Chapter 14

by William Dean Howells

　　Mrs. Lapham turned fire-red, and the graceful forms in which she hadbeen intending to excuse her daughter's absence went out of her head."She isn't upstairs," she said, at her bluntest, as country people arewhen embarrassed. "She didn't feel just like coming to-night. I don'tknow as she's feeling very well."Mrs. Corey emitted a very small "O!"--very small, very cold,--whichbegan to grow larger and hotter and to burn into Mrs. Lapham's soulbefore Mrs. Corey could add, "I'm very sorry. It's nothing serious, Ihope?"Robert Chase, the painter, had not come, and Mrs. James Bellingham wasnot there, so that the table really balanced better without Penelope;but Mrs. Lapham could not know this, and did not deserve to know it.Mrs. Corey glanced round the room, as if to take account of her guests,and said to her husband, "I think we are all here, then," and he cameforward and gave his arm to Mrs. Lapham. She perceived then that intheir determination not to be the first to come they had been the last,and must have kept the others waiting for them.Lapham had never seen people go down to dinner arm-in-arm before, buthe knew that his wife was distinguished in being taken out by the host,and he waited in jealous impatience to see if Tom Corey would offer hisarm to Irene. He gave it to that big girl they called Miss Kingsbury,and the handsome old fellow whom Mrs. Corey had introduced as hercousin took Irene out. Lapham was startled from the misgiving in whichthis left him by Mrs. Corey's passing her hand through his arm, and hemade a sudden movement forward, but felt himself gently restrained.They went out the last of all; he did not know why, but he submitted,and when they sat down he saw that Irene, although she had come in withthat Mr. Bellingham, was seated beside young Corey, after all.He fetched a long sigh of relief when he sank into his chair and felthimself safe from error if he kept a sharp lookout and did only whatthe others did. Bellingham had certain habits which he permittedhimself, and one of these was tucking the corner of his napkin into hiscollar; he confessed himself an uncertain shot with a spoon, anddefended his practice on the ground of neatness and common-sense.Lapham put his napkin into his collar too, and then, seeing that no onebut Bellingham did it, became alarmed and took it out again slyly. Henever had wine on his table at home, and on principle he was aprohibitionist; but now he did not know just what to do about theglasses at the right of his plate. He had a notion to turn them alldown, as he had read of a well-known politician's doing at a publicdinner, to show that he did not take wine; but, after twiddling withone of them a moment, he let them be, for it seemed to him that wouldbe a little too conspicuous, and he felt that every one was looking.He let the servant fill them all, and he drank out of each, not toappear odd. Later, he observed that the young ladies were not takingwine, and he was glad to see that Irene had refused it, and that Mrs.Lapham was letting it stand untasted. He did not know but he ought todecline some of the dishes, or at least leave most of some on hisplate, but he was not able to decide; he took everything and ateeverything.He noticed that Mrs. Corey seemed to take no more trouble about thedinner than anybody, and Mr. Corey rather less; he was talking busilyto Mrs. Lapham, and Lapham caught a word here and there that convincedhim she was holding her own. He was getting on famously himself withMrs. Corey, who had begun with him about his new house; he was tellingher all about it, and giving her his ideas. Their conversationnaturally included his architect across the table; Lapham had beendelighted and secretly surprised to find the fellow there; and atsomething Seymour said the talk spread suddenly, and the pretty househe was building for Colonel Lapham became the general theme. YoungCorey testified to its loveliness, and the architect said laughinglythat if he had been able to make a nice thing of it, he owed it to thepractical sympathy of his client."Practical sympathy is good," said Bromfield Corey; and, slanting hishead confidentially to Mrs. Lapham, he added, "Does he bleed yourhusband, Mrs. Lapham? He's a terrible fellow for appropriations!"Mrs. Lapham laughed, reddening consciously, and said she guessed theColonel knew how to take care of himself. This struck Lapham, thendraining his glass of sauterne, as wonderfully discreet in his wife.Bromfield Corey leaned back in his chair a moment. "Well, after all,you can't say, with all your modern fuss about it, that you do muchbetter now than the old fellows who built such houses as this.""Ah," said the architect, "nobody can