“Really, Bromfield,” she said, “I don’t see how you can laugh. Do you see any way out of it?”
“It seems to me that the way has been found already. Tom has told his love to the right one, and the wrong one knows it. Time will do the rest.”
“If I had so low an opinion of them all as that, it would make me very unhappy. It’s shocking to think of it.”
“It is upon the theory of ladies and all young people,” said her husband, with a shrug, feeling his way to the matches on the mantel and then dropping them with a sigh, as if recollecting that he must not smoke there. “I’ve no doubt Tom feels himself an awful sinner. But apparently he’s resigned to his sin; he isn’t going to give her up.”
“I’m glad to say, for the sake of human nature, that she isn’t resigned—little as I like her,” cried Mrs. Corey.
Her husband shrugged again. “Oh, there mustn’t be any indecent haste. She will instinctively observe the proprieties. But come, now, Anna! you mustn’t pretend to me here, in the sanctuary of home, that practically the human affections don’t reconcile themselves to any situation that the human sentiments condemn. Suppose the wrong sister had died: would the right one have had any scruple in marrying Tom, after they had both ‘waited a proper time,’ as the phrase is?”
“Bromfield, you’re shocking!”
“Not more shocking than reality. You may regard this as a second marriage.” He looked at her with twinkling eyes, full of the triumph the spectator of his species feels in signal exhibitions of human nature. “Depend upon it, the right sister will be reconciled; the wrong one will be consoled; and all will go merry as a marriage bell—a second marriage bell. Why, it’s quite like a romance!” Here he laughed outright again.
“Well,” sighed the wife. “I could almost wish the right one, as you call her, would reject Tom, I dislike her so much.”
“Ah, now you’re talking business, Anna,” said her husband, with his hands spread behind the back he turned comfortably to the fire. “The whole Lapham tribe is distasteful to me. As I don’t happen to have seen our daughter-in-law-elect, I have still the hope—which you’re disposed to forbid me—that she may not be quite so unacceptable as the others.”
“Do you really feel so, Bromfield?” anxiously inquired his wife.
“Yes—I think I do”; and he sat down, and stretched out his long legs toward the fire.
“But it’s very inconsistent of you to oppose the matter now, when you’ve shown so much indifference up to this time. You’ve told me, all along, that it was of no use to oppose it.”
“So I have. I was convinced of that at the beginning, or my reason was. You know very well that I am equal to any trial, any sacrifice, day after tomorrow; but when it comes today, it’s another thing. As long as this crisis decently kept its distance, I could look at it with an impartial eye; but now that it seems at hand, I find that, while my reason is still acquiescent, my nerves are disposed to—excuse the phrase—kick. I ask myself, what have I done nothing for, all my life, and lived as a gentleman should, upon the earnings of somebody else, in the possession of every polite taste and feeling that adorns leisure, if I’m to come to this at last? And I find no satisfactory answer. I say to myself that I might as well have yielded to the pressure all ’round me, and gone to work, as Tom has.”
Mrs. Corey looked at him forlornly, divining the core of real repugnance that existed in his self-satire.
“I assure you, my dear,” he continued, “that the recollection of what I suffered from the Laphams at that dinner of yours is an anguish still. It wasn’t their behavior—they behaved well enough, or ill enough; but their conversation was terrible. Mrs. Lapham’s range was strictly domestic; and when the Colonel got me in the library, he poured mineral paint all over me, till I could have been safely warranted not to crack or scale in any climate. I suppose we shall have to see a good deal of them. They will probably come here every Sunday night to tea. It’s a perspective without a vanishing point.”
“It may not be so bad, after all,” said his wife; and she suggested for his consolation that he knew very little about the Laphams yet.
He assented to the fact. “I know very little about them, and about my other fellow beings. I daresay that I should like the Laphams better if I knew them better. But in any case, I resign myself. And we must keep in view the fact that this is mainly Tom’s affair, and if his affections have regulated it to his satisfaction, we must be content.”
