The Rise Of Silas Lapham By William Dean Howells Part 1, William Dean Howells [the red fox clan txt] 📗

a Gay Humour,  And She Departed in a Reflected

Gleam Of His Good Spirits.  He Told Her All About It,

As He Sat Talking with Her At The Stern Of The Boat,

Lingering till The Last Moment,  And Then Stepping ashore,

With As Little Waste Of Time As Lapham Himself,  On The

Gang-Plank Which The Deck-Hands Had Laid Hold Of.

He Touched his Hat To Her From The Wharf To Reassure

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Her Of His Escape From Being carried away With Her,

And The Next Moment His Smiling face Hid Itself In

The Crowd.

 

He Walked on Smiling up The Long Wharf,  Encumbered with

Trucks And Hacks And Piles Of Freight,  And,  Taking his Way

Through The Deserted business Streets Beyond This Bustle,

Made A Point Of Passing the Door Of Lapham'S Warehouse,

On The Jambs Of Which His Name And Paint Were Lettered in

Black On A Square Ground Of White.  The Door Was Still Open,

And Corey Loitered a Moment Before It,  Tempted to Go

Upstairs And Fetch Away Some Foreign Letters Which He

Had Left On His Desk,  And Which He Thought He Might Finish

Up At Home.  He Was In love With His Work,  And He Felt

The Enthusiasm For It Which Nothing but The Work We Can

Do Well Inspires In us.  He Believed that He Had Found

His Place In the World,  After A Good Deal Of Looking,

And He Had The Relief,  The Repose,  Of Fitting into It.

Every Little Incident Of The Momentous,  Uneventful Day

Was A Pleasure In his Mind,  From His Sitting down

At His Desk,  To Which Lapham'S Boy Brought Him The

Foreign Letters,  Till His Rising from It An Hour Ago.

Lapham Had Been In view Within His Own Office,  But He

Had Given Corey No Formal Reception,  And Had,  In fact,

Not Spoken To Him Till Toward The End Of The Forenoon,

When He Suddenly Came Out Of His Den With Some More

Letters In his Hand,  And After A Brief "How D'Ye Do?"

Had Spoken A Few Words About Them,  And Left Them With Him.

He Was In his Shirt-Sleeves Again,  And His Sanguine Person

Seemed to Radiate The Heat With Which He Suffered.

He Did Not Go Out To Lunch,  But Had It Brought To Him

In His Office,  Where Corey Saw Him Eating it Before He

Left His Own Desk To Go Out And Perch On A Swinging seat

Before The Long Counter Of A Down-Town Restaurant.

He Observed that All The Others Lunched at Twelve,  And He

Resolved to Anticipate His Usual Hour.  When He Returned,

The Pretty Girl Who Had Been Clicking away At A Type-Writer

All The Morning was Neatly Putting out Of Sight The

Evidences Of Pie From The Table Where Her Machine Stood,

And Was Preparing to Go On With Her Copying.  In his Office

Lapham Lay Asleep In his Arm-Chair,  With A Newspaper Over

His Face.

 

Now,  While Corey Lingered at The Entrance To The Stairway,

These Two Came Down The Stairs Together,  And He Heard

Lapham Saying,  "Well,  Then,  You Better Get A Divorce."

 

He Looked red and Excited,  And The Girl'S Face,  Which She

Veiled at Sight Of Corey,  Showed traces Of Tears.

She Slipped round Him Into The Street.

 

But Lapham Stopped,  And Said,  With The Show Of No Feeling

But Surprise: "Hello,  Corey! Did You Want To Go Up?"

 

"Yes; There Were Some Letters I Hadn'T Quite Got Through With."

 

"You'Ll Find Dennis Up There.  But I Guess You Better Let

Them Go Till To-Morrow. I Always Make It A Rule To Stop

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Work When I'M Done."

 

"Perhaps You'Re Right," Said Corey,  Yielding.

 

"Come Along Down As Far As The Boat With Me.  There'S A

Little Matter I Want To Talk Over With You."

 

It Was A Business Matter,  And Related to Corey'S Proposed

Connection With The House.

 

The Next Day The Head Book-Keeper,  Who Lunched at The Long

Counter Of The Same Restaurant With Corey,  Began To Talk

With Him About Lapham.  Walker Had Not Apparently Got

His Place By Seniority; Though With His Forehead,  Bald Far

Up Toward The Crown,  And His Round Smooth Face,  One Might

Have Taken Him For A Plump Elder,  If He Had Not Looked

Equally Like A Robust Infant.  The Thick Drabbish Yellow

Moustache Was What Arrested decision In either Direction,

And The Prompt Vigour Of All His Movements Was That Of

A Young Man Of Thirty,  Which Was Really Walker'S Age.

He Knew,  Of Course,  Who Corey Was,  And He Had Waited

For A Man Who Might Look Down On Him Socially To Make

The Overtures Toward Something more Than Business

Acquaintance; But,  These Made,  He Was Readily Responsive,

And Drew Freely On His Philosophy Of Lapham And His Affairs.

 

"I Think About The Only Difference Between People In

This World Is That Some Know What They Want,  And Some

Don'T. Well,  Now," Said Walker,  Beating the Bottom Of His

Salt-Box To Make The Salt Come Out,  "The Old Man Knows

What He Wants Every Time.  And Generally He Gets It.