do better than well. Your houseis in perfect taste; you know I've always admired it; and I don't thinkit's at all the worse for being old-fashioned. What we've done islargely to go back of the hideous style that raged after they forgothow to make this sort of house. But I think we may claim a betterfeeling for structure. We use better material, and more wisely; and byand by we shall work out something more characteristic and original.""With your chocolates and olives, and your clutter of bric-a-brac?""All that's bad, of course, but I don't mean that. I don't wish tomake you envious of Colonel Lapham, and modesty prevents my saying,that his house is prettier,--though I may have my convictions,--butit's better built. All the new houses are better built. Now, yourhouse----""Mrs. Corey's house," interrupted the host, with a burlesque haste indisclaiming responsibility for it that made them all laugh. "Myancestral halls are in Salem, and I'm told you couldn't drive a nailinto their timbers; in fact, I don't know that you would want to do it.""I should consider it a species of sacrilege," answered Seymour, "and Ishall be far from pressing the point I was going to make against ahouse of Mrs. Corey's."This won Seymour the easy laugh, and Lapham silently wondered that thefellow never got off any of those things to him."Well," said Corey, "you architects and the musicians are the true andonly artistic creators. All the rest of us, sculptors, painters,novelists, and tailors, deal with forms that we have before us; we tryto imitate, we try to represent. But you two sorts of artists createform. If you represent, you fail. Somehow or other you do evolve thecamel out of your inner consciousness.""I will not deny the soft impeachment," said the architect, with amodest air."I dare say. And you'll own that it's very handsome of me to say this,after your unjustifiable attack on Mrs. Corey's property."Bromfield Corey addressed himself again to Mrs. Lapham, and the talksubdivided itself as before. It lapsed so entirely away from thesubject just in hand, that Lapham was left with rather a good idea, ashe thought it, to perish in his mind, for want of a chance to expressit. The only thing like a recurrence to what they had been saying wasBromfield Corey's warning Mrs. Lapham, in some connection that Laphamlost, against Miss Kingsbury. "She's worse," he was saying, "when itcomes to appropriations than Seymour himself. Depend upon it, Mrs.Lapham, she will give you no peace of your mind, now she's met you,from this out. Her tender mercies are cruel; and I leave you to supplythe content from your own scriptural knowledge. Beware of her, and allher works. She calls them works of charity; but heaven knows whetherthey are. It don't stand to reason that she gives the poor ALL themoney she gets out of people. I have my own belief"--he gave it in awhisper for the whole table to hear--"that she spends it for champagneand cigars."Lapham did not know about that kind of talking; but Miss Kingsburyseemed to enjoy the fun as much as anybody, and he laughed with therest."You shall be asked to the very next debauch of the committee, Mr.Corey; then you won't dare expose us," said Miss Kingsbury."I wonder you haven't been down upon Corey to go to the Chardon Streethome and talk with your indigent Italians in their native tongue," saidCharles Bellingham. "I saw in the Transcript the other night that youwanted some one for the work.""We did think of Mr. Corey," replied Miss Kingsbury; "but we reflectedthat he probably wouldn't talk with them at all; he would make themkeep still to be sketched, and forget all about their wants."Upon the theory that this was a fair return for Corey's pleasantry, theothers laughed again."There is one charity," said Corey, pretending superiority to MissKingsbury's point, "that is so difficult, I wonder it hasn't occurredto a lady of your courageous invention.""Yes?" said Miss Kingsbury. "What is that?""The occupation, by deserving poor of neat habits, of all thebeautiful, airy, wholesome houses that stand empty the whole summerlong, while their owners are away in their lowly cots beside the sea.""Yes, that is terrible," replied Miss Kingsbury, with quickearnestness, while her eyes grew moist. "I have often thought of ourgreat, cool houses standing useless here, and the thousands of poorcreatures stifling in their holes and dens, and the little childrendying for wholesome shelter. How cruelly selfish we are!""That is a very comfortable sentiment, Miss Kingsbury," said Corey,"and must make you feel almost as if you had thrown open No. 31 to thewhole North End. But I am serious about this matter. I spend mysummers in town, and I occupy my own house, so that I can