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by William Dean Howells

by William Dean Howells


WHEN Bartley Hubbard went to interview Silas Lapham
for the "Solid Men of Boston" series, which he undertook
to finish up in The Events, after he replaced their
original projector on that newspaper, Lapham received
him in his private office by previous appointment.

"Walk right in!" he called out to the journalist, whom he
caught sight of through the door of the counting-room.

He did not rise from the desk at which he was writing,
but he gave Bartley his left hand for welcome, and he
rolled his large head in the direction of a vacant chair.
"Sit down! I'll he with you in just half a minute."

"Take your time," said Bartley, with the ease he instantly felt.
"I'm in no hurry." He took a note-book from his pocket,
laid it on his knee, and began to sharpen a pencil.

"There!" Lapham pounded with his great hairy fist
on the envelope he had been addressing.

"William!" he called out, and he handed the letter
to a boy who came to get it. "I want that to go
right away. Well, sir," he continued, wheeling round
in his leather-cushioned swivel-chair, and facing Bartley,
seated so near that their knees almost touched, "so you
want my life, death, and Christian sufferings, do you,
young man?"

"That's what I'm after," said Bartley. "Your money
or your life."

"I guess you wouldn't want my life without the money,"
said Lapham, as if he were willing to prolong these moments
of preparation.

"Take 'em both," Bartley suggested. "Don't want your
money without your life, if you come to that. But you're
just one million times more interesting to the public than
if you hadn't a dollar; and you know that as well as I do,
Mr. Lapham. There 's no use beating about the bush."

"No," said Lapham, somewhat absently. He put out his huge
foot and pushed the ground-glass door shut between his
little den and the book-keepers, in their larger den outside.

"In personal appearance," wrote Bartley in the sketch
for which he now studied his subject, while he waited
patiently for him to continue, "Silas Lapham is a fine type
of the successful American. He has a square, bold chin,
only partially concealed by the short reddish-grey beard,
growing to the edges of his firmly closing lips.
His nose is short and straight; his forehead good,
but broad rather than high; his eyes blue, and with a light
in them that is kindly or sharp according to his mood.
He is of medium height, and fills an average arm-chair
with a solid bulk, which on the day of our interview was
unpretentiously clad in a business suit of blue serge.
His head droops somewhat from a short neck, which does
not trouble itself to rise far from a pair of massive

"I don't know as I know just where you want me to begin,"
said Lapham.

"Might begin with your birth; that's where most of us begin,"
replied Bartley.

A gleam of humorous appreciation shot into Lapham's
blue eyes.

"I didn't know whether you wanted me to go quite so far
back as that," he said. "But there's no disgrace in
having been born, and I was born in the State of Vermont,
pretty well up under the Canada line--so well up, in fact,
that I came very near being an adoptive citizen; for I
was bound to be an American of SOME sort, from the word
Go! That was about--well, let me see!--pretty near sixty
years ago: this is '75, and that was '20. Well, say I'm
fifty-five years old; and I've LIVED 'em, too; not an hour
of waste time about ME, anywheres! I was born on a farm,

"Worked in the fields summers and went to school winters:
regulation thing?" Bartley cut in.

"Regulation thing," said Lapham, accepting this irreverent
version of his history somewhat dryly.

"Parents poor, of course," suggested the journalist.
"Any barefoot business? Early deprivations of any kind,
that would encourage the youthful reader to go and do
likewise? Orphan myself, you know," said Bartley, with a
smile of cynical good-comradery.

Lapham looked at him silently, and then said with quiet
self-respect, "I guess if you see these things as a joke,
my life won't interest you."

"Oh yes, it will," returned Bartley, unabashed. "You'll see;
it'll come out all right." And in fact it did so,
in the interview which Bartley printed.

"Mr. Lapham," he wrote, "passed rapidly over the story
of his early life, its poverty and its hardships,
sweetened, however, by the recollections of a devoted mother,
and a father who, if somewhat her inferior in education,
was no less ambitious for the advancement of his children.
They were quiet, unpretentious people, religious,
after the fashion of that time, and of sterling morality,
and they taught their children the simple virtues
of the Old Testament and Poor Richard's Almanac."

Bartley could not deny himself this gibe; but he trusted
to Lapham's unliterary habit of mind for his security
in making it, and most other people would consider it
sincere reporter's rhetoric.

"You know," he explained to Lapham, "that we have to look
at all these facts as material, and we get the habit
of classifying them. Sometimes a leading question will
draw out a whole line of facts that a man himself would
never think of." He went on to put several queries,
and it was from Lapham's answers that he generalised the
history of his childhood. "Mr. Lapham, although he did
not dwell on his boyish trials and struggles, spoke of them
with deep feeling and an abiding sense of their reality."
This was what he added in the interview, and by the time
he had got Lapham past the period where risen Americans
are all pathetically alike in their narrow circumstances,
their sufferings, and their aspirations, he had beguiled him
into forgetfulness of the check he had received, and had
him talking again in perfect enjoyment of his autobiography.

"Yes, sir," said Lapham, in a strain which Bartley was
careful not to interrupt again, "a man never sees all
that his mother has been to him till it's too late to let
her know that he sees it. Why, my mother--" he stopped.
"It gives me a lump in the throat," he said apologetically,
with an attempt at a laugh. Then he went on: "She
was a little frail thing, not bigger than a good-sized
intermediate school-girl; but she did the whole work
of a family of boys, and boarded the hired men besides.
She cooked, swept, washed, ironed, made and mended
from daylight till dark--and from dark till daylight,
I was going to say; for I don't know how she got any
time for sleep. But I suppose she did. She got time
to go to church, and to teach us to read the Bible,
and to misunderstand it in the old way. She was GOOD.
But it ain't her on her knees in church that comes back
to me so much like the sight of an angel as her on her knees
before me at night, washing my poor, dirty little feet,
that I'd run bare in all day, and making me decent for bed.
There were six of us boys; it seems to me we were all
of a size; and she was just so careful with all of us.
I can feel her hands on my feet yet!" Bartley looked at
Lapham's No. 10 boots, and softly whistled through his teeth.
"We were patched all over; but we wa'n't ragged.
I don't know how she got through it. She didn't seem
to think it was anything; and I guess it was no more
than my father expected of her. HE worked like a horse
in doors and out--up at daylight, feeding the stock,
and groaning round all day with his rheumatism, but not

Bartley hid a yawn over his note-book, and probably,
if he could have spoken his mind, he would have suggested
to Lapham that he was not there for the purpose of
interviewing his ancestry. But Bartley had learned
to practise a patience with his victims which he did
not always feel, and to feign an interest in their
digressions till he could bring them up with a round turn.

"I tell you," said Lapham, jabbing the point of his penknife
into the writing-pad on the desk before him, "when I hear
women complaining nowadays that their lives are stunted
and empty, I want to tell 'em about my MOTHER'S life.
I could paint it out for 'em."

Bartley saw his opportunity at the word paint, and cut in.
"And you say, Mr. Lapham, that you discovered this mineral
paint on the old farm yourself?"

Lapham acquiesced in the return to business. "I didn't
discover it," he said scrupulously. "My father found
it one day, in a hole made by a tree blowing down.
There it was, lying loose in the pit, and sticking to the
roots that had pulled up a big, cake of dirt with 'em. I
don't know what give him the idea that there was money
in it, but he did think so from the start. I guess,
if they'd had the word in those days, they'd considered
him pretty much of a crank about it. He was trying
as long as he lived to get that paint introduced;
but he couldn't make it go. The country was so poor they
couldn't paint their houses with anything; and father hadn't
any facilities. It got to be a kind of joke with us;
and I guess that paint-mine did as much as any one thing
to make us boys clear out as soon as we got old enough.
All my brothers went West, and took up land; but I
hung on to New England and I hung on to the old farm,
not because the paint-mine was on it, but because the
old house was--and the graves. Well," said Lapham,
as if unwilling to give himself too much credit,
"there wouldn't been any market for it, anyway. You can go
through that part of the State and buy more farms than you
can shake a stick at for less money than it cost to build
the barns on 'em. Of course, it's turned out a good thing.
I keep the old house up in good shape, and we spend a month
or so there every summer. M' wife kind of likes it,
and the girls. Pretty place; sightly all round it.
I've got a force of men at work there the whole time,
and I've got a man and his wife in the house. Had a
family meeting there last year; the whole connection from
out West. There!" Lapham rose from his seat and took
down a large warped, unframed photograph from the top
of his desk, passing his hand over it, and then blowing
vigorously upon it, to clear it of the dust. "There we are,
ALL of us."

"I don't need to look twice at YOU," said Bartley,
putting his finger on one of the heads.

"Well, that's Bill," said Lapham, with a gratified laugh.
"He's about as brainy as any of us, I guess. He's one
of their leading lawyers, out Dubuque way; been judge
of the Common Pleas once or twice. That's his son--just
graduated at Yale--alongside of my youngest girl.
Good-looking chap, ain't he?"

"SHE'S a good-looking chap," said Bartley, with prompt
irreverence. He hastened to add, at the frown which
gathered between Lapham's eyes, "What a beautiful creature
she is! What a lovely, refined, sensitive face! And she looks GOOD, too."

"She is good," said the father, relenting.

