“No, she ain’t,” said his wife. “I don’t know as I like the way she’s going on any too well. I’m afraid, if she keeps on, she’ll be down sick. She’s got deeper feelings than Irene.”
Lapham said nothing, but having helped himself to the abundance of his table in his usual fashion, he sat and looked at his plate with an indifference that did not escape the notice of his wife. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.
“Nothing. I haven’t got any appetite.”
“What’s the matter?” she persisted.
“Trouble’s the matter; bad luck and lots of it’s the matter,” said Lapham. “I haven’t ever hid anything from you, Persis, when you asked me, and it’s too late to begin now. I’m in a fix. I’ll tell you what kind of a fix, if you think it’ll do any good; but I guess you’ll be satisfied to know that it’s a fix.”
“How much of a one?” she asked with a look of grave, steady courage in her eyes.
“Well, I don’t know as I can tell, just yet,” said Lapham, avoiding this look. “Things have been dull all the fall, but I thought they’d brisk up come winter. They haven’t. There have been a lot of failures, and some of ’em owed me, and some of ’em had me on their paper; and—” Lapham stopped.
“And what?” prompted his wife.
He hesitated before he added, “And then—Rogers.”
“I’m to blame for that,” said Mrs. Lapham. “I forced you to it.”
“No; I was as willing to go into it as what you were,” answered Lapham. “I don’t want to blame anybody.”
Mrs. Lapham had a woman’s passion for fixing responsibility; she could not help saying, as soon as acquitted, “I warned you against him, Silas. I told you not to let him get in any deeper with you.”
“Oh yes. I had to help him to try to get my money back. I might as well poured water into a sieve. And now—” Lapham stopped.
“Don’t be afraid to speak out to me, Silas Lapham. If it come to the worst, I want to know it—I’ve got to know it. What did I ever care for the money? I’ve had a happy home with you ever since we were married, and I guess I shall have as long as you live, whether we go on to the Back Bay, or go back to the old house at Lapham. I know who’s to blame, and I blame myself. It was my forcing Rogers onto you.” She came back to this, with her helpless longing, inbred in all Puritan souls, to have someone specifically suffer for the evil in the world, even if it must be herself.
“It hasn’t come to the worst yet, Persis,” said her husband. “But I shall have to hold up on the new house a little while, till I can see where I am.”
“I shouldn’t care if we had to sell it,” cried his wife, in passionate self-condemnation. “I should be glad if we had to, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I shouldn’t,” said Lapham.
“I know!” said his wife; and she remembered ruefully how his heart was set on it.
He sat musing. “Well, I guess it’s going to come out all right in the end. Or, if it ain’t,” he sighed, “we can’t help it. Maybe Pen needn’t worry so much about Corey, after all,” he continued, with a bitter irony new to him. “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good. And there’s a chance,” he ended, with a still bitter laugh, “that Rogers will come to time, after all.”
“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Mrs. Lapham, with a gleam of hope in her eyes. “What chance?”
“One in ten million,” said Lapham; and her face fell again. “He says there are some English parties after him to buy these mills.”
“Well?”
“Well, I gave him twenty-four hours to prove himself a liar.”
“You don’t believe there are any such parties?”
“Not in this world.”
“But if there were?”
“Well, if there were, Persis— But pshaw!”
“No, no!” she pleaded eagerly. “It don’t seem as if he could be such a villain. What would be the use of his pretending? If he brought the parties to you—”
“Well,” said Lapham scornfully, “I’d let them have the mills at the price Rogers turned ’em in on me at. I don’t want to make anything on ’em. But I guess I shall hear from the G. L. & P. first. And when they make their offer, I guess I’ll have to accept it, whatever it is. I don’t think they’ll have a great many competitors.”
Mrs. Lapham could not give up her hope. “If you could get your price from those English parties before they knew that the G. L. & P. wanted to buy the mills, would it let you out with Rogers?”
“Just about,” said Lapham.