speakimpartially and intelligently; and I tell you that in some of my walkson the Hill and down on the Back Bay, nothing but the surveillance ofthe local policeman prevents my offering personal violence to thoselong rows of close-shuttered, handsome, brutally insensible houses. IfI were a poor man, with a sick child pining in some garret or cellar atthe North End, I should break into one of them, and camp out on thegrand piano.""Surely, Bromfield," said his wife, "you don't consider what havoc suchpeople would make with the furniture of a nice house!""That is true," answered Corey, with meek conviction. "I never thoughtof that.""And if you were a poor man with a sick child, I doubt if you'd have somuch heart for burglary as you have now," said James Bellingham."It's wonderful how patient they are," said the minister. "Thespectacle of the hopeless comfort the hard-working poor man sees mustbe hard to bear."Lapham wanted to speak up and say that he had been there himself, andknew how such a man felt. He wanted to tell them that generally a poorman was satisfied if he could make both ends meet; that he didn't envyany one his good luck, if he had earned it, so long as he wasn'trunning under himself. But before he could get the courage to addressthe whole table, Sewell added, "I suppose he don't always think of it.""But some day he WILL think about it," said Corey. "In fact, we ratherinvite him to think about it, in this country.""My brother-in-law," said Charles Bellingham, with the pride a manfeels in a mentionably remarkable brother-in-law, "has no end offellows at work under him out there at Omaha, and he says it's thefellows from countries where they've been kept from thinking about itthat are discontented. The Americans never make any trouble. Theyseem to understand that so long as we give unlimited opportunity,nobody has a right to complain.""What do you hear from Leslie?" asked Mrs. Corey, turning from theseprofitless abstractions to Mrs. Bellingham."You know," said that lady in a lower tone, "that there is anotherbaby?""No! I hadn't heard of it!""Yes; a boy. They have named him after his uncle.""Yes," said Charles Bellingham, joining in. "He is said to be a nobleboy, and to resemble me.""All boys of that tender age are noble," said Corey, "and look likeanybody you wish them to resemble. Is Leslie still home-sick for thebean-pots of her native Boston?""She is getting over it, I fancy," replied Mrs. Bellingham. "She'svery much taken up with Mr. Blake's enterprises, and leads a veryexciting life. She says she's like people who have been home fromEurope three years; she's past the most poignant stage of regret, andhasn't reached the second, when they feel that they must go again."Lapham leaned a little toward Mrs. Corey, and said of a picture whichhe saw on the wall opposite, "Picture of your daughter, I presume?""No; my daughter's grandmother. It's a Stewart Newton; he painted agreat many Salem beauties. She was a Miss Polly Burroughs. Mydaughter IS like her, don't you think?" They both looked at Nanny Coreyand then at the portrait. "Those pretty old-fashioned dresses arecoming in again. I'm not surprised you took it for her. Theothers"--she referred to the other portraits more or less darkling onthe walls--"are my people; mostly Copleys."These names, unknown to Lapham, went to his head like the wine he wasdrinking; they seemed to carry light for the moment, but a film ofdeeper darkness followed. He heard Charles Bellingham telling funnystories to Irene and trying to amuse the girl; she was laughing, andseemed very happy. From time to time Bellingham took part in thegeneral talk between the host and James Bellingham and Miss Kingsburyand that minister, Mr. Sewell. They talked of people mostly; itastonished Lapham to hear with what freedom they talked. Theydiscussed these persons unsparingly; James Bellingham spoke of a manknown to Lapham for his business success and great wealth as not agentleman; his cousin Charles said he was surprised that the fellow hadkept from being governor so long.When the latter turned from Irene to make one of these excursions intothe general talk, young Corey talked to her; and Lapham caught somewords from which it seemed that they were speaking of Penelope. Itvexed him to think she had not come; she could have talked as well asany of them; she was just as bright; and Lapham was aware that Irenewas not as bright, though when he looked at her face, triumphant in itsyoung beauty and fondness, he said to himself that it did not make anydifference. He felt that he was not holding up his end of the line,however. When some one spoke to him he could only summon a few wordsof reply, that seemed to lead to nothing; things often came into