"And, after all, that's about the best thing in a woman,"
said the potential reprobate. "If my wife wasn't good
enough to keep both of us straight, I don't know what
would become of me." "My other daughter," said Lapham,
indicating a girl with eyes that showed large, and a face
of singular gravity. "Mis' Lapham," he continued,
touching his wife's effigy with his little finger.
"My brother Willard and his family--farm at Kankakee.
Hazard Lapham and his wife--Baptist preacher in Kansas.
Jim and his three girls--milling business at Minneapolis.
Ben and his family--practising medicine in Fort Wayne."

The figures were clustered in an irregular group
in front of an old farm-house, whose original ugliness
had been smartened up with a coat of Lapham's
own paint, and heightened with an incongruous piazza.
The photographer had not been able to conceal the fact
that they were all decent, honest-looking, sensible people,
with a very fair share of beauty among the young girls;
some of these were extremely pretty, in fact. He had put
them into awkward and constrained attitudes, of course;
and they all looked as if they had the instrument of torture
which photographers call a head-rest under their occiputs.
Here and there an elderly lady's face was a mere blur;
and some of the younger children had twitched
themselves into wavering shadows, and might have passed
for spirit-photographs of their own little ghosts.
It was the standard family-group photograph, in which most
Americans have figured at some time or other; and Lapham
exhibited a just satisfaction in it. "I presume,"
he mused aloud, as he put it back on top of his desk,
"that we sha'n't soon get together again, all of us."

"And you say," suggested Bartley, "that you stayed right
along on the old place, when the rest cleared out West?"

"No o-o-o," said Lapham, with a long, loud drawl;
"I cleared out West too, first off. Went to Texas.
Texas was all the cry in those days. But I got enough
of the Lone Star in about three months, and I come back
with the idea that Vermont was good enough for me."

"Fatted calf business?" queried Bartley, with his pencil
poised above his note-book.

"I presume they were glad to see me," said Lapham,
with dignity. "Mother," he added gently, "died that winter,
and I stayed on with father. I buried him in the spring;
and then I came down to a little place called Lumberville,
and picked up what jobs I could get. I worked round at
the saw-mills, and I was ostler a while at the hotel--I
always DID like a good horse. Well, I WA'N'T exactly
a college graduate, and I went to school odd times.
I got to driving the stage after while, and by and
by I BOUGHT the stage and run the business myself.
Then I hired the tavern-stand, and--well to make a long
story short, then I got married. Yes," said Lapham,
with pride, "I married the school-teacher. We did
pretty well with the hotel, and my wife she was always
at me to paint up. Well, I put it off, and PUT it off,
as a man will, till one day I give in, and says I,
'Well, let's paint up. Why, Pert,'--m'wife's name's
Persis,--'I've got a whole paint-mine out on the farm.
Let's go out and look at it.' So we drove out. I'd let
the place for seventy-five dollars a year to a shif'less
kind of a Kanuck that had come down that way; and I'd
hated to see the house with him in it; but we drove out
one Saturday afternoon, and we brought back about a bushel
of the stuff in the buggy-seat, and I tried it crude, and I
tried it burnt; and I liked it. M'wife she liked it too.
There wa'n't any painter by trade in the village, and I
mixed it myself. Well, sir, that tavern's got that coat
of paint on it yet, and it hain't ever had any other,
and I don't know's it ever will. Well, you know,
I felt as if it was a kind of harumscarum experiment,
all the while; and I presume I shouldn't have tried it
but I kind of liked to do it because father'd always
set so much store by his paint-mine. And when I'd got
the first coat on,"--Lapham called it CUT,--"I presume I
must have set as much as half an hour; looking at it and
thinking how he would have enjoyed it. I've had my share
of luck in this world, and I ain't a-going to complain
on my OWN account, but I've noticed that most things get
along too late for most people. It made me feel bad,
and it took all the pride out my success with the paint,
thinking of father. Seemed to me I might 'a taken more
interest in it when he was by to see; but we've got to
live and learn. Well, I called my wife out,--I'd tried
it on the back of the house, you know,--and she left
her dishes,--I can remember she came out with her sleeves
rolled up and set down alongside of me on the trestle,--
and says I, 'What do you think, Persis?' And says she,
'Well, you hain't got a paint-mine, Silas Lapham;
you've got a GOLD-mine.' She always was just so enthusiastic
about things. Well, it was just after two or three
boats had burnt up out West, and a lot of lives lost,
and there was a great cry about non-inflammable paint,
and I guess that was what was in her mind. 'Well, I
guess it ain't any gold-mine, Persis,' says I; 'but I
guess it IS a paint-mine. I'm going to have it analysed,
and if it turns out what I think it is, I'm going
to work it. And if father hadn't had such a long name,
I should call it the Nehemiah Lapham Mineral Paint.
But, any rate, every barrel of it, and every keg,
and every bottle, and every package, big or little,
has got to have the initials and figures N.L.f. 1835,
S.L.t. 1855, on it. Father found it in 1835, and I tried it
in 1855.'"

"'S.T.--1860--X.' business," said Bartley.

"Yes," said Lapham, "but I hadn't heard of Plantation
Bitters then, and I hadn't seen any of the fellow's labels.
I set to work and I got a man down from Boston; and I
carried him out to the farm, and he analysed it--made
a regular Job of it. Well, sir, we built a kiln, and we
kept a lot of that paint-ore red-hot for forty-eight hours;
kept the Kanuck and his family up, firing. The presence
of iron in the ore showed with the magnet from the start;
and when he came to test it, he found out that it
contained about seventy-five per cent. of the peroxide
of iron."

Lapham pronounced the scientific phrases with a sort
of reverent satisfaction, as if awed through his pride
by a little lingering uncertainty as to what peroxide was.
He accented it as if it were purr-ox-EYED; and Bartley
had to get him to spell it.

"Well, and what then?" he asked, when he had made a note
of the percentage.

"What then?" echoed Lapham. "Well, then, the fellow set
down and told me, 'You've got a paint here,' says he,
'that's going to drive every other mineral paint out of
the market. Why' says he, 'it'll drive 'em right into
the Back Bay!' Of course, I didn't know what the Back Bay
was then, but I begun to open my eyes; thought I'd had 'em
open before, but I guess I hadn't. Says he, 'That paint
has got hydraulic cement in it, and it can stand fire
and water and acids;' he named over a lot of things.
Says he, 'It'll mix easily with linseed oil, whether you
want to use it boiled or raw; and it ain't a-going
to crack nor fade any; and it ain't a-going to scale.
When you've got your arrangements for burning it properly,
you're going to have a paint that will stand like the
everlasting hills, in every climate under the sun.'
Then he went into a lot of particulars, and I begun
to think he was drawing a long-bow, and meant to make his
bill accordingly. So I kept pretty cool; but the fellow's
bill didn't amount to anything hardly--said I might pay
him after I got going; young chap, and pretty easy;
but every word he said was gospel. Well, I ain't a-going
to brag up my paint; I don't suppose you came here to hear
me blow"

"Oh yes, I did," said Bartley. "That's what I want.
Tell all there is to tell, and I can boil it down afterward.
A man can't make a greater mistake with a reporter than
to hold back anything out of modesty. It may be the very
thing we want to know. What we want is the whole truth;
and more; we've got so much modesty of our own that we can
temper almost any statement."

Lapham looked as if he did not quite like this tone,
and he resumed a little more quietly. "Oh, there isn't
really very much more to say about the paint itself.
But you can use it for almost anything where a paint is wanted,
inside or out. It'll prevent decay, and it'll stop it,
after it's begun, in tin or iron. You can paint the inside
of a cistern or a bath-tub with it, and water won't hurt it;
and you can paint a steam-boiler with it, and heat won't.
You can cover a brick wall with it, or a railroad car,
or the deck of a steamboat, and you can't do a better thing
for either."

"Never tried it on the human conscience, I suppose,"
suggested Bartley.

"No, sir," replied Lapham gravely. "I guess you want to keep
that as free from paint as you can, if you want much use of it.
I never cared to try any of it on mine." Lapham suddenly
lifted his bulk up out of his swivel-chair, and led the
way out into the wareroom beyond the office partitions,
where rows and ranks of casks, barrels, and kegs stretched
dimly back to the rear of the building, and diffused
an honest, clean, wholesome smell of oil and paint.
They were labelled and branded as containing each so many
pounds of Lapham's Mineral Paint, and each bore the mystic
devices, N.L.f. 1835--S.L.t. 1855. "There!" said Lapham,
kicking one of the largest casks with the toe of his boot,
"that's about our biggest package; and here," he added,
laying his hand affectionately on the head of a very small keg,
as if it were the head of a child, which it resembled
in size, "this is the smallest. We used to put the paint
on the market dry, but now we grind every ounce of it
in oil--very best quality of linseed oil--and warrant it.
We find it gives more satisfaction. Now, come back
to the office, and I'll show you our fancy brands."

It was very cool and pleasant in that dim wareroom,
with the rafters showing overhead in a cloudy perspective,
and darkening away into the perpetual twilight at the rear
of the building; and Bartley had found an agreeable seat
on the head of a half-barrel of the paint, which he was
reluctant to leave. But he rose and followed the vigorous
lead of Lapham back to the office, where the sun of a
long summer afternoon was just beginning to glare in at
the window. On shelves opposite Lapham's desk were tin
cans of various sizes, arranged in tapering cylinders,
and showing, in a pattern diminishing toward the top,
the same label borne by the casks and barrels in the wareroom.
Lapham merely waved his hand toward these; but when Bartley,
after a comprehensive glance at them, gave his whole
attention to a row of clean, smooth jars, where different
tints of the paint showed through flawless glass,
Lapham smiled, and waited in pleased expectation.