“Then I know he’ll move heaven and earth to bring it about. I know you won’t be allowed to suffer for doing him a kindness, Silas. He can’t be so ungrateful! Why, why should he pretend to have any such parties in view when he hasn’t? Don’t you be downhearted, Si. You’ll see that he’ll be ’round with them tomorrow.”
Lapham laughed, but she urged so many reasons for her belief in Rogers that Lapham began to rekindle his own faith a little. He ended by asking for a hot cup of tea; and Mrs. Lapham sent the pot out and had a fresh one steeped for him. After that he made a hearty supper in the revulsion from his entire despair; and they fell asleep that night talking hopefully of his affairs, which he laid before her fully, as he used to do when he first started in business. That brought the old times back, and he said: “If this had happened then, I shouldn’t have cared much. I was young then, and I wasn’t afraid of anything. But I noticed that after I passed fifty I began to get scared easier. I don’t believe I could pick up, now, from a regular knockdown.”
“Pshaw! You scared, Silas Lapham?” cried his wife proudly. “I should like to see the thing that ever scared you; or the knockdown that you couldn’t pick up from!”
“Is that so, Persis?” he asked, with the joy her courage gave him.
In the middle of the night she called to him, in a voice which the darkness rendered still more deeply troubled: “Are you awake, Silas?”
“Yes; I’m awake.”
“I’ve been thinking about those English parties, Si—”
“So’ve I.”
“And I can’t make it out but what you’d be just as bad as Rogers, every bit and grain, if you were to let them have the mills—”
“And not tell ’em what the chances were with the G. L. & P.? I thought of that, and you needn’t be afraid.”
She began to bewail herself, and to sob convulsively: “Oh, Silas! Oh, Silas!” Heaven knows in what measure the passion of her soul was mixed with pride in her husband’s honesty, relief from an apprehended struggle, and pity for him.
“Hush, hush, Persis!” he besought her. “You’ll wake Pen if you keep on that way. Don’t cry anymore! You mustn’t.”
“Oh, let me cry, Silas! It’ll help me. I shall be all right in a minute. Don’t you mind.” She sobbed herself quiet. “It does seem too hard,” she said when she could speak again, “that you have to give up this chance when Providence had fairly raised it up for you.”
“I guess it wasn’t Providence raised it up,” said Lapham. “Any rate, it’s got to go. Most likely Rogers was lyin’, and there ain’t any such parties; but if there were, they couldn’t have the mills from me without the whole story. Don’t you be troubled, Persis. I’m going to pull through all right.”
“Oh, I ain’t afraid. I don’t suppose but what there’s plenty would help you, if they knew you needed it, Si.”
“They would if they knew I didn’t need it,” said Lapham sardonically.
“Did you tell Bill how you stood?”
“No, I couldn’t bear to. I’ve been the rich one so long, that I couldn’t bring myself to own up that I was in danger.”
“Yes.”
“Besides, it didn’t look so ugly till today. But I guess we shan’t let ugly looks scare us.”
“No.”
XXI
I
THE morning postman brought Mrs. Lapham a letter from Irene, which was chiefly significant because it made no reference whatever to the writer or her state of mind. It gave the news of her uncle’s family; it told of their kindness to her; her cousin Will was going to take her and his sisters ice boating on the river, when it froze.
By the time this letter came, Lapham had gone to his business, and the mother carried it to Penelope to talk over. “What do you make out of it?” she asked; and without waiting to be answered she said, “I don’t know as I believe in cousins marrying, a great deal; but if Irene and Will were to fix it up between ’em—” She looked vaguely at Penelope.
“It wouldn’t make any difference as far as I was concerned,” replied the girl listlessly.
Mrs. Lapham lost her patience.