hismind appropriate to what they were saying, but before he could get themout they were off on something else; they jumped about so, he could notkeep up; but he felt, all the same, that he was not doing himselfjustice.At one time the talk ran off upon a subject that Lapham had never heardtalked of before; but again he was vexed that Penelope was not there,to have her say; he believed that her say would have been worth hearing.Miss Kingsbury leaned forward and asked Charles Bellingham if he hadread Tears, Idle Tears, the novel that was making such a sensation; andwhen he said no, she said she wondered at him. "It's perfectlyheart-breaking, as you'll imagine from the name; but there's such adear old-fashioned hero and heroine in it, who keep dying for eachother all the way through, and making the most wildly satisfactory andunnecessary sacrifices for each other. You feel as if you'd done themyourself.""Ah, that's the secret of its success," said Bromfield Corey. "Itflatters the reader by painting the characters colossal, but with hislimp and stoop, so that he feels himself of their supernaturalproportions. You've read it, Nanny?""Yes," said his daughter. "It ought to have been called Slop, SillySlop.""Oh, not quite SLOP, Nanny," pleaded Miss Kingsbury."It's astonishing," said Charles Bellingham, "how we do like the booksthat go for our heart-strings. And I really suppose that you can't puta more popular thing than self-sacrifice into a novel. We do like tosee people suffering sublimely.""There was talk some years ago," said James Bellingham, "about novelsgoing out." "They're just coming in!" cried Miss Kingsbury."Yes," said Mr. Sewell, the minister. "And I don't think there everwas a time when they formed the whole intellectual experience of morepeople. They do greater mischief than ever.""Don't be envious, parson," said the host."No," answered Sewell. "I should be glad of their help. But thosenovels with old-fashioned heroes and heroines in them--excuse me, MissKingsbury--are ruinous!""Don't you feel like a moral wreck, Miss Kingsbury?" asked the host.But Sewell went on: "The novelists might be the greatest possible helpto us if they painted life as it is, and human feelings in their trueproportion and relation, but for the most part they have been and arealtogether noxious."This seemed sense to Lapham; but Bromfield Corey asked: "But what iflife as it is isn't amusing? Aren't we to be amused?""Not to our hurt," sturdily answered the minister. "And theself-sacrifice painted in most novels like this----""Slop, Silly Slop?" suggested the proud father of the inventor of thephrase."Yes--is nothing but psychical suicide, and is as wholly immoral as thespectacle of a man falling upon his sword.""Well, I don't know but you're right, parson," said the host; and theminister, who had apparently got upon a battle-horse of his, careeredonward in spite of some tacit attempts of his wife to seize the bridle."Right? To be sure I am right. The whole business of love, andlove-making and marrying, is painted by the novelists in a monstrousdisproportion to the other relations of life. Love is very sweet, verypretty----""Oh, THANK you, Mr. Sewell," said Nanny Corey, in a way that set themall laughing."But it's the affair, commonly, of very young people, who have not yetcharacter and experience enough to make them interesting. In novelsit's treated, not only as if it were the chief interest of life, butthe sole interest of the lives of two ridiculous young persons; and itis taught that love is perpetual, that the glow of a true passion lastsfor ever; and that it is sacrilege to think or act otherwise." "Well,but isn't that true, Mr. Sewell?" pleaded Miss Kingsbury."I have known some most estimable people who had married a secondtime," said the minister, and then he had the applause with him.Lapham wanted to make some open recognition of his good sense, butcould not."I suppose the passion itself has been a good deal changed," saidBromfield Corey, "since the poets began to idealise it in the days ofchivalry.""Yes; and it ought to be changed again," said Mr. Sewell."What! Back?""I don't say that. But it ought to be recognised as something naturaland mortal, and divine honours, which belong to righteousness alone,ought not to be paid it.""Oh, you ask too much, parson," laughed his host, and the talk wanderedaway to something else.It was not an elaborate dinner; but Lapham was used to havingeverything on the table at once, and this succession of dishesbewildered him; he was afraid perhaps he was eating too much. He nowno longer made any pretence of not drinking his wine, for he wasthirsty, and there was no more water, and he hated to ask for any. Theice-cream came, and then the