Chapter 13

by William Dean Howells

　　"She won't mind; she's so good-natured.""Well, then," the mother summed up, "there are four Laphams, fiveCoreys, four Bellinghams, one Chase, and one Kingsbury--fifteen. Oh!and two Sewells. Seventeen. Ten ladies and seven gentlemen. Itdoesn't balance very well, and it's too large.""Perhaps some of the ladies won't come," suggested Lily."Oh, the ladies always come," said Nanny.Their mother reflected. "Well, I will ask them. The ladies willrefuse in time to let us pick up some gentlemen somewhere; some moreartists. Why! we must have Mr. Seymour, the architect; he's abachelor, and he's building their house, Tom says."Her voice fell a little when she mentioned her son's name, and she toldhim of her plan, when he came home in the evening, with evidentmisgiving."What are you doing it for, mother?" he asked, looking at her with hishonest eyes.She dropped her own in a little confusion. "I won't do it at all, mydear," she said, "if you don't approve. But I thought--You know wehave never made any proper acknowledgment of their kindness to us atBaie St. Paul. Then in the winter, I'm ashamed to say, I got moneyfrom her for a charity I was interested in; and I hate the idea ofmerely USING people in that way. And now your having been at theirhouse this summer--we can't seem to disapprove of that; and yourbusiness relations to him----""Yes, I see," said Corey. "Do you think it amounts to a dinner?""Why, I don't know," returned his mother. "We shall have hardly anyone out of our family connection.""Well," Corey assented, "it might do. I suppose what you wish is togive them a pleasure.""Why, certainly. Don't you think they'd like to come?""Oh, they'd like to come; but whether it would be a pleasure after theywere here is another thing. I should have said that if you wanted tohave them, they would enjoy better being simply asked to meet our ownimmediate family.""That's what I thought of in the first place, but your father seemed tothink it implied a social distrust of them; and we couldn't afford tohave that appearance, even to ourselves.""Perhaps he was right.""And besides, it might seem a little significant."Corey seemed inattentive to this consideration. "Whom did you think ofasking?" His mother repeated the names. "Yes, that would do," he said,with a vague dissatisfaction."I won't have it at all, if you don't wish, Tom.""Oh yes, have it; perhaps you ought. Yes, I dare say it's right. Whatdid you mean by a family dinner seeming significant?"His mother hesitated. When it came to that, she did not like torecognise in his presence the anxieties that had troubled her. But "Idon't know," she said, since she must. "I shouldn't want to give thatyoung girl, or her mother, the idea that we wished to make more of theacquaintance than--than you did, Tom."He looked at her absent-mindedly, as if he did not take her meaning.But he said, "Oh yes, of course," and Mrs. Corey, in the uncertainty inwhich she seemed destined to remain concerning this affair, went offand wrote her invitation to Mrs. Lapham. Later in the evening, whenthey again found themselves alone, her son said, "I don't think Iunderstood you, mother, in regard to the Laphams. I think I do now. Icertainly don't wish you to make more of the acquaintance than I havedone. It wouldn't be right; it might be very unfortunate. Don't givethe dinner!""It's too late now, my son," said Mrs. Corey. "I sent my note to Mrs.Lapham an hour ago." Her courage rose at the trouble which showed inCorey's face. "But don't be annoyed by it, Tom. It isn't a familydinner, you know, and everything can be managed without embarrassment.If we take up the affair at this point, you will seem to have beenmerely acting for us; and they can't possibly understand anything more.""Well, well! Let it go! I dare say it's all right At any rate, it can'tbe helped now.""I don't wish to help it, Tom," said Mrs. Corey, with a cheerfullnesswhich the thought of the Laphams had never brought her before. "I amsure it is quite fit and proper, and we can make them have a verypleasant time. They are good, inoffensive people, and we owe it toourselves not to be afraid to show that we have felt their kindness tous, and his appreciation of you.""Well," consented Corey. The trouble that his mother had suddenly castoff was in his tone; but she was not sorry. It was quite time that heshould think seriously of his attitude toward these people if he hadnot thought of it before, but, according to his father's theory, hadbeen merely dangling.It was a view of her son's character that could hardly have pleased herin different circumstances, yet it was now unquestionably a consolationif not wholly a pleasure. If she considered the Laphams at all, it waswith the resignation which we feel at the evils of others, even whenthey have not brought them on themselves.Mrs. Lapham, for her part, had spent the hours between