"Hello!" said Bartley. "That's pretty!"

"Yes," assented Lapham, "it is rather nice.
It's our latest thing, and we find it takes with
customers first-rate. Look here!" he said, taking down
one of the jars, and pointing to the first line of the label.

Bartley read, "THE PERSIS BRAND," and then he looked
at Lapham and smiled.

"After HER, of course," said Lapham. "Got it up and
put the first of it on the market her last birthday.
She was pleased."

"I should think she might have been," said Bartley,
while he made a note of the appearance of the jars.

"I don't know about your mentioning it in your interview,"
said Lapham dubiously.

"That's going into the interview, Mr. Lapham, if nothing
else does. Got a wife myself, and I know just how you feel."
It was in the dawn of Bartley's prosperity on the Boston
Events, before his troubles with Marcia had seriously begun.

"Is that so?" said Lapham, recognising with a smile
another of the vast majority of married Americans;
a few underrate their wives, but the rest think them
supernal in intelligence and capability. "Well," he added,
"we must see about that. Where'd you say you lived?"

"We don't live; we board. Mrs. Nash, 13 Canary Place."

"Well, we've all got to commence that way,"
suggested Lapham consolingly.

"Yes; but we've about got to the end of our string.
I expect to be under a roof of my own on Clover Street
before long. I suppose," said Bartley, returning to business,
"that you didn't let the grass grow under your feet much
after you found out what was in your paint-mine?"

"No, sir," answered Lapham, withdrawing his eyes from a long
stare at Bartley, in which he had been seeing himself
a young man again, in the first days of his married life.
"I went right back to Lumberville and sold out everything,
and put all I could rake and scrape together into paint.
And Mis' Lapham was with me every time. No hang back
about HER. I tell you she was a WOMAN!"

Bartley laughed. "That's the sort most of us marry."

"No, we don't," said Lapham. "Most of us marry silly
little girls grown up to LOOK like women."

"Well, I guess that's about so," assented Bartley,
as if upon second thought.

"If it hadn't been for her," resumed Lapham, "the paint
wouldn't have come to anything. I used to tell her it
wa'n't the seventy-five per cent. of purr-ox-eyed
of iron in the ORE that made that paint go; it was
the seventy-five per cent. of purr-ox-eyed of iron in HER."

"Good!" cried Bartley. "I'll tell Marcia that."

"In less'n six months there wa'n't a board-fence, nor
a bridge-girder, nor a dead wall, nor a barn, nor a face
of rock in that whole region that didn't have 'Lapham's
Mineral Paint--Specimen' on it in the three colours we begun
by making." Bartley had taken his seat on the window-sill,
and Lapham, standing before him, now put up his huge
foot close to Bartley's thigh; neither of them minded that.

"I've heard a good deal of talk about that S.T.--1860--
X. man, and the stove-blacking man, and the kidney-cure man,
because they advertised in that way; and I've read articles
about it in the papers; but I don't see where the joke
comes in, exactly. So long as the people that own the barns
and fences don't object, I don't see what the public has
got to do with it. And I never saw anything so very sacred
about a big rock, along a river or in a pasture, that it
wouldn't do to put mineral paint on it in three colours.
I wish some of the people that talk about the landscape,
and WRITE about it, had to bu'st one of them rocks OUT
of the landscape with powder, or dig a hole to bury it in,
as we used to have to do up on the farm; I guess they'd
sing a little different tune about the profanation
of scenery. There ain't any man enjoys a sightly bit
of nature--a smooth piece of interval with half a dozen
good-sized wine-glass elms in it--more than I do.
But I ain't a-going to stand up for every big ugly rock
I come across, as if we were all a set of dumn Druids.
I say the landscape was made for man, and not man for
the landscape."

"Yes," said Bartley carelessly; "it was made for the
stove-polish man and the kidney-cure man."

"It was made for any man that knows how to use it,"
Lapham returned, insensible to Bartley's irony.
"Let 'em go and live with nature in the WINTER, up there
along the Canada line, and I guess they'll get enough
of her for one while. Well--where was I?"

"Decorating the landscape," said Bartley.

"Yes, sir; I started right there at Lumberville,
and it give the place a start too. You won't find it
on the map now; and you won't find it in the gazetteer.
I give a pretty good lump of money to build a town-hall,
about five years back, and the first meeting they held
in it they voted to change the name,--Lumberville WA'N'T
a name,--and it's Lapham now."

"Isn't it somewhere up in that region that they get
the old Brandon red?" asked Bartley.

"We're about ninety miles from Brandon. The Brandon's
a good paint," said Lapham conscientiously. "Like to show
you round up at our place some odd time, if you get off."

"Thanks. I should like it first-rate. WORKS there?"

"Yes; works there. Well, sir, just about the time I
got started, the war broke out; and it knocked my paint
higher than a kite. The thing dropped perfectly dead.
I presume that if I'd had any sort of influence, I might
have got it into Government hands, for gun-carriages
and army wagons, and may be on board Government vessels.
But I hadn't, and we had to face the music. I was about
broken-hearted, but m'wife she looked at it another way.
'I guess it's a providence,' says she. 'Silas, I guess
you've got a country that's worth fighting for. Any rate,
you better go out and give it a chance.' Well, sir, I went.
I knew she meant business. It might kill her to have
me go, but it would kill her sure if I stayed.
She was one of that kind. I went. Her last words was,
'I'll look after the paint, Si.' We hadn't but just one
little girl then,--boy'd died,--and Mis' Lapham's mother
was livin' with us; and I knew if times DID anyways come
up again, m'wife'd know just what to do. So I went.
I got through; and you can call me Colonel, if you want to.
Feel there!" Lapham took Bartley's thumb and forefinger
and put them on a bunch in his leg, just above the knee.
"Anything hard?"


Lapham nodded. "Gettysburg. That's my thermometer.
If it wa'n't for that, I shouldn't know enough to come
in when it rains."

Bartley laughed at a joke which betrayed some evidences
of wear. "And when you came back, you took hold
of the paint and rushed it."

"I took hold of the paint and rushed it--all I could,"
said Lapham, with less satisfaction than he had hitherto
shown in his autobiography. "But I found that I had got
back to another world. The day of small things was past,
and I don't suppose it will ever come again in this country.
My wife was at me all the time to take a partner--somebody
with capital; but I couldn't seem to bear the idea.
That paint was like my own blood to me. To have anybody
else concerned in it was like--well, I don't know what.
I saw it was the thing to do; but I tried to fight it off,
and I tried to joke it off. I used to say, 'Why didn't
you take a partner yourself, Persis, while I was away?'
And she'd say, 'Well, if you hadn't come back, I should,
Si.' Always DID like a joke about as well as any woman I
ever saw. Well, I had to come to it. I took a partner."
Lapham dropped the bold blue eyes with which he had been
till now staring into Bartley's face, and the reporter
knew that here was a place for asterisks in his interview,
if interviews were faithful. "He had money enough,"
continued Lapham, with a suppressed sigh; "but he didn't know
anything about paint. We hung on together for a year or two.
And then we quit."

"And he had the experience," suggested Bartley,
with companionable ease.

"I had some of the experience too," said Lapham,
with a scowl; and Bartley divined, through the freemasonry
of all who have sore places in their memories, that this
was a point which he must not touch again.

"And since that, I suppose, you've played it alone."

"I've played it alone."

"You must ship some of this paint of yours to foreign countries,
Colonel?" suggested Bartley, putting on a professional air.

"We ship it to all parts of the world. It goes to South America,
lots of it. It goes to Australia, and it goes to India,
and it goes to China, and it goes to the Cape of Good Hope.
It'll stand any climate. Of course, we don't export
these fancy brands much. They're for home use. But we're
introducing them elsewhere. Here." Lapham pulled open
a drawer, and showed Bartley a lot of labels in different
languages--Spanish, French, German, and Italian.
"We expect to do a good business in all those countries.
We've got our agencies in Cadiz now, and in Paris,
and in Hamburg, and in Leghorn. It's a thing that's bound
to make its way. Yes, sir. Wherever a man has got a ship,
or a bridge, or a lock, or a house, or a car, or a fence,
or a pig-pen anywhere in God's universe to paint, that's the
paint for him, and he's bound to find it out sooner or later.
You pass a ton of that paint dry through a blast-furnace,
and you'll get a quarter of a ton of pig-iron. I believe
in my paint. I believe it's a blessing to the world.
When folks come in, and kind of smell round, and ask me
what I mix it with, I always say, 'Well, in the first place,
I mix it with FAITH, and after that I grind it up
with the best quality of boiled linseed oil that money
will buy.'"

Lapham took out his watch and looked at it, and Bartley
perceived that his audience was drawing to a close.
"'F you ever want to run down and take a look at our works,
pass you over the road,"--he called it RUD--"and it sha'n't cost
you a cent." "Well, may be I shall, sometime," said Bartley.
"Good afternoon, Colonel."

"Good afternoon. Or--hold on! My horse down there yet,
William?" he called to the young man in the counting-room
who had taken his letter at the beginning of the interview.
"Oh! All right!" he added, in response to something
the young man said.

"Can't I set you down somewhere, Mr. Hubbard? I've got
my horse at the door, and I can drop you on my way home.
I'm going to take Mis' Lapham to look at a house I'm driving
piles for, down on the New Land."