fruit. Suddenly Mrs. Corey rose, and saidacross the table to her husband, "I suppose you will want your coffeehere." And he replied, "Yes; we'll join you at tea."The ladies all rose, and the gentlemen got up with them. Laphamstarted to follow Mrs. Corey, but the other men merely stood in theirplaces, except young Corey, who ran and opened the door for his mother.Lapham thought with shame that it was he who ought to have done that;but no one seemed to notice, and he sat down again gladly, afterkicking out one of his legs which had gone to sleep.They brought in cigars with coffee, and Bromfield Corey advised Laphamto take one that he chose for him. Lapham confessed that he liked agood cigar about as well as anybody, and Corey said: "These are new. Ihad an Englishman here the other day who was smoking old cigars in thesuperstition that tobacco improved with age, like wine.""Ah," said Lapham, "anybody who had ever lived off a tobacco countrycould tell him better than that." With the fuming cigar between hislips he felt more at home than he had before. He turned sidewise inhis chair and, resting one arm on the back, intertwined the fingers ofboth hands, and smoked at large ease. James Bellingham came and satdown by him. "Colonel Lapham, weren't you with the 96th Vermont whenthey charged across the river in front of Pickensburg, and the rebelbattery opened fire on them in the water?"Lapham slowly shut his eyes and slowly dropped his head for assent,letting out a white volume of smoke from the corner of his mouth."I thought so," said Bellingham. "I was with the 85th Massachusetts,and I sha'n't forget that slaughter. We were all new to it still.Perhaps that's why it made such an impression.""I don't know," suggested Charles Bellingham. "Was there anything muchmore impressive afterward? I read of it out in Missouri, where I wasstationed at the time, and I recollect the talk of some old army menabout it. They said that death-rate couldn't be beaten. I don't knowthat it ever was.""About one in five of us got out safe," said Lapham, breaking hiscigar-ash off on the edge of a plate. James Bellingham reached him abottle of Apollinaris. He drank a glass, and then went on smoking.They all waited, as if expecting him to speak, and then Corey said:"How incredible those things seem already! You gentlemen KNOW thatthey happened; but are you still able to believe it?""Ah, nobody FEELS that anything happened," said Charles Bellingham."The past of one's experience doesn't differ a great deal from the pastof one's knowledge. It isn't much more probable; it's really a greatdeal less vivid than some scenes in a novel that one read when a boy.""I'm not sure of that," said James Bellingham."Well, James, neither am I," consented his cousin, helping himself fromLapham's Apollinaris bottle. "There would be very little talking atdinner if one only said the things that one was sure of."The others laughed, and Bromfield Corey remarked thoughtfully, "Whatastonishes the craven civilian in all these things is theabundance--the superabundance--of heroism. The cowards were theexception; the men that were ready to die, the rule.""The woods were full of them," said Lapham, without taking his cigarfrom his mouth."That's a nice little touch in School," interposed Charles Bellingham,"where the girl says to the fellow who was at Inkerman, 'I should thinkyou would be so proud of it,' and he reflects a while, and says, 'Well,the fact is, you know, there were so many of us.'""Yes, I remember that," said James Bellingham, smiling for pleasure init. "But I don't see why you claim the credit of being a cravencivilian, Bromfield," he added, with a friendly glance at hisbrother-in-law, and with the willingness Boston men often show to turnone another's good points to the light in company; bred so intimatelytogether at school and college and in society, they all know thesepoints. "A man who was out with Garibaldi in '48," continued JamesBellingham."Oh, a little amateur red-shirting," Corey interrupted in deprecation."But even if you choose to dispute my claim, what has become of all theheroism? Tom, how many club men do you know who would think it sweetand fitting to die for their country?""I can't think of a great many at the moment, sir," replied the son,with the modesty of his generation."And I couldn't in '61," said his uncle. "Nevertheless they werethere.""Then your theory is that it's the occasion that is wanting," saidBromfield Corey. "But why shouldn't civil service reform, and theresumption of specie payment, and a tariff for revenue only, inspireheroes? They are all good causes.""It's the occasion that's wanting," said James Bellingham, ignoring thepersiflage. "And I'm very glad of it.""So am I," said