wouldn’t be solving the riddle. When I suggested that it might be better not to know the answer, he said that was all right with him, but he might start thinking of me as a kid brother anyway—it seemed more natural than uncle. We also agreed on a point of practical importance: we would not mention our conversation to anyone, his parents and sisters and my parents included. He was very solemn about it, which was a relief, and not only because I had given my word to Mr. Hibble. Speaking to George was justified; it was only fair if we were to be friends. But neither of us wanted to make trouble with his parents—if they really didn’t know—or mine, or get the Berkshire gossip mill started.
                      
    T HE SUN HAD SET by the time the train finally pulled into the station. Only one door opened. We ran toward it to help Margot down the steps and take her bags. Yes, she was very beautiful, even if her nose was too big for her face, and she was doing her best to be pleasant. During the few minutes it took us to get to the Standish house, she managed to pet George, who was driving, to wink encouragingly at Henry, and to distinguish me as a special friend, all the while commenting lazily on the Norman Rockwell winter landscape. I concluded that the air of boredom I had found so off-putting at Mario’s party might have been only her cocktail party pose.
    The Standish parents welcomed us at the door. I refused Mrs. Standish’s offer of tea: if I was to make it home to Lenox to change and back in time for a drink before the party, I had better leave at once. My, my, she replied, perhaps you’re right; the roads are so very slippery. Do give Jack’s and my greetings to your dear parents. We did so like their Christmas card!
    I couldn’t have cared less about the road conditions and in truth didn’t need very much time to get into my dinner jacket, but I felt I had to