 | VI. The rise of Silas Lapham |  |
VI.
The Coreys had always had a house at Nahant,
but after letting it for a season or two they found
they could get on without it, and sold it at the son's
instance, who foresaw that if things went on as they
were going, the family would be straitened to the
point of changing their mode of life altogether.
They began to be of the people of whom it was said
that they stayed in town very late; and when the
ladies did go away, it was for a brief summering in
this place and that. The father remained at home
altogether; and the son joined them in the intervals
of his enterprises, which occurred only too often.
At Bar Harbour, where he now went to find them,
after his winter in Texas, he confessed to his mother
that there seemed no very good opening there for
him. He might do as well as Loring Stanton, but
he doubted if Stanton was doing very well. Then
he mentioned the new project which he had been
thinking over. She did not deny that there was
something in it, but she could not think of any
young man who had gone into such a business as
that, and it appeared to her that he might as well
go into a patent medicine or a stove-polish.
"There was one of his hideous advertisements,"
she said, "painted on a reef that we saw as we came
down."
Corey smiled. "Well, I suppose, if it was in a
good state of preservation, that is proof positive of
the efficacy of the paint on the hulls of vessels."
"It's very distasteful to me, Tom," said his
mother; and if there was something else in her
mind, she did not speak more plainly of it than to
add: "It's not only the kind of business, but the
kind of people you would be mixed up with."
"I thought you didn't find them so very bad,"
suggested Corey.
"I hadn't seen them in Nankeen Square then."
"You can see them on the water side of Beacon
Street when you go back."
Then he told of his encounter with the Lapham
family in their new house. At the end his mother
merely said, "It is getting very common down
there," and she did not try to oppose anything
further to his scheme.
The young man went to see Colonel Lapham
shortly after his return to Boston. He paid his
visit at Lapham's office, and if he had studied
simplicity in his summer dress he could not have
presented himself in a figure more to the mind of a
practical man. His hands and neck still kept the
brown of the Texan suns and winds, and he looked
as business-like as Lapham himself.
He spoke up promptly and briskly in the outer
office, and caused the pretty girl to look away from
asked; and after that moment for reflection which
an array of book-keepers so addressed likes to give
the inquirer, a head was lifted from a ledger and
nodded toward the inner office.
Lapham had recognised the voice, and he was
standing, in considerable perplexity, to receive Corey,
when the young man opened his painted glass door.
It was a hot afternoon, and Lapham was in his shirt-sleeves.
Scarcely a trace of the boastful hospitality
with which he had welcomed Corey to his house a
few days before lingered in his present address. He
looked at the young man's face, as if he expected
him to despatch whatever unimaginable affair he
had come upon.
"Won't you sit down? How are you? You'll
excuse me," he added, in brief allusion to the shirt-sleeves.
"I'm about roasted."
Corey laughed. "I wish you'd let me take off
my coat."
"Why, take it off!" cried the Colonel, with instant
pleasure. There is something in human nature
which causes the man in his shirt-sleeves to wish all
other men to appear in the same deshabille.
"I will, if you ask me after I've talked with you
two minutes," said the young fellow, companionably
pulling up the chair offered him toward the
desk where Lapham had again seated himself.
"But perhaps you haven't got two minutes to give
me?"
"Oh yes, I have," said the Colonel. "I was
then I shall have fifteen minutes to catch the boat."
"All right," said Corey. "I want you to take
me into the mineral paint business."
The Colonel sat dumb. He twisted his thick
neck, and looked round at the door to see if it was
shut. He would not have liked to have any of
those fellows outside hear him, but there is no
saying what sum of money he would not have given
if his wife had been there to hear what Corey had
just said.
"I suppose," continued the young man, "I could
have got several people whose names you know to
back my industry and sobriety, and say a word for
my business capacity. But I thought I wouldn't
trouble anybody for certificates till I found whether
there was a chance, or the ghost of one, of your
wanting me. So I came straight to you."
Lapham gathered himself together as well as he
could. He had not yet forgiven Corey for Mrs. Lapham's
insinuation that he would feel himself too
good for the mineral paint business; and though he
was dispersed by that astounding shot at first, he was
not going to let any one even hypothetically despise
his paint with impunity. "How do you think I am
going to take you on?" They took on hands at the
works; and Lapham put it as if Corey were a hand
coming to him for employment. Whether he satisfied
himself by this or not, he reddened a little after
he had said it.
Corey answered, ignorant of the offence: "I
been looking a little into the matter from the outside—"
"I hope you hain't been paying any attention to
that fellow's stuff in the Events?" Lapham interrupted.
Since Bartley's interview had appeared,
Lapham had regarded it with very mixed feelings.