“Oh yes,” sighed Mrs. Corey. “And perhaps it won’t turn out so badly. It’s a great comfort to know that you feel just as I do about it.”
“I do,” said her husband, “and more too.”
It was she and her daughters who would be chiefly annoyed by the Lapham connection; she knew that. But she had to begin to bear the burden by helping her husband to bear his light share of it. To see him so depressed dismayed her, and she might well have reproached him more sharply than she did for showing so much indifference, when she was so anxious, at first. But that would not have served any good end now. She even answered him patiently when he asked her, “What did you say to Tom when he told you it was the other one?”
“What could I say? I could do nothing, but try to take back what I had said against her.”
“Yes, you had quite enough to do, I suppose. It’s an awkward business. If it had been the pretty one, her beauty would have been our excuse. But the plain one—what do you suppose attracted him in her?”
Mrs. Corey sighed at the futility of the question. “Perhaps I did her injustice. I only saw her a few moments. Perhaps I got a false impression. I don’t think she’s lacking in sense, and that’s a great thing. She’ll be quick to see that we don’t mean unkindness, and can’t, by anything we say or do, when she’s Tom’s wife.” She pronounced the distasteful word with courage, and went on: “The pretty one might not have been able to see that. She might have got it into her head that we were looking down on her; and those insipid people are terribly stubborn. We can come to some understanding with this one; I’m sure of that.” She ended by declaring that it was now their duty to help Tom out of his terrible predicament.
“Oh, even the Lapham cloud has a silver lining,” said Corey. “In fact, it seems really to have all turned out for the best, Anna; though it’s rather curious to find you the champion of the Lapham side, at last. Confess, now, that the right girl has secretly been your choice all along, and that while you sympathize with the wrong one, you rejoice in the tenacity with which the right one is clinging to her own!” He added with final seriousness, “It’s just that she should, and, so far as I understand the case, I respect her for it.”
“Oh, yes,” sighed Mrs. Corey. “It’s natural, and it’s right.” But she added, “I suppose they’re glad of him on any terms.”
“That is what I have been taught to believe,” said her husband. “When shall we see our daughter-in-law-elect? I find myself rather impatient to have that part of it over.”
Mrs. Corey hesitated. “Tom thinks we had better not call, just yet.”
“She has told him of your terrible behavior when you called before?”
“No, Bromfield! She couldn’t be so vulgar as that?”
“But anything short of it?”
XXI
LAPHAM was gone a fortnight. He was in a sullen humor when he came back, and kept himself shut close within his own den at the office the first day. He entered it in the morning without a word to his clerks as he passed through the outer room, and he made no sign throughout the forenoon, except to strike savagely on his desk bell from time to time, and send out to Walker for some book of accounts or a letter file. His boy confidentially reported to Walker that the old man seemed to have got a lot of papers ’round; and at lunch the bookkeeper said to Corey, at the little table which they had taken in a corner together, in default of seats at the counter, “Well, sir, I guess ther
e’s a cold wave coming.”
Corey looked up innocently, and said, “I haven’t read the weather report.”
“Yes, sir,” Walker continued, “it’s coming. Areas of rain along the whole coast, and increased pressure in the region of the private office. Storm signals up at the old man’s door now.”
Corey perceived that he was speaking figuratively, and that his meteorology was entirely personal to Lapham. “What do you mean?” he asked, without vivid interest in the allegory, his mind being full of his own tragicomedy.