“Well, then, I’ll tell you what, Penelope!” she exclaimed. “Perhaps it’ll make a difference to you if you know that your father’s in real trouble. He’s harassed to death, and he was awake half the night, talking about it. That abominable old Rogers has got a lot of money away from him; and he’s lost by others that he’s helped”—Mrs. Lapham put it in this way because she had no time to be explicit—“and I want you should come out of your room now, and try to be of some help and comfort to him when he comes home tonight. I guess Irene wouldn’t mope ’round much, if she was here,” she could not help adding.
The girl lifted herself on her elbow. “What’s that you say about Father?” she demanded eagerly. “Is he in trouble? Is he going to lose his money? Shall we have to stay in this house?”
“We may be very glad to stay in this house,” said Mrs. Lapham, half angry with herself for having given cause for the girl’s conjectures, and half with the habit of prosperity in her child, which could conceive no better of what adversity was. “And I want you should get up and show that you’ve got some feeling for somebody in the world besides yourself.”
“Oh, I’ll get up!” said the girl promptly, almost cheerfully.
“I don’t say it’s as bad now as it looked a little while ago,” said her mother, conscientiously hedging a little from the statement which she had based rather upon her feelings than her facts. “Your father thinks he’ll pull through all right, and I don’t know but what he will. But I want you should see if you can’t do something to cheer him up and keep him from getting so perfectly downhearted as he seems to get, under the load he’s got to carry. And stop thinking about yourself awhile, and behave yourself like a sensible girl.”
“Yes, yes,” said the girl; “I will. You needn’t be troubled about me anymore.”
Before she left her room she wrote a note, and when she came down she was dressed to go out-of-doors and post it herself. The note was to Corey:
“Do not come to see me anymore till you hear from me. I have a reason which I cannot give you now; and you must not ask what it is.”
All day she went about in a buoyant desperation, and she came down to meet her father at supper.
“Well, Persis,” he said scornfully, as he sat down, “we might as well saved our good resolutions till they were wanted. I guess those English parties have gone back on Rogers.”
“Do you mean he didn’t come?”
“He hadn’t come up to half-past five,” said Lapham.
“Tchk!” uttered his wife.
“But I guess I shall pull through without Mr. Rogers,” continued Lapham. “A firm that I didn’t think could weather it is still afloat, and so far forth as the danger goes of being dragged under with it, I’m all right.” Penelope came in. “Hello, Pen!” cried her father. “It ain’t often I meet you nowadays.” He put up his hand as she passed his chair, and pulled her down and kissed her.
“No,” she said; “but I thought I’d come down tonight and cheer you up a little. I shall not talk; the sight of me will be enough.”
Her father laughed out. “Mother been telling you? Well, I was pretty blue last night; but I guess I was more scared than hurt. How’d you like to go to the theater tonight? Sellers at the Park. Heigh?”
“Well, I don’t know. Don’t you think they could get along without me there?”
“No; couldn’t work it at all,” cried the Colonel. “Let’s all go. Unless,” he added inquiringly, “there’s somebody coming here?”
“There’s nobody coming,” said Penelope.
“Good! Then we’ll go. Mother, don’t you be late now.”
“Oh, I shan’t keep you waiting,” said Mrs. Lapham. She had thought of telling what a cheerful letter she had got from Irene; but upon the whole it seemed better not to speak of Irene at all just then. After they returned from the theater, where the Colonel roared through the comedy, with continual reference of his pleasure to Penelope to make sure that she was enjoying it too, his wife said, as if the whole affair had been for the girl’s distraction rather than his, “I don’t believe but what it’s going to come out all right about the children”; and then she told him of the letter, and the hopes she had founded upon it.
“Well, perhaps you’re right, Persis,” he consented.
“I haven’t seen Pen so much like herself since it happened. I declare, when I see the way she came out tonight, just to please you, I don’t know as I want you should get over all your troubles right away.”
“I guess there’ll be enough to keep Pen going for a while yet,” said the Colonel, winding up his watch.