"Don't care if I do," said Bartley.

Lapham put on a straw hat, gathered up some papers lying
on his desk, pulled down its rolling cover, turned the
key in it, and gave the papers to an extremely handsome
young woman at one of the desks in the outer office.
She was stylishly dressed, as Bartley saw, and her smooth,
yellow hair was sculpturesquely waved over a low,
white forehead. "Here," said Lapham, with the same
prompt gruff kindness that he had used in addressing
the young man, "I want you should put these in shape,
and give me a type-writer copy to-morrow."

"What an uncommonly pretty girl!" said Bartley, as they
descended the rough stairway and found their way out to
the street, past the dangling rope of a block and tackle
wandering up into the cavernous darkness overhead.

"She does her work," said Lapham shortly.

Bartley mounted to the left side of the open buggy standing at
the curb-stone, and Lapham, gathering up the hitching-weight,
slid it under the buggy-seat and mounted beside him.

"No chance to speed a horse here, of course," said Lapham,
while the horse with a spirited gentleness picked her way,
with a high, long action, over the pavement of the street.
The streets were all narrow, and most of them crooked,
in that quarter of the town; but at the end of one
the spars of a vessel pencilled themselves delicately
against the cool blue of the afternoon sky. The air
was full of a smell pleasantly compounded of oakum,
of leather, and of oil. It was not the busy season,
and they met only two or three trucks heavily straggling
toward the wharf with their long string teams; but the
cobble-stones of the pavement were worn with the dint of
ponderous wheels, and discoloured with iron-rust from them;
here and there, in wandering streaks over its surface,
was the grey stain of the salt water with which the street
had been sprinkled.

After an interval of some minutes, which both men
spent in looking round the dash-board from opposite
sides to watch the stride of the horse, Bartley said,
with a light sigh, "I had a colt once down in Maine
that stepped just like that mare."

"Well!" said Lapham, sympathetically recognising the
bond that this fact created between them. "Well, now,
I tell you what you do. You let me come for you 'most
any afternoon, now, and take you out over the Milldam,
and speed this mare a little. I'd like to show you what
this mare can do. Yes, I would."

"All right," answered Bartley; "I'll let you know
my first day off."

"Good," cried Lapham.

"Kentucky?" queried Bartley.

"No, sir. I don't ride behind anything but Vermont; never did.
Touch of Morgan, of course; but you can't have much Morgan
in a horse if you want speed. Hambletonian mostly.
Where'd you say you wanted to get out?"

"I guess you may put me down at the Events Office,
just round the corner here. I've got to write up this
interview while it's fresh."

"All right," said Lapham, impersonally assenting
to Bartley's use of him as material.

He had not much to complain of in Bartley's treatment,
unless it was the strain of extravagant compliment which
it involved. But the flattery was mainly for the paint,
whose virtues Lapham did not believe could be overstated,
and himself and his history had been treated with as much
respect as Bartley was capable of showing any one.
He made a very picturesque thing of the discovery of the
paint-mine. "Deep in the heart of the virgin forests
of Vermont, far up toward the line of the Canadian snows,
on a desolate mountain-side, where an autumnal storm had done
its wild work, and the great trees, strewn hither and thither,
bore witness to its violence, Nehemiah Lapham discovered,
just forty years ago, the mineral which the alchemy
of his son's enterprise and energy has transmuted
into solid ingots of the most precious of metals.
The colossal fortune of Colonel Silas Lapham lay at the
bottom of a hole which an uprooted tree had dug for him,
and which for many years remained a paint-mine of no more
appreciable value than a soap-mine."

Here Bartley had not been able to forego another grin;
but he compensated for it by the high reverence with which
he spoke of Colonel Lapham's record during the war of the
rebellion, and of the motives which impelled him to turn aside
from an enterprise in which his whole heart was engaged, and
take part in the struggle. "The Colonel bears embedded in the
muscle of his right leg a little memento of the period in the
shape of a minie-ball, which he jocularly referred to as his
thermometer, and which relieves him from the necessity of
reading 'The Probabilities' in his morning paper. This saves
him just so much time; and for a man who, as he said, has not a
moment of waste time on him anywhere, five minutes a day are
something in the course of a year. Simple, clear, bold, and
straightforward in mind and action, Colonel Silas Lapham, with
a prompt comprehensiveness and a never-failing business
sagacity, is, in the best sense of that much-abused term, one
of nature's noblemen, to the last inch of his five eleven and a
half. His life affords an example of single-minded application
and unwavering perseverance which our young business men would
do well to emulate. There is nothing showy or meretricious
about the man. He believes in mineral paint, and he puts his
heart and soul into it. He makes it a religion; though we would
not imply that it IS his religion. Colonel Lapham is a regular
attendant at the Rev. Dr. Langworthy's church. He subscribes
liberally to the Associated Charities, and no good object or
worthy public enterprise fails to receive his support. He is
not now actively in politics, and his paint is not partisan;
but it is an open secret that he is, and always has been, a
staunch Republican. Without violating the sanctities of private
life, we cannot speak fully of various details which came out
in the free and unembarrassed interview which Colonel Lapham
accorded our representative. But we may say that the success of
which he is justly proud he is also proud to attribute in great
measure to the sympathy and energy of his wife--one of those
women who, in whatever walk of life, seem born to honour the
name of American Woman, and to redeem it from the national
reproach of Daisy Millerism. Of Colonel Lapham's family, we
will simply add that it consists of two young lady daughters.

"The subject of this very inadequate sketch is building
a house on the water side of Beacon Street, after designs
by one of our leading architectural firms, which,
when complete, will be one of the finest ornaments
of that exclusive avenue. It will, we believe, be ready
for the occupancy of the family sometime in the spring."

When Bartley had finished his article, which he did
with a good deal of inward derision, he went home
to Marcia, still smiling over the thought of Lapham,
whose burly simplicity had peculiarly amused him.
"He regularly turned himself inside out to me," he said,
as he sat describing his interview to Marcia.

"Then I know you could make something nice out of it,"
said his wife; "and that will please Mr. Witherby."

"Oh yes, I've done pretty well; but I couldn't let myself
loose on him the way I wanted to. Confound the limitations
of decency, anyway! I should like to have told just
what Colonel Lapham thought of landscape advertising
in Colonel Lapham's own words. I'll tell you one thing,
Marsh: he had a girl there at one of the desks that you
wouldn't let ME have within gunshot of MY office.
Pretty? It ain't any name for it!" Marcia's eyes
began to blaze, and Bartley broke out into a laugh,
in which he arrested himself at sight of a formidable
parcel in the corner of the room.

"Hello! What's that?"

"Why, I don't know what it is," replied Marcia tremulously.
"A man brought it just before you came in, and I didn't
like to open it."

"Think it was some kind of infernal machine?" asked Bartley,
getting down on his knees to examine the package.
"MRS. B. Hubbard, heigh?" He cut the heavy hemp string
with his penknife. "We must look into this thing.
I should like to know who's sending packages to Mrs. Hubbard
in my absence." He unfolded the; wrappings of paper,
growing softer and finer inward, and presently pulled
out a handsome square glass jar, through which a crimson
mass showed richly. "The Persis Brand!" he yelled.
"I knew it!"

"Oh, what is it, Bartley?" quavered Marcia. Then,
courageously drawing a little nearer: "Is it some kind
of jam?" she implored. "Jam? No!" roared Bartley.
"It's PAINT! It's mineral paint--Lapham's paint!"

"Paint?" echoed Marcia, as she stood over him while he
stripped their wrappings from the jars which showed
the dark blue, dark green, light brown, dark brown,
and black, with the dark crimson, forming the gamut
of colour of the Lapham paint. "Don't TELL me it's
paint that I can use, Bartley!"

"Well, I shouldn't advise you to use much of it--all
at once," replied her husband. "But it's paint that you
can use in moderation."

Marcia cast her arms round his neck and kissed him.
"O Bartley, I think I'm the happiest girl in the world!
I was just wondering what I should do. There are places
in that Clover Street house that need touching up
so dreadfully. I shall be very careful. You needn't
be afraid I shall overdo. But, this just saves my life.
Did you BUY it, Bartley? You know we couldn't afford it,
and you oughtn't to have done it! And what does the Persis
Brand mean?"

"Buy it?" cried Bartley. "No! The old fool's sent it to
you as a present. You'd better wait for the facts before
you pitch into me for extravagance, Marcia. Persis is
the name of his wife; and he named it after her because
it's his finest brand. You'll see it in my interview.
Put it on the market her last birthday for a surprise
to her."

"What old fool?" faltered Marcia.

"Why, Lapham--the mineral paint man."

"Oh, what a good man!" sighed Marcia from the bottom
of her soul. "Bartley! you WON'T make fun of him as you
do of some of those people? WILL you?"

"Nothing that HE'LL ever find out," said Bartley,
getting up and brushing off the carpet-lint from his knees.


