The Rise of Silas Lapham

in his breast. He had always said that he did not care what a man’s family was, but the presence of young Corey as an applicant to him for employment, as his guest, as the possible suitor of his daughter, was one of the sweetest flavours that he had yet tasted in his success. He knew who the Coreys were very well, and, in his simple, brutal way, he had long hated their name as a symbol of splendour which, unless he should live to see at least three generations of his descendants gilded with mineral paint, he could not hope to realise in his own. He was acquainted in a business way with the tradition of old Phillips Corey, and he had heard a great many things about the Corey who had spent his youth abroad and his father’s money everywhere, and done nothing but say smart things. Lapham could not see the smartness of some of them which had been repeated to him. Once he had encountered the fellow, and it seemed to Lapham that the tall, slim, white-moustached man, with the slight stoop, was everything that was offensively aristocratic. He had bristled up aggressively at the name when his wife told how she had made the acquaintance of the fellow’s family the summer before, and he had treated the notion of young Corey’s caring for Irene with the contempt which such a ridiculous superstition deserved. He had made up his mind about young Corey beforehand; yet when he met him he felt an instant liking for him, which he frankly acknowledged, and he had begun to assume the burden of his wife’s superstition, of which she seemed now ready to accuse him of being the inventor.

Nothing had moved his thick imagination like this day’s events since the girl who taught him spelling and grammar in the school at Lumberville had said she would have him for her husband.

The dark figures, stationary on the rocks, began to move, and he could see that they were coming toward the house. He went indoors, so as not to appear to have been watching them.

VIII

A week after she had parted with her son at Bar Harbour, Mrs. Corey suddenly walked in upon her husband in their house in Boston. He was at breakfast, and he gave her the patronising welcome with which the husband who has been staying in town all summer receives his wife when she drops down upon him from the mountains or the seaside. For a little moment she feels herself strange in the house, and suffers herself to be treated like a guest, before envy of his comfort vexes her back into possession and authority. Mrs. Corey was a lady, and she did not let her envy take the form of open reproach.

“Well, Anna, you find me here in the luxury you left me to. How did you leave the girls?”

“The girls were well,” said Mrs. Corey, looking absently at her husband’s brown velvet coat, in which he was so handsome. No man had ever grown grey more beautifully. His hair, while not remaining dark enough to form a theatrical contrast with his moustache, was yet some shades darker, and, in becoming a little thinner, it had become a little more gracefully wavy. His skin had the pearly tint which that of elderly men sometimes assumes, and the lines which time had traced upon it were too delicate for the name of wrinkles. He had never had any personal vanity, and there was no consciousness in his good looks now.

“I am glad of that. The boy I have with me,” he returned; “that is, when he is with me.”

“Why, where is he?” demanded the mother.

“Probably carousing with the boon Lapham somewhere. He left me yesterday afternoon to go and offer his allegiance to the Mineral Paint King, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Bromfield!” cried Mrs. Corey. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Well, my dear, I’m not sure that it isn’t a very good thing.”

“A good thing? It’s horrid!”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s decent. Tom had found out⁠—without consulting the landscape, which I believe proclaims it everywhere⁠—”

“Hideous!”

“That it’s really a good thing; and he thinks that he has some ideas in regard to its dissemination in the parts beyond seas.”

“Why shouldn’t he go into something else?” lamented the mother.

“I believe he has gone into nearly everything else and come out of it. So there is a chance of his coming out of this. But as I had nothing to suggest in place of it, I thought it best not to interfere. In fact, what good would my telling him that mineral paint was nasty have done? I dare say you told him it was nasty.”

“Yes! I did.”

“And you see with what effect, though he values your opinion three times as much as he values mine. Perhaps you came up to tell him again that it was nasty?”

“I feel very unhappy about it. He is throwing himself away. Yes, I should like to prevent it if I could!”

The father shook his head.

“If Lapham hasn’t prevented it, I fancy it’s too late. But there may be some hopes of Lapham. As for Tom’s throwing himself away, I don’t know. There’s no question but he is one of the best fellows under the sun. He’s tremendously energetic, and he has plenty of the kind of sense which we call horse; but he isn’t brilliant. No, Tom is not brilliant. I don’t think he would get on in a profession, and he’s instinctively kept out of everything of the kind. But he has got to do something. What shall he do? He says mineral paint, and really I don’t see why he shouldn’t. If money is fairly and honestly earned, why should we pretend to care what it comes out of, when we don’t really care? That superstition is exploded everywhere.”

“Oh, it isn’t the paint alone,” said Mrs. Corey; and then she perceptibly arrested herself, and