Lapham, with a depth of feeling that expressed itselfin spite of the haze in which his brain seemed to float. There was agreat deal of the talk that he could not follow; it was too quick forhim; but here was something he was clear of. "I don't want to see anymore men killed in my time." Something serious, something sombre mustlurk behind these words, and they waited for Lapham to say more; butthe haze closed round him again, and he remained silent, drinkingApollinaris."We non-combatants were notoriously reluctant to give up fighting,"said Mr. Sewell, the minister; "but I incline to think Colonel Laphamand Mr. Bellingham may be right. I dare say we shall have the heroismagain if we have the occasion. Till it comes, we must contentourselves with the every-day generosities and sacrifices. They make upin quantity what they lack in quality, perhaps." "They're not sopicturesque," said Bromfield Corey. "You can paint a man dying for hiscountry, but you can't express on canvas a man fulfilling the duties ofa good citizen.""Perhaps the novelists will get at him by and by," suggested CharlesBellingham. "If I were one of these fellows, I shouldn't propose tomyself anything short of that.""What? the commonplace?" asked his cousin."Commonplace? The commonplace is just that light, impalpable, aerialessence which they've never got into their confounded books yet. Thenovelist who could interpret the common feelings of commonplace peoplewould have the answer to 'the riddle of the painful earth' on histongue.""Oh, not so bad as that, I hope," said the host; and Lapham looked fromone to the other, trying to make out what they were at. He had neverbeen so up a tree before."I suppose it isn't well for us to see human nature at white heathabitually," continued Bromfield Corey, after a while. "It would makeus vain of our species. Many a poor fellow in that war and in manyanother has gone into battle simply and purely for his country's sake,not knowing whether, if he laid down his life, he should ever find itagain, or whether, if he took it up hereafter, he should take it up inheaven or hell. Come, parson!" he said, turning to the minister, "whathas ever been conceived of omnipotence, of omniscience, so sublime, sodivine as that?""Nothing," answered the minister quietly. "God has never been imaginedat all. But if you suppose such a man as that was Authorised, I thinkit will help you to imagine what God must be.""There's sense in that," said Lapham. He took his cigar out of hismouth, and pulled his chair a little toward the table, on which heplaced his ponderous fore-arms. "I want to tell you about a fellow Ihad in my own company when we first went out. We were all privates tobegin with; after a while they elected me captain--I'd had the tavernstand, and most of 'em knew me. But Jim Millon never got to beanything more than corporal; corporal when he was killed." The othersarrested themselves in various attitudes of attention, and remainedlistening to Lapham with an interest that profoundly flattered him.Now, at last, he felt that he was holding up his end of the rope. "Ican't say he went into the thing from the highest motives, altogether;our motives are always pretty badly mixed, and when there's such ahurrah-boys as there was then, you can't tell which is which. Isuppose Jim Millon's wife was enough to account for his going, herself.She was a pretty bad assortment," said Lapham, lowering his voice andglancing round at the door to make sure that it was shut, "and she usedto lead Jim ONE kind of life. Well, sir," continued Lapham,synthetising his auditors in that form of address, "that fellow used tosave every cent of his pay and send it to that woman. Used to get meto do it for him. I tried to stop him. 'Why, Jim,' said I, 'you knowwhat she'll do with it.' 'That's so, Cap,' says he, 'but I don't knowwhat she'll do without it.' And it did keep her straight--straight as astring--as long as Jim lasted. Seemed as if there was somethingmysterious about it. They had a little girl,--about as old as myoldest girl,--and Jim used to talk to me about her. Guess he done itas much for her as for the mother; and he said to me before the lastaction we went into, 'I should like to turn tail and run, Cap. I ain'tcomin' out o' this one. But I don't suppose it would do.' 'Well, notfor you, Jim,' said I. 'I want to live,' he says; and he bust outcrying right there in my tent. 'I want to live for poor Molly andZerrilla'--that's what they called the little one; I dunno where theygot the name. 