Lapham had not told his daughter where he was going; she had heard him packing his bag, and had offered to help him; but he had said he could do it best, and had gone off, as he usually did, without taking leave of anyone.
“What were you talking about so loud, down in the parlor,” she asked her mother, “just before he came up? Is there any new trouble?”
“No; it was nothing.”
“I couldn’t tell. Once I thought you were laughing.” She went about, closing the curtains on account of her mother’s headache, and doing awkwardly and imperfectly the things that Irene would have done so skillfully for her comfort.
The day wore away to nightfall, and then Mrs. Lapham said she must know. Penelope said there was no one to ask; the clerks would all be gone home, and her mother said yes, there was Mr. Corey; they could send and ask him; he would know.
The girl hesitated. “Very well,” she said, then, scarcely above a whisper, and she presently laughed huskily. “Mr. Corey seems fated to come in, somewhere. I guess it’s a Providence, Mother.”
She sent off a note, inquiring whether he could tell her just where her father had expected to be that night; and the answer came quickly back that Corey did not know, but would look up the bookkeeper and inquire. This office brought him in person, an hour later, to tell Penelope that the Colonel was to be at Lapham that night and next day.
“He came in from New York, in a great hurry, and rushed off as soon as he could pack his bag,” Penelope explained, “and we hadn’t a chance to ask him where he was to be tonight. And Mother wasn’t very well, and—”
“I thought she wasn’t looking well when she was at the office today. And so I thought I would come rather than send,” Corey explained in his turn.
“Oh, thank you!”
“If there is anything I can do—telegraph Colonel Lapham, or anything?”
“Oh no, thank you; Mother’s better now. She merely wanted to be sure where he was.”
He did not offer to go, upon this conclusion of his business, but hoped he was not keeping her from her mother. She thanked him once again, and said no, that her mother was much better since she had had a cup of tea; and then they looked at each other, and without any apparent exchange of intelligence he remained, and at eleven o’clock he was still there. He was honest in saying he did not know it was so late; but he made no pretense of being sorry, and she took the blame to herself.
“I oughtn’t to have let you stay,” she said. “But with Father gone, and all that trouble hanging over us—”
She was allowing him to hold her hand a moment at the door, to which she had followed him.
“I’m so glad you could let me!” he said, “and I want to ask you now when I may come again. But if you need me, you’ll—”
A sharp pull at the doorbell outside made them start asunder, and at a sign from Penelope, who knew that the maids were abed by this time, he opened it.
“Why, Irene!” shrieked the girl.
Irene entered with the hackman, who had driven her unheard to the door, following with her small bags, and kissed her sister with resolute composure. “That’s all,” she said to the hackman. “I gave my checks to the expressman,” she explained to Penelope.
Corey stood helpless. Irene turned upon him, and gave him her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Corey?” she said, with a courage that sent a thrill of admiring gratitude through him. “Where’s Mama, Pen? Papa gone to bed?”
Penelope faltered out some reply embodying the facts, and Irene ran up the stairs to her mother’s room. Mrs. Lapham started up in bed at her apparition.
“Irene Lapham!”
“Uncle William thought he ought to tell me the trouble Papa was in; and did you think I was going to stay off there junketing, while you were going through all this at home, and Pen acting so silly, too? You ought to have been ashamed to let me stay so long! I started just as soon as I could pack. Did you get my dispatch? I telegraphed from Springfield. But it don’t matter, now. Here I am. And I don’t think I need have hurried on Pen’s account,” she added, with an accent prophetic of the sort of old maid she would become, if she happened not to marry.
“Did you see him?” asked her mother. “It’s the first time he’s been here since she told him he mustn’t come.”
“I guess it isn’t the last time, by the looks,” said Irene, and before she took off her bonnet, she began to undo some of Penelope’s mistaken arrangements of the room.
At breakfast, where Corey and his mother met the next morning before his father and sisters came down, he told her, with embarrassment, which told much more, that he wished now that she would go and call upon the Laphams.
Mrs. Corey turned a little pale, but shut her lips tight and mourned in silence whatever hopes she had lately permitted herself. She answered with Roman fortitude: “Of course, if there’s anything between you and Miss Lapham, your family ought to recognize it.”
“Yes,” said Corey.
“You were reluctant to have me call at first, but now if the affair is going on—”
“It is! I hope—yes, it is!”
“Then I ought to go and see her, with your sisters; and she ought to come here and—we ought all to see her and make the matter public. We can’t do so too soon. It will seem as if we were ashamed if we don’t.”
“Yes, you are quite right, Mother,” said the young man gratefully, “and I feel how kind and good you are. I have tried to consider you in this matter, though I don’t seem to have done so; I know what your rights are, and I wish with all my heart that I were meeting even your tastes perfectly. But I know you will like her when you come to know her. It’s been very hard for her every way—about her sister—and she’s made a great sacrifice for me. She’s acted nobly.”
Mrs. Corey, whose thoughts cannot always be reported, said she was sure of it, and that all she desired was her son’s happiness.