Mrs. Corey'svisit and her husband's coming home from business in reaching the sameconclusion with regard to Corey; and her spirits were at the lowestwhen they sat down to supper. Irene was downcast with her; Penelopewas purposely gay; and the Colonel was beginning, after his first plateof the boiled ham,--which, bristling with cloves, rounded its bulk on awide platter before him,--to take note of the surrounding mood, whenthe door-bell jingled peremptorily, and the girl left waiting on thetable to go and answer it. She returned at once with a note for Mrs.Lapham, which she read, and then, after a helpless survey of herfamily, read again."Why, what IS it, mamma?" asked Irene, while the Colonel, who had takenup his carving-knife for another attack on the ham, held it drawn halfacross it."Why, I don't know what it does mean," answered Mrs. Laphamtremulously, and she let the girl take the note from her.Irene ran it over, and then turned to the name at the end with a joyfulcry and a flush that burned to the top of her forehead. Then she beganto read it once more.The Colonel dropped his knife and frowned impatiently, and Mrs. Laphamsaid, "You read it out loud, if you know what to make of it, Irene."But Irene, with a nervous scream of protest, handed it to her father,who performed the office."DEAR MRS. LAPHAM:"Will you and General Lapham----""I didn't know I was a general," grumbled Lapham. "I guess I shallhave to be looking up my back pay. Who is it writes this, anyway?" heasked, turning the letter over for the signature."Oh, never mind. Read it through!" cried his wife, with a kindlingglance of triumph at Penelope, and he resumed--"--and your daughters give us the pleasure of your company at dinner onThursday, the 28th, at half-past six."Yours sincerely,"ANNA B. COREY."The brief invitation had been spread over two pages, and the Colonelhad difficulties with the signature which he did not instantlysurmount. When he had made out the name and pronounced it, he lookedacross at his wife for an explanation."I don't know what it all means," she said, shaking her head andspeaking with a pleased flutter. "She was here this afternoon, and Ishould have said she had come to see how bad she could make us feel. Ideclare I never felt so put down in my life by anybody.""Why, what did she do? What did she say?" Lapham was ready, in hisdense pride, to resent any affront to his blood, but doubtful, with theevidence of this invitation to the contrary, if any affront had beenoffered. Mrs. Lapham tried to tell him, but there was really nothingtangible; and when she came to put it into words, she could not makeout a case. Her husband listened to her excited attempt, and then hesaid, with judicial superiority, "I guess nobody's been trying to makeyou feel bad, Persis. What would she go right home and invite you todinner for, if she'd acted the way you say?"In this view it did seem improbable, and Mrs. Lapham was shaken. Shecould only say, "Penelope felt just the way I did about it."Lapham looked at the girl, who said, "Oh, I can't prove it! I begin tothink it never happened. I guess it didn't.""Humph!" said her father, and he sat frowning thoughtfully awhile--ignoring her mocking irony, or choosing to take her seriously."You can't really put your finger on anything," he said to his wife,"and it ain't likely there is anything. Anyway, she's done the properthing by you now."Mrs. Lapham faltered between her lingering resentment and the appealsof her flattered vanity. She looked from Penelope's impassive face tothe eager eyes of Irene. "Well--just as you say, Silas. I don't knowas she WAS so very bad. I guess may be she was embarrassed some----""That's what I told you, mamma, from the start," interrupted Irene."Didn't I tell you she didn't mean anything by it? It's just the wayshe acted at Baie St. Paul, when she got well enough to realise whatyou'd done for her!"Penelope broke into a laugh. "Is that her way of showing hergratitude? I'm sorry I didn't understand that before."Irene made no effort to reply. She merely looked from her mother toher father with a grieved face for their protection, and Lapham said,"When we've done supper, you answer her, Persis. Say we'll come.""With one exception," said Penelope."What do you mean?" demanded her father, with a mouth full of ham."Oh, nothing of importance. Merely that I'm not going."Lapham gave himself time to swallow his morsel, and his rising wrathwent down with it. "I guess you'll change your mind when the timecomes," he said. "Anyway, Persis, you say we'll all come, and then, ifPenelope don't want to go, you can excuse her after we get there.That's the best way."None of them, apparently, saw any reason why the affair should not beleft in this way, or had a sense of the awful and binding nature of adinner engagement. If she believed that Penelope would not finallychange her mind and go, no doubt Mrs. Lapham thought that