But for a time there was a relief, which Walker noted, in the atmosphere at the office, and then came another cold wave, slighter than the first, but distinctly felt there, and succeeded by another relief. It was like the winter, which was wearing on to the end of the year, with alternations of freezing weather, and mild days stretching to weeks in which the snow and ice wholly disappeared. It was nonetheless winter, and nonetheless harassing for these fluctuations, and Lapham showed in his face and temper the effect of like fluctuations in his affairs. He grew thin and old, and both at home and at his office he was irascible to the point of offense. In these days Penelope shared with her mother the burden of their troubled home, and united with her in supporting the silence or the petulance of the gloomy, secret man who replaced the presence of jolly prosperity there. Lapham had now ceased to talk of his troubles, and savagely resented his wife’s interference. “You mind your own business, Persis,” he said one day, “if you’ve got any”; and after that she left him mainly to Penelope, who did not think of asking him questions.
“It’s pretty hard on you, Pen,” she said.
“That makes it easier for me,” returned the girl, who did not otherwise refer to her own trouble. In her heart she had wondered a little at the absolute obedience of Corey, who had made no sign since receiving her note. She would have liked to ask her father if Corey was sick; she would have liked him to ask her why Corey did not come anymore. Her mother went on: “I don’t believe your father knows where he stands. He works away at those papers he brings home here at night, as if he didn’t half know what he was about. He always did have that close streak in him, and I don’t suppose but what he’s been going into things he don’t want anybody else to know about, and he’s kept these accounts of his own.”
Sometimes he gave Penelope figures to work at, which he would not submit to his wife’s nimbler arithmetic. Then she went to bed and left them sitting up till midnight, struggling with problems in which they were both weak. But she could see that the girl was a comfort to her father, and that his troubles were a defense and shelter to her. Some nights she could hear them going out together, and then she lay awake for their return from their long walk. When the hour or day of respite came again, the home felt it first. Lapham wanted to know what the news from Irene was; he joined his wife in all her cheerful speculations, and tried to make her amends for his sullen reticence and irritability. Irene was staying on at Dubuque. There came a letter from her, saying that her uncle’s people wanted her to
spend the winter there. “Well, let her,” said Lapham. “It’ll be the best thing for her.” Lapham himself had letters from his brother at frequent intervals. His brother was watching the G. L. & P., which as yet had made no offer for the mills. Once, when one of these letters came, he submitted to his wife whether, in the absence of any positive information that the Road wanted the property, he might not, with a good conscience, dispose of it to the best advantage to anybody who came along.
She looked wistfully at him; it was on the rise from a season of deep depression with him. “No, Si,” she said; “I don’t see how you could do that.”
He did not assent and submit, as he had done at first, but began to rail at the unpracticality of women; and then he shut some papers he had been looking over into his desk, and flung out of the room.
One of the papers had slipped through the crevice of the lid, and lay upon the floor. Mrs. Lapham kept on at her sewing, but after a while she picked the paper up to lay it on the desk. Then she glanced at it, and saw that it was a long column of dates and figures, recording successive sums, never large ones, paid regularly to “Wm. M.” The dates covered a year, and the sum amounted at least to several hundreds.
Mrs. Lapham laid the paper down on the desk, and then she took it up again and put it into her workbasket, meaning to give it to him. When he came in she saw him looking absentmindedly about for something, and then going to work upon his papers, apparently without it. She thought she would wait till he missed it definitely, and then give him the scrap she had picked up. It lay in her basket, and after some days it found its way under the work in it, and she forgot it.
XXIII
SINCE New Year’s there had scarcely been a mild day, and the streets were full of snow, growing foul under the city feet and hoofs, and renewing its purity from the skies with repeated falls, which in turn lost their whiteness, beaten down, and beaten black and hard into a solid bed like iron. The sleighing was incomparable, and the air was full of the din of bells; but Lapham’s turnout was not of those that thronged the Brighton road every afternoon; the man at the livery stable sent him word that the mare’s legs were swelling.
The Rise of Silas Lapham Page 31