Lapham glanced again at his wife; her head had fallen; he could see that she was so rooted in her old remorse for that questionable act of his, amply and more than fully atoned for since, that she was helpless, now in the crucial moment, when he had the utmost need of her insight. He had counted upon her; he perceived now that when he had thought it was for him alone to decide, he had counted upon her just spirit to stay his own in its struggle to be just. He had not forgotten how she held out against him only a little while ago, when he asked her whether he might not rightfully sell in some such contingency as this; and it was not now that she said or even looked anything in favour of Rogers, but that she was silent against him, which dismayed Lapham. He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat, the self-pity, the pity for her, the despair, and said gently, “I guess you better go to bed, Persis. It’s pretty late.”
She turned towards the door, when Rogers said, with the obvious intention of detaining her through her curiosity—
“But I let that pass. And I don’t ask now that you should sell to these men.”
Mrs. Lapham paused, irresolute.
“What are you making this bother for, then?” demanded Lapham. “What do you want?”
“What I’ve been telling your wife here. I want you should sell to me. I don’t say what I’m going to do with the property, and you will not have an iota of responsibility, whatever happens.”
Lapham was staggered, and he saw his wife’s face light up with eager question.
“I want that property,” continued Rogers, “and I’ve got the money to buy it. What will you take for it? If it’s the price you’re standing out for—”
“Persis,” said Lapham, “go to bed,” and he gave her a look that meant obedience for her. She went out of the door, and left him with his tempter.
“If you think I’m going to help you whip the devil round the stump, you’re mistaken in your man, Milton Rogers,” said Lapham, lighting a cigar. “As soon as I sold to you, you would sell to that other pair of rascals. I smelt ’em out in half a minute.”
“They are Christian gentlemen,” said Rogers. “But I don’t purpose defending them; and I don’t purpose telling you what I shall or shall not do with the property when it is in my hands again. The question is, Will you sell, and, if so, what is your figure? You have got nothing whatever to do with it after you’ve sold.”
It was perfectly true. Any lawyer would have told him the same. He could not help admiring Rogers for his ingenuity, and every selfish interest of his nature joined with many obvious duties to urge him to consent. He did not see why he should refuse. There was no longer a reason. He was standing out alone for nothing, anyone else would say. He smoked on as if Rogers were not there, and Rogers remained before the fire as patient as the clock ticking behind his head on the mantel, and showing the gleam of its pendulum beyond his face on either side. But at last he said, “Well?”
“Well,” answered Lapham, “you can’t expect me to give you an answer tonight, any more than before. You know that what you’ve said now hasn’t changed the thing a bit. I wish it had. The Lord knows, I want to be rid of the property fast enough.”
“Then why don’t you sell to me? Can’t you see that you will not be responsible for what happens after you have sold?”
“No, I can’t see that; but if I can by morning, I’ll sell.”
“Why do you expect to know any better by morning? You’re wasting time for nothing!” cried Rogers, in his disappointment. “Why are you so particular? When you drove me out of the business you were not so very particular.”
Lapham winced. It was certainly ridiculous for man who had once so selfishly consulted his own interests to be stickling now about the rights of others.
“I guess nothing’s going to happen overnight,” he answered sullenly. “Anyway, I shan’t say what I shall do till morning.”
“What time can I see you in the morning?”
“Half-past nine.”
Rogers buttoned his coat, and went out of the room without another word. Lapham followed him to close the street-door after him.
His wife called down to him from above as he approached the room again, “Well?”
“I’ve told him I’d let him know in the morning.”
“Want I should come down and talk with you?”
“No,” answered Lapham, in the proud bitterness which his isolation brought, “you couldn’t do any good.” He went in and shut the door, and by and by his wife heard him begin walking up and down; and then the rest of the night she lay awake and listened to him walking up and down. But when the first light whitened the window, the words of the Scripture came into her mind: “And there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day. … And he said, Let me go, for the day breaketh. And he said, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me.”
She could not ask him anything when they met, but he raised his dull eyes after the first silence, and said, “I don’t know what I’m going to say to Rogers.”
She could not speak; she did not know what to say, and she saw her husband when she followed him with her eyes from the window, drag heavily down toward the corner, where he was to take the horsecar.
He arrived rather later than usual at his office, and he found his letters already on his table. There was one, long and official-looking, with a printed letter-heading on the outside, and Lapham had no need to open it in order to know