At first it gave him a glow of secret pleasure,
blended with doubt as to how his wife would like
the use Bartley had made of her in it. But she had
not seemed to notice it much, and Lapham had experienced
the gratitude of the man who escapes.
Then his girls had begun to make fun of it; and
though he did not mind Penelope's jokes much,
he did not like to see that Irene's gentility was
wounded. Business friends met him with the kind
of knowing smile about it that implied their sense
of the fraudulent character of its praise—the smile
of men who had been there and who knew how it
was themselves. Lapham had his misgivings as to
how his clerks and underlings looked at it; he
treated them with stately severity for a while after
it came out, and he ended by feeling rather sore
about it. He took it for granted that everybody
had read it.
"I don't know what you mean," replied Corey,
"I don't see the Events regularly."
"Oh, it was nothing. They sent a fellow down
here to interview me, and he got everything about
as twisted as he could."
"I believe they always do," said Corey. "I
home."
"Perhaps it did."
"My notion of making myself useful to you was
based on a hint I got from one of your own circulars."
Lapham was proud of those circulars; he thought
they read very well. "What was that?"
"I could put a little capital into the business,"
said Corey, with the tentative accent of a man who
chances a thing. "I've got a little money, but I
didn't imagine you cared for anything of that
kind."
"No, sir, I don't," returned the Colonel bluntly.
"I've had one partner, and one's enough."
"Yes," assented the young man, who doubtless
had his own ideas as to eventualities—or perhaps
rather had the vague hopes of youth. "I didn't
come to propose a partnership. But I see that you
are introducing your paint into the foreign markets,
and there I really thought I might be of use to you,
and to myself too."
"How?" asked the Colonel scantly.
"Well, I know two or three languages pretty
well. I know French, and I know German, and
I've got a pretty fair sprinkling of Spanish."
"You mean that you can talk them?" asked the
Colonel, with the mingled awe and slight that such
a man feels for such accomplishments.
"Yes; and I can write an intelligible letter in
either of them."
Lapham rubbed his nose. "It's easy enough to
get all the letters we want translated."
"Well," pursued Corey, not showing his discouragement
if he felt any, "I know the countries
where you want to introduce this paint of yours.
I've been there. I've been in Germany and France,
and I've been in South America and Mexico; I've
been in Italy, of course. I believe I could go to any
of those countries and place it to advantage."
Lapham had listened with a trace of persuasion in
his face, but now he shook his head.
"It's placing itself as fast as there's any call for
it. It wouldn't pay us to send anybody out to look
after it. Your salary and expenses would eat up
about all we should make on it."
"Yes," returned the young man intrepidly, "if
you had to pay me any salary and expenses."
"You don't propose to work for nothing?"
"I propose to work for a commission." The
Colonel was beginning to shake his head again, but
Corey hurried on. "I haven't come to you without
making some inquiries about the paint, and I know
how it stands with those who know best. I believe
in it."
Lapham lifted his head and looked at the young
man, deeply moved.
"It's the best paint in God's universe," he said,
with the solemnity of prayer.
"It's the best in the market," said Corey; and he
repeated, "I believe in it."
"You believe in it," began the Colonel, and then
power in money, a year's income would have bought
Mrs. Lapham's instant presence. He warmed and
softened to the young man in every way, not only
because he must do so to any one who believed in
his paint, but because he had done this innocent
person the wrong of listening to a defamation of his
instinct and good sense, and had been willing to see
him suffer for a purely supposititious offence.
Corey rose.
"You mustn't let me outstay my twenty minutes,"
he said, taking out his watch. "I don't expect you
to give a decided answer on the spot. All that I ask
is that you'll consider my proposition."
"Don't hurry," said Lapham. "Sit still! I want
to tell you about this paint," he added, in a voice
husky with the feeling that his hearer could not
divine. "I want to tell you all about it."
"I could walk with you to the boat," suggested
the young man.
"Never mind the boat! I can take the next
one. Look here!" The Colonel pulled open a
drawer, as Corey sat down again, and took out a
photograph of the locality of the mine. "Here's
where we get it. This photograph don't half do the
place justice," he said, as if the imperfect art had
slighted the features of a beloved face. "It's one of
the sightliest places in the country, and here's the
very spot"—he covered it with his huge forefinger
—"where my father found that paint, more than
forty—years—ago. Yes, sir!"
He went on, and told the story in unsparing
detail, while his chance for the boat passed unheeded,
and the clerks in the outer office hung up their linen
office coats and put on their seersucker or flannel
street coats. The young lady went too, and nobody
was left but the porter, who made from time to time
a noisy demonstration of fastening a distant blind,
or putting something in place. At last the Colonel
roused himself from the autobiographical delight of
the history of his paint. "Well, sir, that's the
story."
"It's an interesting story," said Corey, with a
long breath, as they rose together, and Lapham put
on his coat.