“She’s been very unwilling to consider it an engagement on that account, and on account of Colonel Lapham’s difficulties. I should like to have you go, now, for that very reason. I don’t know just how serious the trouble is; but it isn’t a time when we can seem indifferent.”
The logic of this was not perhaps so apparent to the glasses of fifty as to the eyes of twenty-six; but Mrs. Corey, however she viewed it, could not allow herself to blench before the son whom she had taught that to want magnanimity was to be less than gentlemanly. She answered, with what composure she could, “I will take your sisters,” and then she made some natural inquiries about Lapham’s affairs.
“Oh, I hope it will come out all right,” Corey said, with a lover’s vague smile, and left her. When his father came down, rubbing his long hands together, and looking aloof from all the cares of the practical world, in an artistic withdrawal, from which his eye ranged over the breakfast table before he sat down, Mrs. Corey told him what she and their son had been saying.
He laughed, with a delicate impersonal appreciation of the predicament. “Well, Anna, you can’t say but if you ever were guilty of supposing yourself porcelain, this is a just punishment of your arrogance. Here you are bound by the very quality on which you’ve prided yourself to behave well to a bit of earthenware who is apparently in danger of losing the gilding that rendered her tolerable.”
“We never cared for the money,” said Mrs. Corey. “You know that.”
“No; and now we can’t seem to care for the loss of it. That would be still worse. Either horn of the dilemma gores us. Well, we still have the comfort we had in the beginning; we can’t help ourselves; and we should only make bad worse by trying. Unless we can look to Tom’s inamorata herself for help.”
Mrs. Corey shook her head so gloomily that her husband broke off with another laugh. But at the continued trouble of her face, he said, sympathetically: “My dear, I know it’s a very disagreeable affair; and I don’t think either of us has f
ailed to see that it was so from the beginning. I have had my way of expressing my sense of it, and you yours, but we have always been of the same mind about it. We would both have preferred to have Tom marry in his own set; the Laphams are about the last set we could have wished him to marry into. They are uncultivated people, and so far as I have seen them, I’m not able to believe that poverty will improve them. Still, it may. Let us hope for the best, and let us behave as well as we know how. I’m sure you will behave well, and I shall try. I’m going with you to call on Miss Lapham. This is a thing that can’t be done by halves!”
He cut his orange in the Neapolitan manner, and ate it in quarters.
XXVII
IRENE did not leave her mother in any illusion concerning her cousin Will and herself. She said they had all been as nice to her as they could be, and when Mrs. Lapham hinted at what had been in her thoughts—or her hopes, rather—Irene severely snubbed the notion. She said that he was as good as engaged to a girl out there, and that he had never dreamed of her. Her mother wondered at her severity; in these few months the girl had toughened and hardened; she had lost all her babyish dependence and pliability; she was like iron; and here and there she was sharpened to a cutting edge. It had been a life-and-death struggle with her; she had conquered, but she had also necessarily lost much. Perhaps what she had lost was not worth keeping; but at any rate she had lost it.
She required from her mother a strict and accurate account of her father’s affairs, so far as Mrs. Lapham knew them; and she showed a businesslike quickness in comprehending them that Penelope had never pretended to. With her sister she ignored the past as completely as it was possible to do; and she treated both Corey and Penelope with the justice which their innocence of voluntary offense deserved. It was a difficult part, and she kept away from them as much as she could. She had been easily excused, on a plea of fatigue from her journey, when Mr. and Mrs. Corey had called the day after her arrival, and, Mrs. Lapham being still unwell, Penelope received them alone.
The girl had instinctively judged best that they should know the worst at once, and she let them have the full brunt of the drawing room, while she was screwing her courage up to come down and see them. She was afterward—months afterward—able to report to Corey that when she entered the room his father was sitting with his hat on his knees, a little tilted away from the Emancipation group, as if he expected the Lincoln to hit him, with that lifted hand of benediction; and that Mrs. Corey looked as if she were not sure but the Eagle pecked. But for the time being Penelope was as nearly crazed as might be by the complications of her position, and received her visitors with a piteous distraction which could not fail of touching Bromfield Corey’s Italianized sympatheticism. He was very polite and tender with her at first, and ended by making a joke with her, to which Penelope responded, in her sort. He said he hoped they parted friends, if not quite acquaintances; and she said she hoped they would be able to recognize each other if they ever met again.
“That is what I meant by her pertness,” said Mrs. Corey, when they were driving away.
“Was it very pert?” he queried. “The child had to answer something.”
“I would much rather she had answered nothing, under the circumstances,” said Mrs. Corey. “However!” she added hopelessly.
“Oh, she’s a merry little grig, you can see that, and there’s no harm in her. I can understand a little why a formal fellow like Tom should be taken with her. She hasn’t the least reverence, I suppose, and joked with the young man from the beginning. You must remember, Anna, that there was a time when you liked my joking.”
“It was a very different thing!”
“But that drawing room,” pursued Corey; “really, I don’t see how Tom stands that. Anna, a terrible thought occurs to me! Fancy Tom being married in front of that group, with a floral horseshoe in tuberoses coming down on either side of it!”
