Chapter 26

by William Dean Howells

　　Then she became aware with intolerable disappointment that her husbandwas not there. Instead, a very pretty girl sat at his desk, operatinga typewriter. She seemed quite at home, and she paid Mrs. Lapham thescant attention which such young women often bestow upon people notpersonally interesting to them. It vexed the wife that any one elseshould seem to be helping her husband about business that she had oncebeen so intimate with; and she did not at all like the girl'sindifference to her presence. Her hat and sack hung on a nail in onecorner, and Lapham's office coat, looking intensely like him to hiswife's familiar eye, hung on a nail in the other corner; and Mrs.Lapham liked even less than the girl's good looks this domestication ofher garments in her husband's office. She began to ask herselfexcitedly why he should be away from his office when she happened tocome; and she had not the strength at the moment to reason herself outof her unreasonableness."When will Colonel Lapham be in, do you suppose?" she sharply asked ofthe girl."I couldn't say exactly," replied the girl, without looking round."Has he been out long?""I don't know as I noticed," said the girl, looking up at the clock,without looking at Mrs. Lapham. She went on working her machine."Well, I can't wait any longer," said the wife abruptly. "When ColonelLapham comes in, you please tell him Mrs. Lapham wants to see him."The girl started to her feet and turned toward Mrs. Lapham with a redand startled face, which she did not lift to confront her."Yes--yes--I will," she faltered.The wife went home with a sense of defeat mixed with an irritationabout this girl which she could not quell or account for. She foundher husband's message, and it seemed intolerable that he should havegone to New York without seeing her; she asked herself in vain what themysterious business could be that took him away so suddenly. She saidto herself that he was neglecting her; he was leaving her out a littletoo much; and in demanding of herself why he had never mentioned thatgirl there in his office, she forgot how much she had left herself outof his business life. That was another curse of their prosperity.Well, she was glad the prosperity was going; it had never beenhappiness. After this she was going to know everything as she used.She tried to dismiss the whole matter till Lapham returned; and ifthere had been anything for her to do in that miserable house, as shecalled it in her thought, she might have succeeded. But again thecurse was on her; there was nothing to do; and the looks of that girlkept coming back to her vacancy, her disoccupation. She tried to makeherself something to do, but that beauty, which she had not liked,followed her amid the work of overhauling the summer clothing, whichIrene had seen to putting away in the fall. Who was the thing, anyway?It was very strange, her being there; why did she jump up in thatfrightened way when Mrs. Lapham had named herself?After dark, that evening, when the question had worn away its poignancyfrom mere iteration, a note for Mrs. Lapham was left at the door by amessenger who said there was no answer. "A note for me?" she said,staring at the unknown, and somehow artificial-looking, handwriting ofthe superscription. Then she opened it and read: "Ask your husbandabout his lady copying-clerk. A Friend and Well-wisher," who signedthe note, gave no other name.Mrs. Lapham sat helpless with it in her hand. Her brain reeled; shetried to fight the madness off; but before Lapham came back the secondmorning, it had become, with lessening intervals of sanity and release,a demoniacal possession. She passed the night without sleep, withoutrest, in the frenzy of the cruellest of the passions, which covers withshame the unhappy soul it possesses, and murderously lusts for themisery of its object. If she had known where to find her husband inNew York, she would have followed him; she waited his return in anecstasy of impatience. In the morning he came back, looking spent andhaggard. She saw him drive up to the door, and she ran to let him inherself."Who is that girl you've got in your office, Silas Lapham?" shedemanded, when her husband entered."Girl in my office?""Yes! Who is she? What is she doing there?""Why, what have you heard about her?""Never you mind what I've heard. Who is she? IS IT MRS. M. THAT YOUGAVE THAT MONEY TO? I want to know who she is! I want to know what arespectable man, with grown-up girls of his own, is doing with such alooking thing as that in his office? I want to know how long she's beenthere? I want to know what she's there at all for?"He had mechanically pushed her before him into the long, darkenedparlour, and he shut himself in there with her now, to keep thehousehold from hearing her lifted voice. For a while he stoodbewildered, and could not have answered if he would, and then he wouldnot. He merely asked, "Have I ever accused you of anything wrong,Persis?""You no need to!" she answered furiously, placing herself against theclosed door."Did you ever know me to do anything out of the way?""That isn't what I asked you.""Well, I guess you may find out about that girl yourself. Get awayfrom the door.""I won't get away from the door."She