AFTER dropping Bartley Hubbard at the Events building,
Lapham drove on down Washington Street to Nankeen Square
at the South End, where he had lived ever since the
mistaken movement of society in that direction ceased.
He had not built, but had bought very cheap of a terrified
gentleman of good extraction who discovered too late that
the South End was not the thing, and who in the eagerness
of his flight to the Back Bay threw in his carpets and
shades for almost nothing. Mrs. Lapham was even better
satisfied with their bargain than the Colonel himself,
and they had lived in Nankeen Square for twelve years.
They had seen the saplings planted in the pretty oval
round which the houses were built flourish up into sturdy
young trees, and their two little girls in the same period
had grown into young ladies; the Colonel's tough frame had
expanded into the bulk which Bartley's interview indicated;
and Mrs. Lapham, while keeping a more youthful outline,
showed the sharp print of the crow's-foot at the corners
of her motherly eyes, and certain slight creases in
her wholesome cheeks. The fact that they lived in an
unfashionable neighbourhood was something that they had
never been made to feel to their personal disadvantage,
and they had hardly known it till the summer before
this story opens, when Mrs. Lapham and her daughter
Irene had met some other Bostonians far from Boston,
who made it memorable. They were people whom chance had
brought for the time under a singular obligation to the
Lapham ladies, and they were gratefully recognisant of it.
They had ventured--a mother and two daughters--as far
as a rather wild little Canadian watering-place on the
St. Lawrence, below Quebec, and had arrived some days
before their son and brother was expected to join them.
Two of their trunks had gone astray, and on the night
of their arrival the mother was taken violently ill.
Mrs. Lapham came to their help, with her skill as nurse,
and with the abundance of her own and her daughter's wardrobe,
and a profuse, single-hearted kindness. When a doctor could
be got at, he said that but for Mrs. Lapham's timely care,
the lady would hardly have lived. He was a very effusive
little Frenchman, and fancied he was saying something very
pleasant to everybody.

A certain intimacy inevitably followed, and when the
son came he was even more grateful than the others.
Mrs. Lapham could not quite understand why he should
be as attentive to her as to Irene; but she compared
him with other young men about the place, and thought
him nicer than any of them. She had not the means
of a wider comparison; for in Boston, with all her
husband's prosperity, they had not had a social life.
Their first years there were given to careful getting
on Lapham's part, and careful saving on his wife's.
Suddenly the money began to come so abundantly that she
need not save; and then they did not know what to do
with it. A certain amount could be spent on horses,
and Lapham spent it; his wife spent on rich and rather
ugly clothes and a luxury of household appointments.
Lapham had not yet reached the picture-buying stage
of the rich man's development, but they decorated their
house with the costliest and most abominable frescoes;
they went upon journeys, and lavished upon cars and hotels;
they gave with both hands to their church and to all the
charities it brought them acquainted with; but they did
not know how to spend on society. Up to a certain period
Mrs. Lapham had the ladies of her neighbourhood in to tea,
as her mother had done in the country in her younger days.
Lapham's idea of hospitality was still to bring a
heavy-buying customer home to pot-luck; neither of them
imagined dinners.

Their two girls had gone to the public schools, where they
had not got on as fast as some of the other girls;
so that they were a year behind in graduating from the
grammar-school, where Lapham thought that they had got
education enough. His wife was of a different mind;
she would have liked them to go to some private school
for their finishing. But Irene did not care for study;
she preferred house-keeping, and both the sisters were
afraid of being snubbed by the other girls, who were of
a different sort from the girls of the grammar-school;
these were mostly from the parks and squares, like themselves.
It ended in their going part of a year. But the elder
had an odd taste of her own for reading, and she took some
private lessons, and read books out of the circulating library;
the whole family were amazed at the number she read,
and rather proud of it.

They were not girls who embroidered or abandoned
themselves to needle-work. Irene spent her abundant
leisure in shopping for herself and her mother, of whom
both daughters made a kind of idol, buying her caps
and laces out of their pin-money, and getting her dresses
far beyond her capacity to wear. Irene dressed herself
very stylishly, and spent hours on her toilet every day.
Her sister had a simpler taste, and, if she had done
altogether as she liked, might even have slighted dress.
They all three took long naps every day, and sat hours
together minutely discussing what they saw out of the window.
In her self-guided search for self-improvement, the elder
sister went to many church lectures on a vast variety
of secular subjects, and usually came home with a comic
account of them, and that made more matter of talk for the
whole family. She could make fun of nearly everything;
Irene complained that she scared away the young men whom
they got acquainted with at the dancing-school sociables.
They were, perhaps, not the wisest young men.

The girls had learned to dance at Papanti's; but they had
not belonged to the private classes. They did not even know
of them, and a great gulf divided them from those who did.
Their father did not like company, except such as came
informally in their way; and their mother had remained
too rustic to know how to attract it in the sophisticated
city fashion. None of them had grasped the idea of
European travel; but they had gone about to mountain
and sea-side resorts, the mother and the two girls,
where they witnessed the spectacle which such resorts
present throughout New England, of multitudes of girls,
lovely, accomplished, exquisitely dressed, humbly glad
of the presence of any sort of young man; but the Laphams
had no skill or courage to make themselves noticed, far less
courted by the solitary invalid, or clergyman, or artist.
They lurked helplessly about in the hotel parlours,
looking on and not knowing how to put themselves forward.
Perhaps they did not care a great deal to do so.
They had not a conceit of themselves, but a sort of content
in their own ways that one may notice in certain families.
The very strength of their mutual affection was a barrier
to worldly knowledge; they dressed for one another;
they equipped their house for their own satisfaction;
they lived richly to themselves, not because they were selfish,
but because they did not know how to do otherwise.
The elder daughter did not care for society, apparently.
The younger, who was but three years younger, was not yet
quite old enough to be ambitious of it. With all her
wonderful beauty, she had an innocence almost vegetable.
When her beauty, which in its immaturity was crude and harsh,
suddenly ripened, she bloomed and glowed with the unconsciousness
of a flower; she not merely did not feel herself admired,
but hardly knew herself discovered. If she dressed well,
perhaps too well, it was because she had the instinct
of dress; but till she met this young man who was so nice
to her at Baie St. Paul, she had scarcely lived a detached,
individual life, so wholly had she depended on her mother
and her sister for her opinions, almost her sensations.
She took account of everything he did and said,
pondering it, and trying to make out exactly what he meant,
to the inflection of a syllable, the slightest movement
or gesture. In this way she began for the first time
to form ideas which she had not derived from her family,
and they were none the less her own because they were
often mistaken.

Some of the things that he partly said, partly looked,
she reported to her mother, and they talked them over,
as they did everything relating to these new acquaintances,
and wrought them into the novel point of view which
they were acquiring. When Mrs. Lapham returned home,
she submitted all the accumulated facts of the case,
and all her own conjectures, to her husband, and canvassed
them anew.

At first he was disposed to regard the whole affair as of
small importance, and she had to insist a little beyond
her own convictions in order to counteract his indifference.

"Well, I can tell you," she said, "that if you
think they were not the nicest people you ever saw,
you're mightily mistaken. They had about the best manners;
and they had been everywhere, and knew everything. I declare
it made me feel as if we had always lived in the backwoods.
I don't know but the mother and the daughters would have let
you feel so a little, if they'd showed out all they thought;
but they never did; and the son--well, I can't express it,
Silas! But that young man had about perfect ways."

"Seem struck up on Irene?" asked the Colonel.

"How can I tell? He seemed just about as much struck up
on me. Anyway, he paid me as much attention as he did her.
Perhaps it's more the way, now, to notice the mother than
it used to be."

Lapham ventured no conjecture, but asked, as he had
asked already, who the people were.

Mrs. Lapham repeated their name. Lapham nodded his head.
"Do you know them? What business is he in?"

"I guess he ain't in anything," said Lapham.

"They were very nice," said Mrs. Lapham impartially.

"Well, they'd ought to be," returned the Colonel.
"Never done anything else."

"They didn't seem stuck up," urged his wife.

"They'd no need to--with you. I could buy him and sell him,
twice over."

This answer satisfied Mrs. Lapham rather with the fact than
with her husband. "Well, I guess I wouldn't brag, Silas," she said.

In the winter the ladies of this family, who returned
to town very late, came to call on Mrs. Lapham.
They were again very polite. But the mother let drop,
in apology for their calling almost at nightfall,
that the coachman had not known the way exactly.

"Nearly all our friends are on the New Land or on the Hill."

There was a barb in this that rankled after the ladies
had gone; and on comparing notes with her daughter,
Mrs. Lapham found that a barb had been left to rankle
in her mind also.

"They said they had never been in this part of the town before."

Upon a strict search of her memory, Irene could not report
that the fact had been stated with anything like insinuation,
but it was that which gave it a more penetrating effect.

"Oh, well, of course," said Lapham, to whom these facts
were referred. "Those sort of people haven't got much
business up our way, and they don't come. It's a fair
thing all round. We don't trouble the Hill or the New
Land much."

"We know where they are," suggested his wife thoughtfully.

"Yes," assented the Colonel. "I know where they are.
I've got a lot of land over on the Back Bay."

"You have?" eagerly demanded his wife.

"Want me to build on it?" he asked in reply, with a
quizzical smile.

"I guess we can get along here for a while."

This was at night. In the morning Mrs. Lapham said--

"I suppose we ought to do the best we can for the children,
in every way."

"I supposed we always had," replied her husband.

"Yes, we have, according to our light."

"Have you got some new light?"

"I don't know as it's light. But if the girls are going
to keep on living in Boston and marry here, I presume
we ought to try to get them into society, some way;
or ought to do something."