Mrs. Coreywould easily excuse her absence. She did not find it so simple amatter to accept the invitation. Mrs. Corey had said "Dear Mrs.Lapham," but Mrs. Lapham had her doubts whether it would not be aservile imitation to say "Dear Mrs. Corey" in return; and she wastormented as to the proper phrasing throughout and the precisetemperature which she should impart to her politeness. She wrote anunpractised, uncharacteristic round hand, the same in which she used toset the children's copies at school, and she subscribed herself, aftersome hesitation between her husband's given name and her own, "Yourstruly, Mrs. S. Lapham."Penelope had gone to her room, without waiting to be asked to advise orcriticise; but Irene had decided upon the paper, and on the whole, Mrs.Lapham's note made a very decent appearance on the page.When the furnace-man came, the Colonel sent him out to post it in thebox at the corner of the square. He had determined not to say anythingmore about the matter before the girls, not choosing to let them seethat he was elated; he tried to give the effect of its being aneveryday sort of thing, abruptly closing the discussion with his orderto Mrs. Lapham to accept; but he had remained swelling behind hisnewspaper during her prolonged struggle with her note, and he could nolonger hide his elation when Irene followed her sister upstairs."Well, Pers," he demanded, "what do you say now?"Mrs. Lapham had been sobered into something of her former misgiving byher difficulties with her note. "Well, I don't know what TO say. Ideclare, I'm all mixed up about it, and I don't know as we've begun aswe can carry out in promising to go. I presume," she sighed, "that wecan all send some excuse at the last moment, if we don't want to go.""I guess we can carry out, and I guess we shan't want to send anyexcuse," bragged the Colonel. "If we're ever going to be anybody atall, we've got to go and see how it's done. I presume we've got togive some sort of party when we get into the new house, and this givesthe chance to ask 'em back again. You can't complain now but whatthey've made the advances, Persis?""No," said Mrs. Lapham lifelessly; "I wonder why they wanted to do it.Oh, I suppose it's all right," she added in deprecation of the angerwith her humility which she saw rising in her husband's face; "but ifit's all going to be as much trouble as that letter, I'd rather bewhipped. I don't know what I'm going to wear; or the girls either. Ido wonder--I've heard that people go to dinner in low-necks. Do yousuppose it's the custom?""How should I know?" demanded the Colonel. "I guess you've got clothesenough. Any rate, you needn't fret about it. You just go round toWhite's or Jordan & Marsh's, and ask for a dinner dress. I guessthat'll settle it; they'll know. Get some of them imported dresses. Isee 'em in the window every time I pass; lots of 'em.""Oh, it ain't the dress!" said Mrs. Lapham. "I don't suppose but whatwe could get along with that; and I want to do the best we can for thechildren; but I don't know what we're going to talk about to thosepeople when we get there. We haven't got anything in common with them.Oh, I don't say they're any better," she again made haste to say inarrest of her husband's resentment. "I don't believe they are; and Idon't see why they should be. And there ain't anybody has got a betterright to hold up their head than you have, Silas. You've got plenty ofmoney, and you've made every cent of it.""I guess I shouldn't amounted to much without you, Persis," interposedLapham, moved to this justice by her praise."Oh, don't talk about ME!" protested the wife. "Now that you've madeit all right about Rogers, there ain't a thing in this world againstyou. But still, for all that, I can see--and I can feel it when Ican't see it--that we're different from those people. They'rewell-meaning enough, and they'd excuse it, I presume, but we're too oldto learn to be like them.""The children ain't," said Lapham shrewdly."No, the children ain't," admitted his wife, "and that's the only thingthat reconciles me to it.""You see how pleased Irene looked when I read it?""Yes, she was pleased.""And I guess Penelope'll think better of it before the time comes.""Oh yes, we do it for them. But whether we're doing the best thing for'em, goodness knows. I'm not saying anything against HIM. Irene'll bea lucky girl to get him, if she wants him. But there! I'd ten timesrather she was going to marry such a fellow as you were, Si, that hadto make every inch of his own way, and she had to help him. It's inher!"Lapham laughed aloud for pleasure in his wife's fondness; but neitherof them wished that he should respond directly to it. "I guess, if itwa'n't for me, he wouldn't have a much easier time. But don't youfret! It's all coming out right. That dinner ain't a thing for you tobe uneasy about. It'll pass off perfectly easy and natural."Lapham did