felt herself set lightly aside, and her husband opened the door andwent out. "I WILL find out about her," she screamed after him. "I'llfind out, and I'll disgrace you. I'll teach you how to treat me----"The air blackened round her: she reeled to the sofa and then she foundherself waking from a faint. She did not know how long she had lainthere, she did not care. In a moment her madness came whirling backupon her. She rushed up to his room; it was empty; the closet-doorsstood ajar and the drawers were open; he must have packed a bag hastilyand fled. She went out and wandered crazily up and down till she founda hack. She gave the driver her husband's business address, and toldhim to drive there as fast as he could; and three times she lowered thewindow to put her head out and ask him if he could not hurry. Athousand things thronged into her mind to support her in her evil will.She remembered how glad and proud that man had been to marry her, andhow everybody said she was marrying beneath her when she took him. Sheremembered how good she had always been to him, how perfectly devoted,slaving early and late to advance him, and looking out for hisinterests in all things, and sparing herself in nothing. If it had notbeen for her, he might have been driving stage yet; and since theirtroubles had begun, the troubles which his own folly and imprudence hadbrought on them, her conduct had been that of a true and faithful wife.Was HE the sort of man to be allowed to play her false with impunity?She set her teeth and drew her breath sharply through them when shethought how willingly she had let him befool her, and delude her aboutthat memorandum of payments to Mrs. M., because she loved him so much,and pitied him for his cares and anxieties. She recalled hisconfusion, his guilty looks.She plunged out of the carriage so hastily when she reached the officethat she did not think of paying the driver; and he had to call afterher when she had got half-way up the stairs. Then she went straight toLapham's room, with outrage in her heart. There was again no one therebut that type-writer girl; she jumped to her feet in a fright, as Mrs.Lapham dashed the door to behind her and flung up her veil.The two women confronted each other."Why, the good land!" cried Mrs. Lapham, "ain't you Zerrilla Millon?""I--I'm married," faltered the girl "My name's Dewey, now.""You're Jim Millon's daughter, anyway. How long have you been here?""I haven't been here regularly; I've been here off and on ever sincelast May.""Where's your mother?""She's here--in Boston."Mrs. Lapham kept her eyes on the girl, but she dropped, trembling, intoher husband's chair, and a sort of amaze and curiosity were in hervoice instead of the fury she had meant to put there."The Colonel," continued Zerrilla, "he's been helping us, and he's gotme a type-writer, so that I can help myself a little. Mother's doingpretty well now; and when Hen isn't around we can get along.""That your husband?""I never wanted to marry him; but he promised to try to get somethingto do on shore; and mother was all for it, because he had a littleproperty then, and I thought may be I'd better. But it's turned outjust as I said and if he don't stay away long enough this time to letme get the divorce,--he's agreed to it, time and again,--I don't knowwhat we're going to do." Zerrilla's voice fell, and the trouble whichshe could keep out of her face usually, when she was comfortably warmedand fed and prettily dressed, clouded it in the presence of asympathetic listener. "I saw it was you, when you came in the otherday," she went on; "but you didn't seem to know me. I suppose theColonel's told you that there's a gentleman going to marry me--Mr.Wemmel's his name--as soon as I get the divorce; but sometimes I'mcompletely discouraged; it don't seem as if I ever could get it."Mrs. Lapham would not let her know that she was ignorant of the factattributed to her knowledge. She remained listening to Zerrilla, andpiecing out the whole history of her presence there from the facts ofthe past, and the traits of her husband's character. One of the thingsshe had always had to fight him about was that idea of his that he wasbound to take care of Jim Millon's worthless wife and her child becauseMillon had got the bullet that was meant for him. It was a perfectsuperstition of his; she could not beat it out of him; but she had madehim promise the last time he had done anything for that woman that itshould BE the last time. He had then got her a little house in one ofthe fishing ports, where she could take the sailors to board and washfor, and earn an honest living if she would keep straight. That wasfive or six years ago, and Mrs. Lapham had heard nothing of Mrs. Millonsince; she had heard quite enough of her before; and had known her idleand baddish ever since she was the worst little girl at school inLumberville, and all through her shameful girlhood, and the marrieddays which she had made so miserable to the poor fellow who had givenher his decent name and a chance to behave herself. Mrs. Lapham had nomercy on Moll Millon, and she had quarrelled often enough with herhusband for befriending her. As for the child, if the mother would putZerrilla out with some respectable