“Why, just this: I guess the old man’s takin’ in sail. And I guess he’s got to. As I told you the first time we talked about him, there don’t anyone know one-quarter as much about the old man’s business as the old man does himself; and I ain’t betraying any confidence when I say that I guess that old partner of his has got pretty deep into his books. I guess he’s over head and ears in ’em, and the old man’s gone in after him, and he’s got a drownin’ man’s grip ’round his neck. There seems to be a kind of a lull—kind of a dead calm, I call it—in the paint market just now; and then again a ten-hundred-thousand-dollar man don’t build a hundred-thousand-dollar house without feeling the drain, unless there’s a regular boom. And just now there ain’t any boom at all. Oh, I don’t say but what the old man’s got anchors to windward; guess he has, but if he’s goin’ to leave me his money, I wish he’d left it six weeks ago. Yes, sir, I guess there’s a cold wave comin’; but you can’t generally ’most always tell, as a usual thing, where the old man’s concerned, and it’s only a guess.” Walker began to feed in his breaded chop with the same nervous excitement with which he abandoned himself to the slangy and figurative excesses of his talks. Corey had listened with a miserable curiosity and compassion up to a certain moment, when a broad light of hope flashed upon him. It came from Lapham’s potential ruin; and the way out of the labyrinth that had hitherto seemed so hopeless was clear enough, if another’s disaster would befriend him, and give him the opportunity to prove the unselfishness of his constancy. He thought of the sum of money that was his own, and that he might offer to lend, or practically give, if the time came; and with his crude hopes and purposes formlessly exulting in his heart, he kept on listening with an unchanged countenance.
Walker could not rest till he had developed the whole situation, so far as he knew it. “Look at the stock we’ve got on hand. There’s going to be an awful shrinkage on that, now! And when everybody is shutting down, or running half time, the Works up at Lapham are going full chip, just the same as ever. Well, it’s his pride. I don’t say but what it’s a good sort of pride, but he likes to make his brags that the fire’s never been out in the Works since they started, and that no man’s work or wages has ever been cut down yet at Lapham—it don’t matter what the times are. Of course,” explained Walker, “I shouldn’t talk so to everybody; don’t know as I should talk so to anybody but you, Mr. Corey.”
“Of course,” assented Corey.
“Little off your feed today,” said Walker, glancing at Corey’s plate.
“I got up with a headache.”
“Well, sir, if you’re like me you’ll carry it ’round all day, then. I don’t know a much meaner thing than a headache—unless it’s earache, or toothache, or some other kind of ache. I’m pretty hard to suit, when it comes to diseases. Notice how yellow the old man looked when he came in this morning? I don’t like to see a man of his build look yellow—much.”
About the middle of the afternoon the dust-colored face of Rogers, now familiar to Lapham’s clerks, showed itself among them. “Has Colonel Lapham returned yet?” he asked, in his dry, wooden tones, of Lapham’s boy.
“Yes, he’s in his office,” said the boy; and as Rogers advanced, he rose and added, “I don’t know as you can see him today. His orders are not to let anybody in.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Rogers; “I think he will see me!” and he pressed forward.
“Well, I’ll have to ask,” returned the boy; and hastily preceding Rogers, he put his head in at Lapham’s door, and then withdrew it. “Please to sit down,” he said; “he’ll see you pretty soon”; and, with an air of some surprise, Rogers obeyed. His sere dull-brown whiskers and the mustache closing over both lips were incongruously and illogically clerical in effect, and the effect was heightened for no reason by the parchment texture of his skin; the baldness extending to the crown of his head was like a baldness made up for the stage. What his face expressed chiefly was a bland and beneficent caution. Here, you must have said to yourself, is a man of just, sober, and prudent views, fixed purposes, and the good citizenship that avoids debt and hazard of every kind.
“What do you want?” asked Lapham, wheeling ’round in his swivel chair as Rogers entered his room, and pushing the door shut with his foot, without rising.
Rogers took the chair that was not offered him, and sat with his hat brim on his knees, and its crown pointed toward Lapham. “I want to know what you are going to do,” he answered with sufficient self-possession.
“I’ll tell you, first, what I’ve done,” said Lapham. “I’ve been to Dubuque, and I’ve found out all about that milling property you turned in on me. Did you know that the G. L. & P. had leased the P. Y. & X.?”