not keep his courageous mind quite to the end of the weekthat followed. It was his theory not to let Corey see that he was setup about the invitation, and when the young man said politely that hismother was glad they were able to come, Lapham was very short with him.He said yes, he believed that Mrs. Lapham and the girls were going.Afterward he was afraid Corey might not understand that he was comingtoo; but he did not know how to approach the subject again, and Coreydid not, so he let it pass. It worried him to see all the preparationthat his wife and Irene were making, and he tried to laugh at them forit; and it worried him to find that Penelope was making no preparationat all for herself, but only helping the others. He asked her whatshould she do if she changed her mind at the last moment and concludedto go, and she said she guessed she should not change her mind, but ifshe did, she would go to White's with him and get him to choose her animported dress, he seemed to like them so much. He was too proud tomention the subject again to her.Finally, all that dress-making in the house began to scare him withvague apprehensions in regard to his own dress. As soon as he haddetermined to go, an ideal of the figure in which he should gopresented itself to his mind. He should not wear any dress-coat,because, for one thing, he considered that a man looked like a fool ina dress-coat, and, for another thing, he had none--had none onprinciple. He would go in a frock-coat and black pantaloons, andperhaps a white waistcoat, but a black cravat anyway. But as soon ashe developed this ideal to his family, which he did in pompous disdainof their anxieties about their own dress, they said he should not goso. Irene reminded him that he was the only person without adress-coat at a corps reunion dinner which he had taken her to someyears before, and she remembered feeling awfully about it at the time.Mrs. Lapham, who would perhaps have agreed of herself, shook her headwith misgiving. "I don't see but what you'll have to get you one, Si,"she said. "I don't believe they ever go without 'em to a privatehouse."He held out openly, but on his way home the next day, in a suddenpanic, he cast anchor before his tailor's door and got measured for adress-coat. After that he began to be afflicted about his waist-coat,concerning which he had hitherto been airily indifferent. He tried toget opinion out of his family, but they were not so clear about it asthey were about the frock. It ended in their buying a book ofetiquette, which settled the question adversely to a white waistcoat.The author, however, after being very explicit in telling them not toeat with their knives, and above all not to pick their teeth with theirforks,--a thing which he said no lady or gentleman ever did,--was stillfar from decided as to the kind of cravat Colonel Lapham ought to wear:shaken on other points, Lapham had begun to waver also concerning theblack cravat. As to the question of gloves for the Colonel, whichsuddenly flashed upon him one evening, it appeared never to haveentered the thoughts of the etiquette man, as Lapham called him. Otherauthors on the same subject were equally silent, and Irene could onlyremember having heard, in some vague sort of way, that gentlemen didnot wear gloves so much any more.Drops of perspiration gathered on Lapham's forehead in the anxiety ofthe debate; he groaned, and he swore a little in the compromiseprofanity which he used."I declare," said Penelope, where she sat purblindly sewing on a bit ofdress for Irene, "the Colonel's clothes are as much trouble asanybody's. Why don't you go to Jordan & Marsh's and order one of theimported dresses for yourself, father?" That gave them all the reliefof a laugh over it, the Colonel joining in piteously.He had an awful longing to find out from Corey how he ought to go. Heformulated and repeated over to himself an apparently carelessquestion, such as, "Oh, by the way, Corey, where do you get yourgloves?" This would naturally lead to some talk on the subject, whichwould, if properly managed, clear up the whole trouble. But Laphamfound that he would rather die than ask this question, or any questionthat would bring up the dinner again. Corey did not recur to it, andLapham avoided the matter with positive fierceness. He shunned talkingwith Corey at all, and suffered in grim silence.One night, before they fell asleep, his wife said to him, "I wasreading in one of those books to-day, and I don't believe but whatwe've made a mistake if Pen holds out that she won't go.""Why?" demanded Lapham, in the dismay which beset him at every freshrecurrence to the subject."The book says that it's very impolite not to answer a dinnerinvitation promptly. Well, we've done that all right,--at first Ididn't know but what we had been a little too quick, may be,--but thenit says if you're not going, that it's the height of rudeness