"Well, who's ever done more for their children than we have?"
demanded Lapham, with a pang at the thought that he could
possibly have been out-done. "Don't they have everything
they want? Don't they dress just as you say? Don't you
go everywhere with 'em? Is there ever anything going
on that's worth while that they don't see it or hear
it? I don't know what you mean. Why don't you get them
into society? There's money enough!"

"There's got to be something besides money, I guess,"
said Mrs. Lapham, with a hopeless sigh. "I presume we
didn't go to work just the right way about their schooling.
We ought to have got them into some school where they'd
have got acquainted with city girls--girls who could help
them along.

Nearly everybody at Miss Smillie's was from some where else."

"Well, it's pretty late to think about that now,"
grumbled Lapham.

"And we've always gone our own way, and not looked
out for the future. We ought to have gone out more,
and had people come to the house. Nobody comes."

"Well, is that my fault? I guess nobody ever makes
people welcomer."

"We ought to have invited company more."

"Why don't you do it now? If it's for the girls, I don't
care if you have the house full all the while."

Mrs. Lapham was forced to a confession full of humiliation.
"I don't know who to ask."

"Well, you can't expect me to tell you."

"No; we're both country people, and we've kept our
country ways, and we don't, either of us, know what to do.
You've had to work so hard, and your luck was so long coming,
and then it came with such a rush, that we haven't had any
chance to learn what to do with it. It's just the same
with Irene's looks; I didn't expect she was ever going
to have any, she WAS such a plain child, and, all at once,
she's blazed out this way. As long as it was Pen that didn't
seem to care for society, I didn't give much mind to it.
But I can see it's going to be different with Irene.
I don't believe but what we're in the wrong neighbourhood."

"Well," said the Colonel, "there ain't a prettier lot on
the Back Bay than mine. It's on the water side of Beacon,
and it's twenty-eight feet wide and a hundred and fifty deep.
Let's build on it."

Mrs. Lapham was silent a while. "No," she said finally;
"we've always got along well enough here, and I guess we
better stay."

At breakfast she said casually: "Girls, how would you
like to have your father build on the New Land?"

The girls said they did not know. It was more convenient
to the horse-cars where they were.

Mrs. Lapham stole a look of relief at her husband,
and nothing more was said of the matter.

The mother of the family who had called upon Mrs. Lapham
brought her husband's cards, and when Mrs. Lapham returned
the visit she was in some trouble about the proper form
of acknowledging the civility. The Colonel had no card
but a business card, which advertised the principal
depot and the several agencies of the mineral paint;
and Mrs. Lapham doubted, till she wished to goodness
that she had never seen nor heard of those people,
whether to ignore her husband in the transaction altogether,
or to write his name on her own card. She decided
finally upon this measure, and she had the relief of not
finding the family at home. As far as she could judge,
Irene seemed to suffer a little disappointment from the fact.

For several months there was no communication between
the families. Then there came to Nankeen Square
a lithographed circular from the people on the Hill,
signed in ink by the mother, and affording Mrs. Lapham
an opportunity to subscribe for a charity of undeniable
merit and acceptability. She submitted it to her husband,
who promptly drew a cheque for five hundred dollars.

She tore it in two. "I will take a cheque
for a hundred, Silas," she said.

"Why?" he asked, looking up guiltily at her.

"Because a hundred is enough; and I don't want to show
off before them."

"Oh, I thought may be you did. Well, Pert," he added,
having satisfied human nature by the preliminary thrust,
"I guess you're about right. When do you want I should begin
to build on Beacon Street?" He handed her the new cheque,
where she stood over him, and then leaned back in his chair
and looked up at her.

"I don't want you should begin at all. What do
you mean, Silas?" She rested against the side of his desk.

"Well, I don't know as I mean anything. But shouldn't
you like to build? Everybody builds, at least once
in a lifetime."

"Where is your lot? They say it's unhealthy, over there."

Up to a certain point in their prosperity Mrs. Lapham
had kept strict account of all her husband's affairs;
but as they expanded, and ceased to be of the retail nature
with which women successfully grapple, the intimate knowledge
of them made her nervous. There was a period in which she
felt that they were being ruined, but the crash had not come;
and, since his great success, she had abandoned herself
to a blind confidence in her husband's judgment, which she
had hitherto felt needed her revision. He came and went,
day by day, unquestioned. He bought and sold and got gain.
She knew that he would tell her if ever things went wrong,
and he knew that she would ask him whenever she was anxious.

"It ain't unhealthy where I've bought," said Lapham,
rather enjoying her insinuation. "I looked after that
when I was trading; and I guess it's about as healthy
on the Back Bay as it is here, anyway. I got that lot
for you, Pert; I thought you'd want to build on the Back
Bay some day."

"Pshaw!" said Mrs. Lapham, deeply pleased inwardly,
but not going to show it, as she would have said.
"I guess you want to build there yourself." She insensibly
got a little nearer to her husband. They liked to talk
to each other in that blunt way; it is the New England way
of expressing perfect confidence and tenderness.

"Well, I guess I do," said Lapham, not insisting upon
the unselfish view of the matter. "I always did like
the water side of Beacon. There ain't a sightlier
place in the world for a house. And some day there's
bound to be a drive-way all along behind them houses,
between them and the water, and then a lot there is
going to be worth the gold that will cover it--COIN.
I've had offers for that lot, Pert, twice over what I give
for it. Yes, I have. Don't you want to ride over there
some afternoon with me and see it?" "I'm satisfied where
we be, Si," said Mrs. Lapham, recurring to the parlance
of her youth in her pathos at her husband's kindness.
She sighed anxiously, for she felt the trouble a woman
knows in view of any great change. They had often talked
of altering over the house in which they lived, but they
had never come to it; and they had often talked of building,
but it had always been a house in the country that they
had thought of. "I wish you had sold that lot."

"I hain't," said the colonel briefly.

"I don't know as I feel much like changing our way of living."

"Guess we could live there pretty much as we live here.
There's all kinds of people on Beacon Street; you mustn't
think they're all big-bugs. I know one party that lives in a
house he built to sell, and his wife don't keep any girl.
You can have just as much style there as you want, or just
as little. I guess we live as well as most of 'em now,
and set as good a table. And if you come to style,
I don't know as anybody has got more of a right to put it
on than what we have."

"Well, I don't want to build on Beacon Street, Si,"
said Mrs. Lapham gently.

"Just as you please, Persis. I ain't in any hurry to leave."

Mrs. Lapham stood flapping the cheque which she held
in her right hand against the edge of her left.

The Colonel still sat looking up at her face, and watching
the effect of the poison of ambition which he had artfully
instilled into her mind.

She sighed again--a yielding sigh. "What are you going
to do this afternoon?"

"I'm going to take a turn on the Brighton road,"
said the Colonel.

"I don't believe but what I should like to go along,"
said his wife.

"All right. You hain't ever rode behind that mare yet,
Pert, and I want you should see me let her out once.
They say the snow's all packed down already, and the going
is A 1."

At four o'clock in the afternoon, with a cold,
red winter sunset before them, the Colonel and his wife
were driving slowly down Beacon Street in the light,
high-seated cutter, where, as he said, they were a pretty
tight fit. He was holding the mare in till the time
came to speed her, and the mare was springily jolting
over the snow, looking intelligently from side to side,
and cocking this ear and that, while from her nostrils,
her head tossing easily, she blew quick, irregular whiffs
of steam.

"Gay, ain't she?" proudly suggested the Colonel.

"She IS gay," assented his wife.

They met swiftly dashing sleighs, and let them pass
on either hand, down the beautiful avenue narrowing
with an admirably even sky-line in the perspective.
They were not in a hurry. The mare jounced easily along,
and they talked of the different houses on either side
of the way. They had a crude taste in architecture,
and they admired the worst. There were women's faces at
many of the handsome windows, and once in a while a young
man on the pavement caught his hat suddenly from his head,
and bowed in response to some salutation from within.

"I don't think our girls would look very bad behind
one of those big panes," said the Colonel.

"No," said his wife dreamily.

"Where's the YOUNG man? Did he come with them?"

"No; he was to spend the winter with a friend of his that
has a ranch in Texas. I guess he's got to do something."

"Yes; gentlemaning as a profession has got to play out
in a generation or two."

Neither of them spoke of the lot, though Lapham knew
perfectly well what his wife had come with him for,
and she was aware that he knew it. The time came when he
brought the mare down to a walk, and then slowed up almost
to a stop, while they both turned their heads to the right
and looked at the vacant lot, through which showed the frozen
stretch of the Back Bay, a section of the Long Bridge,
and the roofs and smoke-stacks of Charlestown.

"Yes, it's sightly," said Mrs. Lapham, lifting her hand
from the reins, on which she had unconsciously laid it.

Lapham said nothing, but he let the mare out a little.

The sleighs and cutters were thickening round them.
On the Milldam it became difficult to restrict the mare
to the long, slow trot into which he let her break.
The beautiful landscape widened to right and left of them,
with the sunset redder and redder, over the low,
irregular hills before them. They crossed the Milldam
into Longwood; and here, from the crest of the first upland,
stretched two endless lines, in which thousands of cutters
went and came. Some of the drivers were already speeding
their horses, and these shot to and fro on inner lines,
between the slowly moving vehicles on either side
of the road. Here and there a burly mounted policeman,
bulging over the pommel of his M'Clellan saddle, jolted by,
silently gesturing and directing the course, and keeping
it all under the eye of the law. It was what Bartley
Hubbard called "a carnival of fashion and gaiety on the
Brighton road," in his account of it. But most of the
people in those elegant sleighs and cutters had so little
the air of the great world that one knowing it at all
must have wondered where they and their money came from;
and the gaiety of the men, at least, was expressed,
like that of Colonel Lapham, in a grim almost fierce,
alertness; the women wore an air of courageous apprehension.
At a certain point the Colonel said, "I'm going to let
her out, Pert," and he lifted and then dropped the reins
lightly on the mare's back.