Yes,  Sir,  He Generally Gets It.  He Knows What He'S About,

But I'Ll Be Blessed if The Rest Of Us Do Half The Time.

Anyway,  We Don'T Till He'S Ready To Let Us.  You Take

My Position In most Business Houses.  It'S Confidential.

The Head Book-Keeper Knows Right Along Pretty Much

Everything the House Has Got In hand.  I'Ll Give You

My Word I Don'T. He May Open Up To You A Little More

In Your Department,  But,  As Far As The Rest Of Us Go,

He Don'T Open Up Any More Than An Oyster On A Hot Brick.

They Say He Had A Partner Once; I Guess He'S Dead.

I Wouldn'T Like To Be The Old Man'S Partner.  Well,

You See,  This Paint Of His Is Like His Heart'S Blood.

Better Not Try To Joke Him About It.  I'Ve Seen People

Come In occasionally And Try It.  They Didn'T Get Much

Fun Out Of It."

 

While He Talked,  Walker Was Plucking up Morsels From His Plate,

Tearing off Pieces Of French Bread From The Long Loaf,

And Feeding them Into His Mouth In an Impersonal Way,

As If He Were Firing up An Engine.

 

"I Suppose He Thinks," Suggested corey,  "That If He

Doesn'T Tell,  Nobody Else Will."

 

Walker Took A Draught Of Beer From His Glass,  And Wiped

The Foam From His Moustache.

 

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"Oh,  But He Carries It Too Far! It'S A Weakness With Him.

He'S Just So About Everything.  Look At The Way He Keeps

It Up About That Type-Writer Girl Of His.  You'D Think

She Was Some Princess Travelling incognito.  There Isn'T

One Of Us Knows Who She Is,  Or Where She Came From,

Or Who She Belongs To.  He Brought Her And Her Machine

Into The Office One Morning,  And Set 'Em Down At A Table,

And That'S All There Is About It,  As Far As We'Re Concerned.

It'S Pretty Hard On The Girl,  For I Guess She'D Like

To Talk; And To Any One That Didn'T Know The Old Man----"

Walker Broke Off And Drained his Glass Of What Was Left

In It.

 

Corey Thought Of The Words He Had Overheard From Lapham

To The Girl.  But He Said,  "She Seems To Be Kept Pretty Busy."

 

"Oh Yes," Said Walker; "There Ain'T Much Loafing round

The Place,  In any Of The Departments,  From The Old Man'S Down.

That'S Just What I Say.  He'S Got To Work Just Twice As Hard,

If He Wants To Keep Everything in his Own Mind.  But He

Ain'T Afraid Of Work.  That'S One Good Thing about Him.

And Miss Dewey Has To Keep Step With The Rest Of Us.

But She Don'T Look Like One That Would Take To It Naturally.

Such A Pretty Girl As That Generally Thinks She Does Enough

When She Looks Her Prettiest."

 

"She'S A Pretty Girl," Said Corey,  Non-Committally. "But I

Suppose A Great Many Pretty Girls Have To Earn Their Living."

 

"Don'T Any Of 'Em Like To Do It," Returned the Book-Keeper.

"They Think It'S A Hardship,  And I Don'T Blame 'Em. They Have

Got A Right To Get Married,  And They Ought To Have The Chance.

And Miss Dewey'S Smart,  Too.  She'S As Bright As A Biscuit.

I Guess She'S Had Trouble.  I Shouldn'T Be Much More Than

Half Surprised if Miss Dewey Wasn'T Miss Dewey,  Or Hadn'T

Always Been.  Yes,  Sir," Continued the Book-Keeper,

Who Prolonged the Talk As They Walked back To Lapham'S

Warehouse Together,  "I Don'T Know Exactly What It Is,--It

Isn'T Any One Thing in particular,--But I Should Say That

Girl Had Been Married.  I Wouldn'T Speak So Freely To Any

Of The Rest,  Mr. Corey,--I Want You To Understand That,--And

It Isn'T Any Of My Business,  Anyway; But That'S My Opinion."

 

Corey Made No Reply,  As He Walked beside The Book-Keeper,

Who Continued--

 

"It'S Curious What A Difference Marriage Makes In people.

Now,  I Know That I Don'T Look Any More Like A Bachelor

Of My Age Than I Do Like The Man In the Moon,  And Yet I

Couldn'T Say Where The Difference Came In,  To Save Me.

And It'S Just So With A Woman.  The Minute You Catch

Sight Of Her Face,  There'S Something in it That Tells

You Whether She'S Married or Not.  What Do You Suppose

It Is?"

 

"I'M Sure I Don'T Know," Said Corey,  Willing to Laugh Away

The Topic.  "And From What I Read Occasionally Of Some

People Who Go About Repeating their Happiness,  I Shouldn'T

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Say That The Intangible Evidences Were Always Unmistakable."

 

"Oh,  Of Course," Admitted walker,  Easily Surrendering

His Position.  "All Signs Fail In dry Weather.

Hello! What'S That?" He Caught Corey By The Arm,

And They Both Stopped.

 

At A Corner,  Half A Block Ahead Of Them,  The Summer Noon

Solitude Of The Place Was Broken By A