The Rise of Silas Lapham

very seriously, and sometimes he said that he must forego the hope on which his heart was set. There had been many times in the past months when he had said that he must go no further, and as often as he had taken this stand he had yielded it, upon this or that excuse, which he was aware of trumping up. It was part of the complication that he should be unconscious of the injury he might be doing to someone besides his family and himself; this was the defect of his diffidence; and it had come to him in a pang for the first time when his mother said that she would not have the Laphams think she wished to make more of the acquaintance than he did; and then it had come too late. Since that he had suffered quite as much from the fear that it might not be as that it might be so; and now, in the mood, romantic and exalted, in which he found himself concerning Lapham, he was as far as might be from vain confidence. He ended the question in his own mind by affirming to himself that he was there, first of all, to see Lapham and give him an ultimate proof of his own perfect faith and unabated respect, and to offer him what reparation this involved for that want of sympathy⁠—of humanity⁠—which he had shown.

XVI

The Nova Scotia second-girl who answered Corey’s ring said that Lapham had not come home yet.

“Oh,” said the young man, hesitating on the outer step.

“I guess you better come in,” said the girl, “I’ll go and see when they’re expecting him.”

Corey was in the mood to be swayed by any chance. He obeyed the suggestion of the second-girl’s patronising friendliness, and let her shut him into the drawing-room, while she went upstairs to announce him to Penelope.

“Did you tell him father wasn’t at home?”

“Yes. He seemed so kind of disappointed, I told him to come in, and I’d see when he would be in,” said the girl, with the human interest which sometimes replaces in the American domestic the servile deference of other countries.

A gleam of amusement passed over Penelope’s face, as she glanced at herself in the glass. “Well,” she cried finally, dropping from her shoulders the light shawl in which she had been huddled over a book when Corey rang, “I will go down.”

“All right,” said the girl, and Penelope began hastily to amend the disarray of her hair, which she tumbled into a mass on the top of her little head, setting off the pale dark of her complexion with a flash of crimson ribbon at her throat. She moved across the carpet once or twice with the quaint grace that belonged to her small figure, made a dissatisfied grimace at it in the glass, caught a handkerchief out of a drawer and slid it into her pocket, and then descended to Corey.

The Lapham drawing-room in Nankeen Square was in the parti-coloured paint which the Colonel had hoped to repeat in his new house: the trim of the doors and windows was in light green and the panels in salmon; the walls were a plain tint of French grey paper, divided by gilt mouldings into broad panels with a wide stripe of red velvet paper running up the corners; the chandelier was of massive imitation bronze; the mirror over the mantel rested on a fringed mantel-cover of green reps, and heavy curtains of that stuff hung from gilt lambrequin frames at the window; the carpet was of a small pattern in crude green, which, at the time Mrs. Lapham bought it, covered half the new floors in Boston. In the panelled spaces on the walls were some stone-coloured landscapes, representing the mountains and canyons of the West, which the Colonel and his wife had visited on one of the early official railroad excursions. In front of the long windows looking into the Square were statues, kneeling figures which turned their backs upon the company within-doors, and represented allegories of Faith and Prayer to people without. A white marble group of several figures, expressing an Italian conception of Lincoln Freeing the Slaves⁠—a Latin negro and his wife⁠—with our Eagle flapping his wings in approval, at Lincoln’s feet, occupied one corner, and balanced the whatnot of an earlier period in another. These phantasms added their chill to that imparted by the tone of the walls, the landscapes, and the carpets, and contributed to the violence of the contrast when the chandelier was lighted up full glare, and the heat of the whole furnace welled up from the registers into the quivering atmosphere on one of the rare occasions when the Laphams invited company.

Corey had not been in this room before; the family had always received him in what they called the sitting-room. Penelope looked into this first, and then she looked into the parlour, with a smile that broke into a laugh as she discovered him standing under the single burner which the second-girl had lighted for him in the chandelier.

“I don’t understand how you came to be put in there,” she said, as she led the way to the cozier place, “unless it was because Alice thought you were only here on probation, anyway. Father hasn’t got home yet, but I’m expecting him every moment; I don’t know what’s keeping him. Did the girl tell you that mother and Irene were out?”

“No, she didn’t say. It’s very good of you to see me.” She had not seen the exaltation which he had been feeling, he perceived with half a sigh; it must all be upon this lower level; perhaps it was best so. “There was something I wished to say to your father⁠—I hope,” he broke off, “you’re better tonight.”

“Oh yes, thank you,” said Penelope, remembering that she had not been well enough to go to dinner the night before.

“We all missed you very much.”

“Oh, thank