"That's what it is," said the Colonel. "Well!"
he added, "I don't see but what we've got to have
another talk about this thing. It's a surprise to me,
and I don't see exactly how you're going to make it
pay."
"I'm willing to take the chances," answered Corey.
"As I said, I believe in it. I should try South
America first. I should try Chili."
"Look here!" said Lapham, with his watch in his
hand. "I like to get things over. We've just got
time for the six o'clock boat. Why don't you come
down with me to Nantasket? I can give you a bed
as well as not. And then we can finish up."
The impatience of youth in Corey responded to
the impatience of temperament in his elder.
"Why, I don't see why I shouldn't," he allowed
himself to say. "I confess I should like to have it
right way."
"Well, we'll see. Dennis!" Lapham called to
the remote porter, and the man came. "Want to
send any word home?" he asked Corey.
"No; my father and I go and come as we like,
without keeping account of each other. If I don't
come home, he knows that I'm not there. That's
all."
"Well, that's convenient. You'll find you can't
do that when you're married. Never mind, Dennis,"
said the Colonel.
He had time to buy two newspapers on the wharf
before he jumped on board the steam-boat with
Corey. "Just made it," he said; "and that's what I
like to do. I can't stand it to be aboard much more
than a minute before she shoves out." He gave one
of the newspapers to Corey as he spoke, and set him
the example of catching up a camp-stool on their
way to that point on the boat which his experience
had taught him was the best. He opened his paper
at once and began to run over its news, while the
young man watched the spectacular recession of
the city, and was vaguely conscious of the people
about him, and of the gay life of the water round
the boat. The air freshened; the craft thinned
in number; they met larger sail, lagging slowly
inward in the afternoon light; the islands of the
bay waxed and waned as the steamer approached
and left them behind.
"I hate to see them stirring up those Southern
paper on his lap. "Seems to me it's time to let
those old issues go."
"Yes," said the young man. "What are they
doing now?"
"Oh, stirring up the Confederate brigadiers in
Congress. I don't like it. Seems to me, if our
party hain't got any other stock-in-trade, we better
shut up shop altogether." Lapham went on, as he
scanned his newspaper, to give his ideas of public
questions, in a fragmentary way, while Corey listened
patiently, and waited for him to come back to business.
He folded up his paper at last, and stuffed it
into his coat pocket. "There's one thing I always
make it a rule to do," he said, "and that is to give
my mind a complete rest from business while I'm
going down on the boat. I like to get the fresh air
all through me, soul and body. I believe a man can
give his mind a rest, just the same as he can give
his legs a rest, or his back. All he's got to do is to
use his will-power. Why, I suppose, if I hadn't
adopted some such rule, with the strain I've had on
me for the last ten years, I should 'a' been a dead
man long ago. That's the reason I like a horse.
You've got to give your mind to the horse; you can't
help it, unless you want to break your neck; but a
boat's different, and there you got to use your willpower.
You got to take your mind right up and
put it where you want it. I make it a rule to read
the paper on the boat— Hold on!" he interrupted
himself to prevent Corey from paying his fare to
tickets. And when I get through the paper, I try
to get somebody to talk to, or I watch the people.
It's an astonishing thing to me where they all come
from. I've been riding up and down on these boats
for six or seven years, and I don't know but very
few of the faces I see on board. Seems to be a
perfectly fresh lot every time. Well, of course!
Town's full of strangers in the summer season, anyway,
and folks keep coming down from the country.
They think it's a great thing to get down to the
beach, and they've all heard of the electric light on
the water, and they want to see it. But you take
faces now! The astonishing thing to me is not
what a face tells, but what it don't tell. When you
think of what a man is, or a woman is, and what
most of'em have been through before they get to be
thirty, it seems as if their experience would burn right
through. But it don't. I like to watch the couples,
and try to make out which are engaged, or going to
be, and which are married, or better be. But half
the time I can't make any sort of guess. Of course,
where they're young and kittenish, you can tell;
but where they're anyways on, you can't. Heigh?"
"Yes, I think you're right," said Corey, not perfectly
reconciled to philosophy in the place of business,
but accepting it as he must.
"Well," said the Colonel, "I don't suppose it was
meant we should know what was in each other's
minds. It would take a man out of his own hands.
As long as he's in his own hands, there's some
a fellow has been found out—even if he hasn't been
found out to be so very bad—it's pretty much all
up with him. No, sir. I don't want to know
people through and through."
