“Well, what is it, Silas?” asked his wife when the time came. “Any more big-bugs wanting to go into the mineral paint business with you?”
“Something better than that.”
“I could think of a good many better things,” said his wife, with a sigh of latent bitterness. “What’s this one?”
“I’ve had a visitor.”
“Who?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“I don’t want to try. Who was it?”
“Rogers.”
Mrs. Lapham sat down with her hands in her lap, and stared at the smile on her husband’s face, where he sat facing her.
“I guess you wouldn’t want to joke on that subject, Si,” she said, a little hoarsely, “and you wouldn’t grin about it unless you had some good news. I don’t know what the miracle is, but if you could tell quick—”
She stopped like one who can say no more.
“I will, Persis,” said her husband, and with that awed tone in which he rarely spoke of anything but the virtues of his paint. “He came to borrow money of me, and I lent him it. That’s the short of it. The long—”
“Go on,” said his wife, with gentle patience.
“Well, Pert, I was never so much astonished in my life as I was to see that man come into my office. You might have knocked me down with—I don’t know what.”
“I don’t wonder. Go on!”
“And he was as much embarrassed as I was. There we stood, gaping at each other, and I hadn’t hardly sense enough to ask him to take a chair. I don’t know just how we got at it. And I don’t remember just how it was that he said he came to come to me. But he had got hold of a patent right that he wanted to go into on a large scale, and there he was wanting me to supply him the funds.”
“Go on!” said Mrs. Lapham, with her voice further in her throat.
“I never felt the way you did about Rogers, but I know how you always did feel, and I guess I surprised him with my answer. He had brought along a lot of stock as security—”
“You didn’t take it, Silas!” his wife flashed out.
“Yes, I did, though,” said Lapham. “You wait. We settled our business, and then we went into the old thing, from the very start. And we talked it all over. And when we got through we shook hands. Well, I don’t know when it’s done me so much good to shake hands with anybody.”
“And you told him—you owned up to him that you were in the wrong, Silas?”
“No, I didn’t,” returned the Colonel promptly; “for I wasn’t. And before we got through, I guess he saw it the same as I did.”
“Oh, no matter! so you had the chance to show how you felt.”
“But I never felt that way,” persisted the Colonel. “I’ve lent him the money, and I’ve kept his stocks. And he got what he wanted out of me.”
“Give him back his stocks!”
“No, I shan’t. Rogers came to borrow. He didn’t come to beg. You needn’t be troubled about his stocks. They’re going to come up in time; but just now they’re so low down that no bank would take them as security, and I’ve got to hold them till they do rise. I hope you’re satisfied now, Persis,” said her husband; and he looked at her with the willingness to receive the reward of a good action which we all feel when we have performed one. “I lent him the money you kept me from spending on the house.”
“Truly, Si? Well, I’m satisfied,” said Mrs. Lapham, with a deep tremulous breath. “The Lord has been good to you, Silas,” she continued solemnly. “You may laugh if you choose, and I don’t know as I believe in his interfering a great deal; but I believe he’s interfered this time; and I tell you, Silas, it ain’t always he gives people a chance to make it up to others in this life. I’ve been afraid you’d die, Silas, before you got the chance; but he’s let you live to make it up to Rogers.”
“I’m glad to be let live,” said Lapham stubbornly, “but I hadn’t anything to make up to Milton K. Rogers. And if God has let me live for that—”
“Oh, say what you please, Si! Say what you please, now you’ve done it! I shan’t stop you. You’ve taken the one spot—the one speck—off you that was ever there, and I’m satisfied.”
“There wa’n’t ever any speck there,” Lapham held out, lapsing more and more into his vernacular; “and what I done I done for you, Persis.”
“And I thank you for your own soul’s sake, Silas.”
“I guess my soul’s all right,” said Lapham.
“And I want you should promise me one thing more.”
“Thought you said you were satisfied?”
“I am. But I want you should promise me this: that you won’t let anything tempt you—anything!—to ever trouble Rogers for that money you lent him. No matter what happens—no matter if you lose it all. Do you promise?”
“Why, I don’t ever expect to press him for it. That’s what I said to myself when I lent it. And of course I’m glad to have that old trouble healed up. I don’t think I ever did Rogers any wrong, and I never did think so; but if I did do it—if I did—I’m willing to call it square, if I never see a cent of my money back again.”
“Well, that’s all,” said his wife.
They did not celebrate his reconciliation with his old enemy—for such they had always felt him to be since he ceased to be an ally—by any show of joy or affection. It was not in their tradition, as stoical for the woman as for the man, that they should kiss or embrace each other at such a moment. She was content to have told him that he had done his duty, and he was content