not tolet them know at once, so that they can fill your place at the table."The Colonel was silent for a while. "Well, I'm dumned," he saidfinally, "if there seems to be any end to this thing. If it was to doover again, I'd say no for all of us.""I've wished a hundred times they hadn't asked us; but it's too late tothink about that now. The question is, what are we going to do aboutPenelope?""Oh, I guess she'll go, at the last moment.""She says she won't. She took a prejudice against Mrs. Corey that day,and she can't seem to get over it.""Well, then, hadn't you better write in the morning, as soon as you'reup, that she ain't coming?"Mrs. Lapham sighed helplessly. "I shouldn't know how to get it in.It's so late now; I don't see how I could have the face.""Well, then, she's got to go, that's all.""She's set she won't.""And I'm set she shall," said Lapham with the loud obstinacy of a manwhose women always have their way.Mrs. Lapham was not supported by the sturdiness of his proclamation.But she did not know how to do what she knew she ought to do aboutPenelope, and she let matters drift. After all, the child had a rightto stay at home if she did not wish to go. That was what Mrs. Laphamfelt, and what she said to her husband next morning, bidding him letPenelope alone, unless she chose herself to go. She said it was toolate now to do anything, and she must make the best excuse she couldwhen she saw Mrs. Corey. She began to wish that Irene and her fatherwould go and excuse her too. She could not help saying this, and thenshe and Lapham had some unpleasant words."Look here!" he cried. "Who wanted to go in for these people in thefirst place? Didn't you come home full of 'em last year, and want me tosell out here and move somewheres else because it didn't seem to suit'em? And now you want to put it all on me! I ain't going to stand it.""Hush!" said his wife. "Do you want to raise the house? I didn't putit on you, as you say. You took it on yourself. Ever since thatfellow happened to come into the new house that day, you've beenperfectly crazy to get in with them. And now you're so afraid youshall do something wrong before 'em, you don't hardly dare to say yourlife's your own. I declare, if you pester me any more about thosegloves, Silas Lapham, I won't go.""Do you suppose I want to go on my own account?" he demanded furiously."No," she admitted. "Of course I don't. I know very well that you'redoing it for Irene; but, for goodness gracious' sake, don't worry ourlives out, and make yourself a perfect laughing-stock before thechildren."With this modified concession from her, the quarrel closed in sullensilence on Lapham's part. The night before the dinner came, and thequestion of his gloves was still unsettled, and in a fair way to remainso. He had bought a pair, so as to be on the safe side, perspiring incompany with the young lady who sold them, and who helped him try themon at the shop; his nails were still full of the powder which she hadplentifully peppered into them in order to overcome the resistance ofhis blunt fingers. But he was uncertain whether he should wear them.They had found a book at last that said the ladies removed their gloveson sitting down at table, but it said nothing about gentlemen's gloves.He left his wife where she stood half hook-and-eyed at her glass in hernew dress, and went down to his own den beyond the parlour. Before heshut his door he caught a glimpse of Irene trailing up and down beforethe long mirror in HER new dress, followed by the seamstress on herknees; the woman had her mouth full of pins, and from time to time shemade Irene stop till she could put one of the pins into her train;Penelope sat in a corner criticising and counselling. It made Laphamsick, and he despised himself and all his brood for the trouble theywere taking. But another glance gave him a sight of the young girl'sface in the mirror, beautiful and radiant with happiness, and his heartmelted again with paternal tenderness and pride. It was going to be agreat pleasure to Irene, and Lapham felt that she was bound to cut outanything there. He was vexed with Penelope that she was not going too;he would have liked to have those people hear her talk. He held hisdoor a little open, and listened to the things she was "getting off"there to Irene. He showed that he felt really hurt and disappointedabout Penelope, and the girl's mother made her console him the nextevening before they all drove away without her. "You try to look onthe bright side of it, father. I guess you'll see that it's best Ididn't go when you get there. Irene needn't open her lips, and theycan all see how pretty she is; but they wouldn't know how smart I wasunless I talked, and maybe then they wouldn't."This thrust at her father's simple vanity in her made him laugh; andthen they drove away, and Penelope shut the door, and went upstairswith her lips firmly shutting in a sob.