family, that would be ONE thing; butas long as she kept Zerrilla with her, she was against letting herhusband do anything for either of them. He had done ten times as muchfor them now as he had any need to, and she had made him give her hissolemn word that he would do no more. She saw now that she was wrongto make him give it, and that he must have broken it again and againfor the reason that he had given when she once scolded him for throwingaway his money on that hussy--"When I think of Jim Millon, I've got to; that's all."She recalled now that whenever she had brought up the subject of Mrs.Millon and her daughter, he had seemed shy of it, and had dropped itwith some guess that they were getting along now. She wondered thatshe had not thought at once of Mrs. Millon when she saw that memorandumabout Mrs. M.; but the woman had passed so entirely out of her life,that she had never dreamt of her in connection with it. Her husbandhad deceived her, yet her heart was no longer hot against him, butrather tenderly grateful that his deceit was in this sort, and not inthat other. All cruel and shameful doubt of him went out of it. Shelooked at this beautiful girl, who had blossomed out of her knowledgesince she saw her last, and she knew that she was only a blossomedweed, of the same worthless root as her mother, and saved, if saved,from the same evil destiny, by the good of her father in her; but sofar as the girl and her mother were concerned, Mrs. Lapham knew thather husband was to blame for nothing but his wilful, wrong-headed,kind-heartedness, which her own exactions had turned into deceit. Sheremained a while, questioning the girl quietly about herself and hermother, and then, with a better mind towards Zerrilla, at least, thanshe had ever had before, she rose up and went out. There must havebeen some outer hint of the exhaustion in which the subsidence of herexcitement had left her within, for before she had reached the head ofthe stairs, Corey came towards her."Can I be of any use to you, Mrs. Lapham? The Colonel was here justbefore you came in, on his way to the train.""Yes,--yes. I didn't know--I thought perhaps I could catch him here.But it don't matter. I wish you would let some one go with me to get acarriage," she begged feebly."I'll go with you myself," said the young fellow, ignoring thestrangeness in her manner. He offered her his arm in the twilight ofthe staircase, and she was glad to put her trembling hand through it,and keep it there till he helped her into a hack which he found forher. He gave the driver her direction, and stood looking a littleanxiously at her."I thank you; I am all right now," she said, and he bade the man driveon.When she reached home she went to bed, spent with the tumult of heremotions and sick with shame and self-reproach. She understood now, asclearly as if he had told her in as many words, that if he hadbefriended those worthless jades--the Millons characterised themselvesso, even to Mrs. Lapham's remorse--secretly and in defiance of her, itwas because he dreaded her blame, which was so sharp and bitter, forwhat he could not help doing. It consoled her that he had defied her,deceived her; when he came back she should tell him that; and then itflashed upon her that she did not know where he was gone, or whether hewould ever come again. If he never came, it would be no more than shedeserved; but she sent for Penelope, and tried to give herself hopes ofescape from this just penalty.Lapham had not told his daughter where he was going; she had heard himpacking his bag, and had offered to help him; but he had said he coulddo it best, and had gone off, as he usually did, without taking leaveof any one."What were you talking about so loud, down in the parlour," she askedher 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 doingawkwardly and imperfectly the things that Irene would have done soskilfully for her comfort.The day wore away to nightfall, and then Mrs. Lapham said she MUSTknow. Penelope said there was no one to ask; the clerks would all begone home, and her mother said yes, there was Mr. Corey; they couldsend and ask him; he would know.The girl hesitated. "Very well," she said, then, scarcely above awhisper, and she presently laughed huskily. "Mr. Corey seems fated tocome in, somewhere. I guess it's a Providence, mother."She sent off a note, inquiring whether he could tell her just where herfather had expected to be that night; and the answer came quickly backthat Corey did not know, but would look up the book-keeper and inquire.This office brought him in person, an hour later, to tell Penelope thatthe 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 ashe could pack his bag," Penelope explained, "and we hadn't a chance toask him where he was to be to-night. And mother wasn't very well,and----""I thought she wasn't looking well when she was at the office to-day.And so I thought I would come rather than send," Corey explained in histurn."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 surewhere he was."He did not offer to go, upon this conclusion of his business, but hopedhe 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 oftea; and then they looked at each other, and without any apparentexchange of intelligence he remained, and at eleven o'clock he wasstill there. He was honest in saying he did not know it was so late;but he made no pretence of being sorry, and she took the blame toherself."