'I ain't ever had half a chance; and now she's doingbetter, and I believe we should get along after this.' He set therecryin' like a baby. But he wa'n't no baby when he went into action. Ihated to look at him after it was over, not so much because he'd got aball that was meant for me by a sharpshooter--he saw the devil takin'aim, and he jumped to warn me--as because he didn't look like Jim; helooked like--fun; all desperate and savage. I guess he died hard."The story made its impression, and Lapham saw it. "Now I say," heresumed, as if he felt that he was going to do himself justice, and saysomething to heighten the effect his story had produced. At the sametime he was aware of a certain want of clearness. He had the idea, butit floated vague, elusive, in his brain. He looked about as if forsomething to precipitate it in tangible shape."Apollinaris?" asked Charles Bellingham, handing the bottle from theother side. He had drawn his chair closer than the rest to Lapham's,and was listening with great interest. When Mrs. Corey asked him tomeet Lapham, he accepted gladly. "You know I go in for that sort ofthing, Anna. Since Leslie's affair we're rather bound to do it. And Ithink we meet these practical fellows too little. There's alwayssomething original about them." He might naturally have believed thatthe reward of his faith was coming."Thanks, I will take some of this wine," said Lapham, pouring himself aglass of Madeira from a black and dusty bottle caressed by a labelbearing the date of the vintage. He tossed off the wine, unconsciousof its preciousness, and waited for the result. That cloudiness in hisbrain disappeared before it, but a mere blank remained. He not onlycould not remember what he was going to say, but he could not recallwhat they had been talking about. They waited, looking at him, and hestared at them in return. After a while he heard the host saying,"Shall we join the ladies?"Lapham went, trying to think what had happened. It seemed to him along time since he had drunk that wine.Miss Corey gave him a cup of tea, where he stood aloof from his wife,who was talking with Miss Kingsbury and Mrs. Sewell; Irene was withMiss Nanny Corey. He could not hear what they were talking about; butif Penelope had come, he knew that she would have done them all credit.He meant to let her know how he felt about her behaviour when he gothome. It was a shame for her to miss such a chance. Irene was lookingbeautiful, as pretty as all the rest of them put together, but she wasnot talking, and Lapham perceived that at a dinner-party you ought totalk. He was himself conscious of having, talked very well. He nowwore an air of great dignity, and, in conversing with the othergentlemen, he used a grave and weighty deliberation. Some of themwanted him to go into the library. There he gave his ideas of books.He said he had not much time for anything but the papers; but he wasgoing to have a complete library in his new place. He made anelaborate acknowledgment to Bromfield Corey of his son's kindness insuggesting books for his library; he said that he had ordered them all,and that he meant to have pictures. He asked Mr. Corey who was aboutthe best American painter going now. "I don't set up to be a judge ofpictures, but I know what I like," he said. He lost the reserve whichhe had maintained earlier, and began to boast. He himself introducedthe subject of his paint, in a natural transition from pictures; hesaid Mr. Corey must take a run up to Lapham with him some day, and seethe Works; they would interest him, and he would drive him round thecountry; he kept most of his horses up there, and he could show Mr.Corey some of the finest Jersey grades in the country. He told abouthis brother William, the judge at Dubuque; and a farm he had out therethat paid for itself every year in wheat. As he cast off all fear, hisvoice rose, and he hammered his arm-chair with the thick of his handfor emphasis. Mr. Corey seemed impressed; he sat perfectly quiet,listening, and Lapham saw the other gentlemen stop in their talk everynow and then to listen. After this proof of his ability to interestthem, he would have liked to have Mrs. Lapham suggest again that he wasunequal to their society, or to the society of anybody else. Hesurprised himself by his ease among men whose names had hithertooverawed him. He got to calling Bromfield Corey by his surname alone.He did not understand why young Corey seemed so preoccupied, and hetook occasion to tell the company how he had said to his wife the firsttime he saw that fellow that he could make a man of him if he had himin the business; and he guessed he was not mistaken. He began to tellstories of the different young men he had had in his employ. At lasthe had the talk altogether to himself; no one else talked, and hetalked unceasingly. It was a great time; it was a triumph.He was in this successful mood when word came to him that Mrs. Laphamwas