“I some suspected that it might.”
“Did you know it when you turned the property in on me? Did you know that the G. L. & P. wanted to buy the mills?”
“I presumed the Road would give a fair price for them,” said Rogers, winking his eyes in outward expression of inwardly blinking the point.
“You lie,” said Lapham, as quietly as if correcting him in a slight error; and Rogers took the word with equal sang froid. “You knew the Road wouldn’t give a fair price for the mills. You knew it would give what it chose, and that I couldn’t help myself, when you let me take them. You’re a thief, Milton K. Rogers, and you stole money I lent you.” Rogers sat listening, as if respectfully considering the statements. “You knew how I felt about that old matter—or my wife did; and that I wanted to make it up to you, if you felt any way badly used. And you took advantage of it. You’ve got money out of me, in the first place, on securities that wan’t worth thirty-five cents on the dollar, and you’ve let me in for this thing, and that thing, and you’ve bled me every time. And all I’ve got to show for it is a milling property on a line of Road that can squeeze me, whenever it wants to, as dry as it pleases. And you want to know what I’m going to do? I’m going to squeeze you. I’m going to sell these collaterals of yours”—he touched a bundle of papers among others that littered his desk—“and I’m going to let the mills go for what they’ll fetch. I ain’t going to fight the G. L. & P.”
Lapham wheeled about in his chair and turned his burly back on his visitor, who sat wholly unmoved.
“There are some parties,” he began, with a dry tranquillity ignoring Lapham’s words, as if they had been an outburst against some third person, who probably merited them, but in whom he was so little interested that he had been obliged to use patience in listening to his condemnation, “there are some English parties who have been making inquiries in regard to those mills.”
“I guess you’re lying, Rogers,” said Lapham, without looking around.
“Well, all that I have to ask is that you will not act hastily.”
“I see you don’t think I’m in earnest!” cried Lapham, facing fiercely about. “You think I’m fooling, do you?” He struck his bell, and “William,” he ordered the boy who answered it, and who stood waiting while he dashed off a note to the brokers and enclosed it with the bundle of securities in a large envelope, “take these down to Gallop & Paddock’s, in State Street, right away. Now go!” he said to Rogers, when the boy had closed the door after him; and he turned once more to his desk.
Rogers rose from his chair, and stood with his hat in his hand. He was not merely dispassionate in his attitude and expression; he was impartial. He w
ore the air of a man who was ready to return to business whenever the wayward mood of his interlocutor permitted. “Then I understand,” he said, “that you will take no action in regard to the mills till I have seen the parties I speak of.”
Lapham faced about once more, and sat looking up into the visage of Rogers in silence. “I wonder what you’re up to,” he said at last; “I should like to know.” But as Rogers made no sign of gratifying his curiosity, and treated this last remark of Lapham’s as of the irrelevance of all the rest, he said, frowning, “You bring me a party that will give me enough for those mills to clear me of you, and I’ll talk to you. But don’t you come here with any man of straw. And I’ll give you just twenty-four hours to prove yourself a swindler again.”
Once more Lapham turned his back, and Rogers, after looking thoughtfully into his hat a moment, cleared his throat, and quietly withdrew, maintaining to the last his unprejudiced demeanor.
Lapham was not again heard from, as Walker phrased it, during the afternoon, except when the last mail was taken in to him; then the sound of rending envelopes, mixed with that of what seemed suppressed swearing, penetrated to the outer office. Somewhat earlier than the usual hour for closing, he appeared there with his hat on and his overcoat buttoned about him. He said briefly to his boy, “William, I shan’t be back again this afternoon,” and then went to Miss Dewey and left a number of letters on her table to be copied, and went out. Nothing had been said, but a sense of trouble subtly diffused itself through those who saw him go out.
That evening as he sat down with his wife alone at tea, he asked, “Ain’t Pen coming to supper?”
The Rise of Silas Lapham Page 30