She understood the signal, and, as an admirer said,
"she laid down to her work." Nothing in the immutable
iron of Lapham's face betrayed his sense of triumph
as the mare left everything behind her on the road.
Mrs. Lapham, if she felt fear, was too busy holding her
flying wraps about her, and shielding her face from the
scud of ice flung from the mare's heels, to betray it;
except for the rush of her feet, the mare was as silent
as the people behind her; the muscles of her back and
thighs worked more and more swiftly, like some mechanism
responding to an alien force, and she shot to the end
of the course, grazing a hundred encountered and rival
sledges in her passage, but unmolested by the policemen,
who probably saw that the mare and the Colonel knew
what they were about, and, at any rate, were not the sort
of men to interfere with trotting like that. At the end
of the heat Lapham drew her in, and turned off on a side
street into Brookline.

"Tell you what, Pert," he said, as if they had been quietly
jogging along, with time for uninterrupted thought since he
last spoke, "I've about made up my mind to build on that lot."

"All right, Silas," said Mrs. Lapham; "I suppose you
know what you're about. Don't build on it for me,
that's all."

When she stood in the hall at home, taking off her things,
she said to the girls, who were helping her, "Some day
your father will get killed with that mare."

"Did he speed her?" asked Penelope, the elder.

She was named after her grandmother, who had in her turn
inherited from another ancestress the name of the Homeric
matron whose peculiar merits won her a place even among
the Puritan Faiths, Hopes, Temperances, and Prudences.
Penelope was the girl whose odd serious face had struck
Bartley Hubbard in the photograph of the family group Lapham
showed him on the day of the interview. Her large eyes,
like her hair, were brown; they had the peculiar look of
near-sighted eyes which is called mooning; her complexion
was of a dark pallor.

Her mother did not reply to a question which might be
considered already answered. "He says he's going to build
on that lot of his," she next remarked, unwinding the long
veil which she had tied round her neck to hold her
bonnet on. She put her hat and cloak on the hall table,
to be carried upstairs later, and they all went in to tea:
creamed oysters, birds, hot biscuit, two kinds of cake,
and dishes of stewed and canned fruit and honey.
The women dined alone at one, and the Colonel at the same
hour down-town. But he liked a good hot meal when he
got home in the evening. The house flared with gas;
and the Colonel, before he sat down, went about shutting
the registers, through which a welding heat came voluming
up from the furnace.

"I'll be the death of that darkey YET," he said,
"if he don't stop making on such a fire. The only way
to get any comfort out of your furnace is to take care
of it yourself."

"Well," answered his wife from behind the teapot, as he
sat down at table with this threat, "there's nothing
to prevent you, Si. And you can shovel the snow too,
if you want to--till you get over to Beacon Street, anyway."

"I guess I can keep my own sidewalk on Beacon Street clean,
if I take the notion."

"I should like to see you at it," retorted his wife.

"Well, you keep a sharp lookout, and may be you will."

Their taunts were really expressions of affectionate pride
in each other. They liked to have it, give and take,
that way, as they would have said, right along.

"A man can be a man on Beacon Street as well as anywhere,
I guess."

"Well, I'll do the wash, as I used to in Lumberville,"
said Mrs. Lapham. "I presume you'll let me have
set tubs, Si. You know I ain't so young any more."
She passed Irene a cup of Oolong tea,--none of them
had a sufficiently cultivated palate for Sou-chong,--and
the girl handed it to her father. "Papa," she asked,
"you don't really mean that you're going to build over there?"

"Don't I? You wait and see," said the Colonel, stirring his tea.

"I don't believe you do," pursued the girl.

"Is that so? I presume you'd hate to have me.
Your mother does." He said DOOS, of course.

Penelope took the word. "I go in for it. I don't see
any use in not enjoying money, if you've got it to enjoy.
That's what it's for, I suppose; though you mightn't
always think so." She had a slow, quaint way of talking,
that seemed a pleasant personal modification of some
ancestral Yankee drawl, and her voice was low and cozy,
and so far from being nasal that it was a little hoarse.

"I guess the ayes has it, Pen," said her father.
"How would it do to let Irene and your mother stick
in the old place here, and us go into the new house?"
At times the Colonel's grammar failed him.

The matter dropped, and the Laphams lived on as before,
with joking recurrences to the house on the water side
of Beacon. The Colonel seemed less in earnest than any
of them about it; but that was his way, his girls said;
you never could tell when he really meant a thing.


TOWARD the end of the winter there came a newspaper,
addressed to Miss Irene Lapham; it proved to be a
Texas newspaper, with a complimentary account of the ranch
of the Hon. Loring G. Stanton, which the representative
of the journal had visited.

"It must be his friend," said Mrs. Lapham, to whom her
daughter brought the paper; "the one he's staying with."

The girl did not say anything, but she carried the
paper to her room, where she scanned every line of it
for another name. She did not find it, but she cut
the notice out and stuck it into the side of her mirror,
where she could read it every morning when she brushed
her hair, and the last thing at night when she looked
at herself in the glass just before turning off the gas.
Her sister often read it aloud, standing behind her
and rendering it with elocutionary effects.

"The first time I ever heard of a love-letter in the form
of a puff to a cattle-ranch. But perhaps that's the style
on the Hill."

Mrs. Lapham told her husband of the arrival of the paper,
treating the fact with an importance that he refused to see
in it.

"How do you know the fellow sent it, anyway?" he demanded.

"Oh, I know he did."

"I don't see why he couldn't write to 'Rene, if he really
meant anything."

"Well, I guess that wouldn't be their way," said Mrs. Lapham;
she did not at all know what their way would be.

When the spring opened Colonel Lapham showed that he had
been in earnest about building on the New Land. His idea
of a house was a brown-stone front, four stories high,
and a French roof with an air-chamber above. Inside,
there was to be a reception-room on the street and a
dining-room back. The parlours were to be on the second floor,
and finished in black walnut or party-coloured paint.
The chambers were to be on the three floors above,
front and rear, with side-rooms over the front door.
Black walnut was to be used everywhere except in the attic,
which was to be painted and grained to look like
black walnut. The whole was to be very high-studded,
and there were to be handsome cornices and elaborate
centre-pieces throughout, except, again, in the attic.

These ideas he had formed from the inspection of many
new buildings which he had seen going up, and which he
had a passion for looking into. He was confirmed in his
ideas by a master builder who had put up a great many
houses on the Back Bay as a speculation, and who told
him that if he wanted to have a house in the style,
that was the way to have it.

The beginnings of the process by which Lapham escaped
from the master builder and ended in the hands of an
architect are so obscure that it would be almost impossible
to trace them. But it all happened, and Lapham promptly
developed his ideas of black walnut finish, high studding,
and cornices. The architect was able to conceal the shudder
which they must have sent through him. He was skilful,
as nearly all architects are, in playing upon that simple
instrument Man. He began to touch Colonel Lapham's stops.

"Oh, certainly, have the parlours high-studded. But you've
seen some of those pretty old-fashioned country-houses,
haven't you, where the entrance-story is very low-studded?"
"Yes," Lapham assented.

"Well, don't you think something of that kind would have
a very nice effect? Have the entrance-story low-studded,
and your parlours on the next floor as high as you please.
Put your little reception-room here beside the door, and get
the whole width of your house frontage for a square hall,
and an easy low-tread staircase running up three sides of it.
I'm sure Mrs. Lapham would find it much pleasanter."
The architect caught toward him a scrap of paper lying on
the table at which they were sitting and sketched his idea.
"Then have your dining-room behind the hall, looking on
the water."

He glanced at Mrs. Lapham, who said, "Of course,"
and the architect went on--

"That gets you rid of one of those long, straight, ugly
staircases,"--until that moment Lapham had thought a long,
straight staircase the chief ornament of a house,--"and
gives you an effect of amplitude and space."

"That's so!" said Mrs. Lapham. Her husband merely made
a noise in his throat.

"Then, were you thinking of having your parlours together,
connected by folding doors?" asked the architect deferentially.

"Yes, of course," said Lapham. "They're always so,
ain't they?"

"Well, nearly," said the architect. "I was wondering
how would it do to make one large square room at the front,
taking the whole breadth of the house, and, with this
hall-space between, have a music-room back for the
young ladies?"

Lapham looked helplessly at his wife, whose quicker
apprehension had followed the architect's pencil
with instant sympathy. "First-rate!" she cried.

The Colonel gave way. "I guess that would do.
It'll be kind of odd, won't it?"

"Well, I don't know," said the architect. "Not so odd,
I hope, as the other thing will be a few years from now."
He went on to plan the rest of the house, and he showed
himself such a master in regard to all the practical
details that Mrs. Lapham began to feel a motherly affection
for the young man, and her husband could not deny in his
heart that the fellow seemed to understand his business.
He stopped walking about the room, as he had begun to
do when the architect and Mrs. Lapham entered into the
particulars of closets, drainage, kitchen arrangements,
and all that, and came back to the table. "I presume,"
he said, "you'll have the drawing-room finished in
black walnut?"