going; Tom Corey seemed to have brought it, but he was not sure.Anyway, he was not going to hurry. He made cordial invitations to eachof the gentlemen to drop in and see him at his office, and would not besatisfied till he had exacted a promise from each. He told CharlesBellingham that he liked him, and assured James Bellingham that it hadalways been his ambition to know him, and that if any one had said whenhe first came to Boston that in less than ten years he should behobnobbing with Jim Bellingham, he should have told that person helied. He would have told anybody he lied that had told him ten yearsago that a son of Bromfield Corey would have come and asked him to takehim into the business. Ten years ago he, Silas Lapham, had come toBoston a little worse off than nothing at all, for he was in debt forhalf the money that he had bought out his partner with, and here he wasnow worth a million, and meeting you gentlemen like one of you. Andevery cent of that was honest money,--no speculation,--every copper ofit for value received. And here, only the other day, his old partner,who had been going to the dogs ever since he went out of the business,came and borrowed twenty thousand dollars of him! Lapham lent itbecause his wife wanted him to: she had always felt bad about thefellow's having to go out of the business.He took leave of Mr. Sewell with patronising affection, and bade himcome to him if he ever got into a tight place with his parish work; hewould let him have all the money he wanted; he had more money than heknew what to do with. "Why, when your wife sent to mine last fall," hesaid, turning to Mr. Corey, "I drew my cheque for five hundred dollars,but my wife wouldn't take more than one hundred; said she wasn't goingto show off before Mrs. Corey. I call that a pretty good joke on Mrs.Corey. I must tell her how Mrs. Lapham done her out of a cool fourhundred dollars."He started toward the door of the drawing-room to take leave of theladies; but Tom Corey was at his elbow, saying, "I think Mrs. Lapham iswaiting for you below, sir," and in obeying the direction Corey gavehim toward another door he forgot all about his purpose, and came awaywithout saying good-night to his hostess.Mrs. Lapham had not known how soon she ought to go, and had no ideathat in her quality of chief guest she was keeping the others. Shestayed till eleven o'clock, and was a little frightened when she foundwhat time it was; but Mrs. Corey, without pressing her to stay longer,had said it was not at all late. She and Irene had had a perfect time.Everybody had been very polite, on the way home they celebrated theamiability of both the Miss Coreys and of Miss Kingsbury. Mrs. Laphamthought that Mrs. Bellingham was about the pleasantest person she eversaw; she had told her all about her married daughter who had married aninventor and gone to live in Omaha--a Mrs. Blake."If it's that car-wheel Blake," said Lapham proudly, "I know all abouthim. I've sold him tons of the paint.""Pooh, papa! How you do smell of smoking!" cried Irene."Pretty strong, eh?" laughed Lapham, letting down a window of thecarriage. His heart was throbbing wildly in the close air, and he wasglad of the rush of cold that came in, though it stopped his tongue,and he listened more and more drowsily to the rejoicings that his wifeand daughter exchanged. He meant to have them wake Penelope up andtell her what she had lost; but when he reached home he was too sleepyto suggest it. He fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow,full of supreme triumph.But in the morning his skull was sore with the unconscious, night-longache; and he rose cross and taciturn. They had a silent breakfast. Inthe cold grey light of the morning the glories of the night beforeshowed poorer. Here and there a painful doubt obtruded itself andmarred them with its awkward shadow. Penelope sent down word that shewas not well, and was not coming to breakfast, and Lapham was glad togo to his office without seeing her.He was severe and silent all day with his clerks, and peremptory withcustomers. Of Corey he was slyly observant, and as the day wore awayhe grew more restively conscious. He sent out word by his office-boythat he would like to see Mr. Corey for a few minutes after closing.The type-writer girl had lingered too, as if she wished to speak withhim, and Corey stood in abeyance as she went toward Lapham's door."Can't see you to-night, Zerrilla," he said bluffly, but not unkindly."Perhaps I'll call at the house, if it's important.""It is," said the girl, with a spoiled air of insistence."Well," said Lapham, and, nodding to Corey to enter, he closed the doorupon her. Then he turned to the young, man and demanded: "Was I drunklast night?"