The greater part of the crowd on board—and, of
course, the boat was crowded—looked as if they
might not only be easily but safely known. There
was little style and no distinction among them;
they were people who were going down to the beach
for the fun or the relief of it, and were able to afford
it. In face they were commonplace, with nothing
but the American poetry of vivid purpose to light
them up, where they did not wholly lack fire. But
they were nearly all shrewd and friendly-looking,
with an apparent readiness for the humorous intimacy
native to us all. The women were dandified
in dress, according to their means and taste, and
the men differed from each other in degrees of
indifference to it. To a straw-hatted population,
such as ours is in summer, no sort of personal
dignity is possible. We have not even the power
over observers which comes from the fantasticality
of an Englishman when he discards the conventional
dress. In our straw hats and our serge or flannel
sacks we are no more imposing than a crowd of
boys.
"Some day," said Lapham, rising as the boat
drew near the wharf of the final landing, "there's
going to be an awful accident on these boats. Just
look at that jam.'
He meant the people thickly packed on the pier,
and under strong restraint of locks and gates, to
prevent them from rushing on board the boat and
possessing her for the return trip before she had
landed her Nantasket passengers.
"Overload 'em every time," he continued, with
a sort of dry, impersonal concern at the impending
calamity, as if it could not possibly include him.
"They take about twice as many as they ought to
carry, and about ten times as many as they could
save if anything happened. Yes, sir, it's bound to
come. Hello! There's my girl!" He took out
his folded newspaper and waved it toward a group
of phaetons and barouches drawn up on the pier
a little apart from the pack of people, and a lady
in one of them answered with a flourish of her
parasol.
When he had made his way with his guest through
the crowd, she began to speak to her father before
she noticed Corey. "Well, Colonel, you've improved
your last chance. We've been coming to
every boat since four o'clock,—or Jerry has,—and
I told mother that I would come myself once, and
see if I couldn't fetch you; and if I failed, you
could walk next time. You're getting perfectly
spoiled."
The Colonel enjoyed letting her scold him to the
end before he said, with a twinkle of pride in his
guest and satisfaction in her probably being able
to hold her own against any discomfiture, "I've
brought Mr. Corey down for the night with me,
took time."
The young fellow was at the side of the open
beach-wagon, making a quick bow, and Penelope
Lapham was cozily drawling, "Oh, how do you do,
Mr. Corey?" before the Colonel had finished his
explanation.
"Get right in there, alongside of Miss Lapham,
Mr. Corey," he said, pulling himself up into the
place beside the driver. "No, no," he had added
quickly, at some signs of polite protest in the young
man, "I don't give up the best place to anybody.
Jerry, suppose you let me have hold of the leathers
a minute."
This was his way of taking the reins from the
driver; and in half the time he specified, he had
skilfully turned the vehicle on the pier, among the
crooked lines and groups of foot-passengers, and
was spinning up the road toward the stretch of
verandaed hotels and restaurants in the sand along
the shore. "Pretty gay down here," he said, indicating
all this with a turn of his whip, as he left it
behind him. "But I've got about sick of hotels;
and this summer I made up my mind that I'd take
a cottage. Well, Pen, how are the folks?" He
looked half-way round for her answer, and with
the eye thus brought to bear upon her he was
able to give her a wink of supreme content. The
Colonel, with no sort of ulterior design, and nothing
but his triumph over Mrs. Lapham definitely in his
mind, was feeling, as he would have said, about right.
The girl smiled a daughter's amusement at her
father's boyishness. "I don't think there's much
change since morning. Did Irene have a headacha
when you left?"
"No," said the Colonel.
"Well, then, there's that to report."
"Pshaw!" said the Colonel with vexation in his
tone.
"I'm sorry Miss Irene isn't well," said Corey
politely.
"I think she must have got it from walking too
long on the beach. The air is so cool here that you
forget how hot the sun is."
"Yes, that's true," assented Corey.
"A good night's rest will make it all right," suggested
the Colonel, without looking round. "But
you girls have got to look out."
"If you're fond of walking," said Corey, "I
suppose you find the beach a temptation."
"Oh, it isn't so much that," returned the girl.
"You keep walking on and on because it's so
smooth and straight before you. We've been
here so often that we know it all by heart—just
how it looks at high tide, and how it looks at low
tide, and how it looks after a storm. We're as
well acquainted with the crabs and stranded jellyfish
as we are with the children digging in the sand
and the people sitting under umbrellas. I think
they're always the same, all of them."
The Colonel left the talk to the young people.
When he spoke next it was to say, "Well, here
drove up in front of a brown cottage with a vermilion
roof, and a group of geraniums clutching
the rock that cropped up in the loop formed by
the road. It was treeless and bare all round, and
the ocean, unnecessarily vast, weltered away a little
more than a stone's-cast from the cottage. A hospitable
smell of supper filled the air, and Mrs.
Lapham was on the veranda, with that demand
in her eyes for her belated husband's excuses, which
she was obliged to check on her tongue at sight of
Corey.
| VI. The rise of Silas Lapham | |