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 whichshe had followed him."I'm so glad you could let me!" he said, "and I want to ask you nowwhen I may come again. But if you need me, you'll----"A sharp pull at the door-bell outside made them start asunder, and at asign from Penelope, who knew that the maids were abed by this time, heopened 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 resolutecomposure. "That's all," she said to the hackman. "I gave my checksto 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 thrillof admiring gratitude through him. "Where's mamma, Pen? Papa gone tobed?"Penelope faltered out some reply embodying the facts, and Irene ran upthe stairs to her mother's room. Mrs. Lapham started up in bed at herapparition."Irene Lapham.""Uncle William thought he ought to tell me the trouble papa was in; anddid you think I was going to stay off there junketing, while you weregoing through all this at home, and Pen acting so silly, too? You oughtto have been ashamed to let me stay so long! I started just as soon asI could pack. Did you get my despatch? I telegraphed from Springfield.But it don't matter, now. Here I am. And I don't think I need havehurried on Pen's account," she added, with an accent prophetic of thesort 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 beenhere since she told him he mustn't come.""I guess it isn't the last time, by the looks," said Irene, and beforeshe took off her bonnet she began to undo some of Penelope's mistakenarrangements of the room.At breakfast, where Corey and his mother met the next morning beforehis father and sisters came down, he told her, with embarrassment whichtold much more, that he wished now that she would go and call upon theLaphams.Mrs. Corey turned a little pale, but shut her lips tight and mourned insilence whatever hopes she had lately permitted herself. She answeredwith Roman fortitude: "Of course, if there's anything between you andMiss Lapham, your family ought to recognise it.""Yes," said Corey."You were reluctant to have me call at first, but now if the affair isgoing on----""It is! I hope--yes, it is!""Then I ought to go and see her, with your sisters; and she ought tocome here and--we ought all to see her and make the matter public. Wecan'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, "andI feel how kind and good you are. I have tried to consider you in thismatter, though I don't seem to have done so; I know what your rightsare, and I wish with all my heart that I were meeting even your tastesperfectly. 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'smade a great sacrifice for me. She's acted nobly."Mrs. Corey, whose thoughts cannot always be reported, said she was sureof it, and that all she desired was her son's happiness."She's been very unwilling to consider it an engagement on thataccount, and on account of Colonel Lapham's difficulties. I shouldlike to have you go, now, for that very reason. I don't know just howserious the trouble is; but it isn't a time when we can seemindifferent."The logic of this was not perhaps so apparent to the glasses of fiftyas 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 taughtthat to want magnanimity was to be less than gentlemanly. Sheanswered, 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 vaguesmile, and left her. When his father came down, rubbing his long handstogether, and looking aloof from all the cares of the practical world,in an artistic withdrawal, from which his eye ranged over thebreakfast-table before he sat down, Mrs. Corey told him what she andtheir 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 supposingyourself porcelain, this is a just punishment of your arrogance. Hereyou are bound by the very quality on which you've prided yourself tobehave well to a bit of earthenware who is apparently in danger oflosing 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 bestill worse. Either horn of the dilemma gores us. Well, we still havethe comfort we had in the beginning; we can't help ourselves; and weshould only make bad worse by trying. Unless we can look to Tom'sinamorata herself for help."Mrs. Corey shook her head so gloomily that her husband broke off withanother laugh. But at the continued trouble of her face, he said,sympathetically: "My dear, I know it's a very disagreeable affair; andI don't think either of us has failed to see that it was so from thebeginning. I have had my way of expressing my sense of it, and youyours, but we have always been of the same mind about it. We wouldboth have preferred to have Tom marry in his own set; the Laphams areabout the last set we could have wished him to marry into. They AREuncultivated people, and so far as I have seen them, I'm not able tobelieve that poverty will improve them. Still, it may. Let us hopefor the best, and let us behave as well as we know how. I'm sure YOUwill behave well, and I shall try. I'm going with you to call on MissLapham. This is a thing that can't be done by halves!"He cut his orange in the Neapolitan manner, and ate it in quarters.