"Well, yes," replied the architect, "if you like.
But some less expensive wood can be made just as effective
with paint. Of course you can paint black walnut too."

"Paint it?" gasped the Colonel.

"Yes," said the architect quietly. "White, or a little
off white."

Lapham dropped the plan he had picked up from the table.
His wife made a little move toward him of consolation
or support.

"Of course," resumed the architect, "I know there has been
a great craze for black walnut. But it's an ugly wood;
and for a drawing-room there is really nothing like
white paint. We should want to introduce a little gold
here and there. Perhaps we might run a painted frieze round
under the cornice--garlands of roses on a gold ground;
it would tell wonderfully in a white room."

The Colonel returned less courageously to the charge.
"I presume you'll want Eastlake mantel-shelves and tiles?"
He meant this for a sarcastic thrust at a prevailing foible
of the profession.

"Well, no," gently answered the architect. "I was
thinking perhaps a white marble chimney-piece, treated
in the refined Empire style, would be the thing for that room."

"White marble!" exclaimed the Colonel. "I thought
that had gone out long ago."

"Really beautiful things can't go out. They may
disappear for a little while, but they must come back.
It's only the ugly things that stay out after they've
had their day."

Lapham could only venture very modestly, "Hard-wood floors?"

"In the music-room, of course," consented the architect.

"And in the drawing-room?"

"Carpet. Some sort of moquette, I should say. But I
should prefer to consult Mrs. Lapham's taste in that matter."

"And in the other rooms?"

"Oh, carpets, of course."

"And what about the stairs?"

"Carpet. And I should have the rail and banisters
white--banisters turned or twisted."

The Colonel said under his breath, "Well, I'm dumned!"
but he gave no utterance to his astonishment in the
architect's presence. When he went at last,--the session
did not end till eleven o'clock,--Lapham said, "Well, Pert,
I guess that fellow's fifty years behind, or ten years ahead.
I wonder what the Ongpeer style is?"

"I don't know. I hated to ask. But he seemed to
understand what he was talking about. I declare, he knows
what a woman wants in a house better than she does herself."

"And a man's simply nowhere in comparison," said Lapham.
But he respected a fellow who could beat him at every point,
and have a reason ready, as this architect had;
and when he recovered from the daze into which the complete
upheaval of all his preconceived notions had left him,
he was in a fit state to swear by the architect.
It seemed to him that he had discovered the fellow (as
he always called him) and owned him now, and the fellow
did nothing to disturb this impression. He entered
into that brief but intense intimacy with the Laphams
which the sympathetic architect holds with his clients.
He was privy to all their differences of opinion
and all their disputes about the house. He knew just
where to insist upon his own ideas, and where to yield.
He was really building several other houses, but he
gave the Laphams the impression that he was doing none
but theirs.

The work was not begun till the frost was thoroughly
out of the ground, which that year was not before the end
of April. Even then it did not proceed very rapidly.
Lapham said they might as well take their time to it;
if they got the walls up and the thing closed in before
the snow flew, they could be working at it all winter.
It was found necessary to dig for the kitchen; at that
point the original salt-marsh lay near the surface,
and before they began to put in the piles for the foundation
they had to pump. The neighbourhood smelt like the hold
of a ship after a three years' voyage. People who had
cast their fortunes with the New Land went by professing
not to notice it; people who still "hung on to the Hill"
put their handkerchiefs to their noses, and told each other
the old terrible stories of the material used in filling up
the Back Bay.

Nothing gave Lapham so much satisfaction in the whole
construction of his house as the pile-driving. When
this began, early in the summer, he took Mrs. Lapham
every day in his buggy and drove round to look at it;
stopping the mare in front of the lot, and watching
the operation with even keener interest than the little
loafing Irish boys who superintended it in force.
It pleased him to hear the portable engine chuckle
out a hundred thin whiffs of steam in carrying the big
iron weight to the top of the framework above the pile,
then seem to hesitate, and cough once or twice in
pressing the weight against the detaching apparatus.
There was a moment in which the weight had the effect
of poising before it fell; then it dropped with a mighty
whack on the iron-bound head of the pile, and drove it
a foot into the earth.

"By gracious!" he would say, "there ain't anything
like that in THIS world for BUSINESS, Persis!"

Mrs. Lapham suffered him to enjoy the sight twenty
or thirty times before she said, "Well, now drive on, Si."

By the time the foundation was in and the brick walls had begun
to go up, there were so few people left in the neighbourhood
that she might indulge with impunity her husband's passion
for having her clamber over the floor-timbers and the
skeleton stair-cases with him. Many of the householders
had boarded up their front doors before the buds had
begun to swell and the assessor to appear in early May;
others had followed soon; and Mrs. Lapham was as safe from
remark as if she had been in the depth of the country.
Ordinarily she and her girls left town early in July,
going to one of the hotels at Nantasket, where it was
convenient for the Colonel to get to and from his business
by the boat. But this summer they were all lingering a few
weeks later, under the novel fascination of the new house,
as they called it, as if there were no other in the world.

Lapham drove there with his wife after he had set
Bartley Hubbard down at the Events office, but on this
day something happened that interfered with the solid
pleasure they usually took in going over the house.
As the Colonel turned from casting anchor at the mare's head
with the hitching-weight, after helping his wife to alight,
he encountered a man to whom he could not help speaking,
though the man seemed to share his hesitation if not his
reluctance at the necessity. He was a tallish, thin man,
with a dust-coloured face, and a dead, clerical air,
which somehow suggested at once feebleness and tenacity.

Mrs. Lapham held out her hand to him.

"Why, Mr. Rogers!" she exclaimed; and then, turning toward
her husband, seemed to refer the two men to each other.
They shook hands, but Lapham did not speak. "I didn't know
you were in Boston," pursued Mrs. Lapham. "Is Mrs. Rogers
with you?"

"No," said Mr. Rogers, with a voice which had the flat,
succinct sound of two pieces of wood clapped together.
"Mrs. Rogers is still in Chicago"

A little silence followed, and then Mrs Lapham said--

"I presume you are quite settled out there."

"No; we have left Chicago. Mrs. Rogers has merely
remained to finish up a little packing."

"Oh, indeed! Are you coming back to Boston?"

"I cannot say as yet. We sometimes think of so doing."

Lapham turned away and looked up at the building.
His wife pulled a little at her glove, as if embarrassed,
or even pained. She tried to make a diversion.

"We are building a house," she said, with a meaningless laugh.

"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Rogers, looking up at it.

Then no one spoke again, and she said helplessly--

"If you come to Boston, I hope I shall see Mrs. Rogers."

"She will be happy to have you call," said Mr Rogers.

He touched his hat-brim, and made a bow forward rather
than in Mrs. Lapham's direction.

She mounted the planking that led into the shelter of
the bare brick walls, and her husband slowly followed.
When she turned her face toward him her cheeks were burning,
and tears that looked hot stood in her eyes.

"You left it all to me!" she cried. "Why couldn't you
speak a word?"

"I hadn't anything to say to him," replied Lapham sullenly.

They stood a while, without looking at the work which they
had come to enjoy, and without speaking to each other.

"I suppose we might as well go on," said Mrs. Lapham
at last, as they returned to the buggy. The Colonel drove
recklessly toward the Milldam. His wife kept her veil
down and her face turned from him. After a time she put
her handkerchief up under her veil and wiped her eyes,
and he set his teeth and squared his jaw.

"I don't see how he always manages to appear just at the
moment when he seems to have gone fairly out of our lives,
and blight everything," she whimpered.

"I supposed he was dead," said Lapham.

"Oh, don't SAY such a thing! It sounds as if you wished it."

"Why do you mind it? What do you let him blight everything for?"

"I can't help it, and I don't believe I ever shall.
I don't know as his being dead would help it any.
I can't ever see him without feeling just as I did
at first."

"I tell you," said Lapham, "it was a perfectly square thing.
And I wish, once for all, you would quit bothering about it.
My conscience is easy as far as he is concerned, and it
always was."

"And I can't look at him without feeling as if you'd
ruined him, Silas."

"Don't look at him, then," said her husband, with a scowl.
"I want you should recollect in the first place, Persis,
that I never wanted a partner."

"If he hadn't put his money in when he did, you'd 'a'
broken down."

"Well, he got his money out again, and more, too,"
said the Colonel, with a sulky weariness.

"He didn't want to take it out."

"I gave him his choice: buy out or go out."

"You know he couldn't buy out then. It was no choice
at all."

"It was a business chance."

"No; you had better face the truth, Silas. It was no chance
at all. You crowded him out. A man that had saved you! No,
you had got greedy, Silas. You had made your paint your god,
and you couldn't bear to let anybody else share in its blessings."

"I tell you he was a drag and a brake on me from the word go.
You say he saved me. Well, if I hadn't got him out he'd
'a' ruined me sooner or later. So it's an even thing,
as far forth as that goes."

"No, it ain't an even thing, and you know it, Silas. Oh, if I
could only get you once to acknowledge that you did
wrong about it, then I should have some hope. I don't
say you meant wrong exactly, but you took an advantage.
Yes, you took an advantage! You had him where he couldn't
help himself, and then you wouldn't show him any mercy."

"I'm sick of this," said Lapham. "If you'll 'tend
to the house, I'll manage my business without your help."

"You were very glad of my help once."

"Well, I'm tired of it now. Don't meddle."

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