“Bromfield!” cried his wife, “you are unmerciful.”
“No, no, my dear,” he argued; “merely imaginative. And I can even imagine that little thing finding Tom just the least bit slow, at times, if it were not for his goodness. Tom is so kind that I’m convinced he sometimes feels your joke in his heart when his head isn’t quite clear about it. Well, we will not despond, my dear.”
“Your father seemed actually to like her,” Mrs. Corey reported to her daughters, very much shaken in her own prejudices by the fact. If the girl were not so offensive to his fastidiousness, there might be some hope that she was not so offensive as Mrs. Corey had thought. “I wonder how she will strike you,” she concluded, looking from one daughter to another, as if trying to decide which of them would like Penelope least.
Irene’s return and the visit of the Coreys formed a distraction for the Laphams in which their impending troubles seemed to hang further aloof; but it was only one of those reliefs which mark the course of adversity, and it was not one of the cheerful reliefs. At any other time, either incident would have been an anxiety and care for Mrs. Lapham which she would have found hard to bear; but now she almost welcomed them. At the end of three days Lapham returned, and his wife met him as if nothing unusual had marked their parting; she reserved her atonement for a fitter time; he would know now from the way she acted that she felt all right toward him. He took very little note of her manner, but met his family with an austere quiet that puzzled her, and a sort of pensive dignity that refined his rudeness to an effect that sometimes comes to such natures after long sickness, when the animal strength has been taxed and lowered. He sat silent with her at the table after their girls had left them alone, and seeing that he did not mean to speak, she began to explain why Irene had come home, and to praise her.
“Yes, she done right,” said Lapham. “It was time for her to come,” he added gently.
Then he was silent again, and his wife told him of Corey’s having been there, and of his father’s and mother’s calling. “I guess Pen’s concluded to make it up,” she said.
“Well, we’ll see about that,” said Lapham; and now she could no longer forbear to ask him about his affairs.
“I don’t know as I’ve got any right to know anything about it,” she said humbly, with remote allusion to her treatment of him. “But I can’t help wanting to know. How are things going, Si?”
“Bad,” he said, pushing his plate from him, and tilting himself back in his chair. “Or they ain’t going at all. They’ve stopped.”
“What do you mean, Si?” she persisted, tenderly.
“I’ve got to the end of my string. Tomorrow I shall call a meeting of my creditors, and put myself in their hands. If there’s enough left to satisfy them, I’m satisfied.” His voice dropped in his throat; he swallowed once or twice, and then did not speak.
“Do you mean that it’s all over with you?” she asked fearfully.
He bowed his big head, wrinkled and grizzled; and after a while he said, “It’s hard to realize it; but I guess there ain’t any doubt about it.” He drew a long breath, and then he explained to her about the West Virginia people, and how he had got an extension of the first time they had given him, and had got a man to go up to Lapham with him and look at the Works—a man that had turned up in New York, and wanted to put money in the business. His money would have enabled Lapham to close with the West Virginians. “The devil was in it, right straight along,” said Lapham. “All I had to do was to keep quiet about that other company. It was Rogers and his property right over again. He liked the look of things, and he wanted to go into the business, and he had the money—plenty; it would have saved me with those West Virginia folks. But I had to tell him how I stood. I had to tell him all about it, and what I wanted to do. He began to backwater in a minute, and the next morning I saw that it was up with him. He’s gone back to New York. I’ve lost my last chance. Now all I’ve got to do is to save the pieces.”
“Will—will—everything go?” she asked.
&nbs
p; “I can’t tell, yet. But they shall have a chance at everything—every dollar, every cent. I’m sorry for you, Persis—and the girls.”
“Oh, don’t talk of us!” She was trying to realize that the simple, rude soul to which her heart clove in her youth, but which she had put to such cruel proof, with her unsparing conscience and her unsparing tongue, had been equal to its ordeals, and had come out unscathed and unstained. He was able in his talk to make so little of them; he hardly seemed to see what they were; he was apparently not proud of them, and certainly not glad; if they were victories of any sort, he bore them with the patience of defeat. His wife wished to praise him, but she did not know how; so she offered him a little reproach, in which alone she touched the cause of her behavior at parting. “Silas,” she asked, after a long gaze at him, “why didn’t you tell me you had Jim Millon’s girl there?”
“I didn’t suppose you’d like it, Persis,” he answered. “I did intend to tell you at first, but then I put—I put it off. I thought you’d come ’round someday, and find it out for yourself.”
“I’m punished,” said his wife, “for not taking enough interest in your business to even come near it. If we’re brought back to the day of small things, I guess it’s a lesson for me, Silas.”
“Oh, I don’t know about the lesson,” he said wearily.
That night she showed him the anonymous scrawl, which had kindled her fury against him. He turned it listlessly over in his hand. “I guess I know who it’s from,” he said, giving it back to her, “and I guess you do too, Persis.”
“But how—how could he—”
“Mebbe he believed it,” said Lapham, with patience that cut her more keenly than any reproach. “You did.”
The Rise of Silas Lapham Page 38
