He did not go home, but spent most of the day shining round, as he would have expressed it, and trying to see if he could raise the money. But he found that people of whom he hoped to get it were in the conspiracy which had been formed to drive him to the wall. Somehow, there seemed a sense of his embarrassments abroad. Nobody wanted to lend money on the plant at Lapham without taking time to look into the state of the business; but Lapham had no time to give, and he knew that the state of the business would not bear looking into. He could raise fifteen thousand on his Nankeen Square house, and another fifteen on his Beacon Street lot, and this was all that a man who was worth a million by rights could do! He said a million, and he said it in defiance of Bellingham, who had subjected his figures to an analysis which wounded Lapham more than he chose to show at the time, for it proved that he was not so rich and not so wise as he had seemed. His hurt vanity forbade him to go to Bellingham now for help or advice; and if he could have brought himself to ask his brothers for money, it would have been useless; they were simply well-to-do Western people, but not capitalists on the scale he required.
Lapham stood in the isolation to which adversity so often seems to bring men. When its test was applied, practically or theoretically, to all those who had seemed his friends, there was none who bore it; and he thought with bitter self-contempt of the people whom he had befriended in their time of need. He said to himself that he had been a fool for that; and he scorned himself for certain acts of scrupulosity by which he had lost money in the past. Seeing the moral forces all arrayed against him, Lapham said that he would like to have the chance offered him to get even with them again; he thought he should know how to look out for himself. As he understood it, he had several days to turn about in, and he did not let one day’s failure dishearten him. The morning after his return he had, in fact, a gleam of luck that gave him the greatest encouragement for the moment. A man came in to inquire about one of Rogers’s wild-cat patents, as Lapham called them, and ended by buying it. He got it, of course, for less than Lapham took it for, but Lapham was glad to be rid of it for something, when he had thought it worth nothing; and when the transaction was closed, he asked the purchaser rather eagerly if he knew where Rogers was; it was Lapham’s secret belief that Rogers had found there was money in the thing, and had sent the man to buy it. But it appeared that this was a mistake; the man had not come from Rogers, but had heard of the patent in another way; and Lapham was astonished in the afternoon, when his boy came to tell him that Rogers was in the outer office, and wished to speak with him.
“All right,” said Lapham, and he could not command at once the severity for the reception of Rogers which he would have liked to use. He found himself, in fact, so much relaxed towards him by the morning’s touch of prosperity that he asked him to sit down, gruffly, of course, but distinctly; and when Rogers said in his lifeless way, and with the effect of keeping his appointment of a month before, “Those English parties are in town, and would like to talk with you in reference to the mills,” Lapham did not turn him out-of-doors.
He sat looking at him, and trying to make out what Rogers was after; for he did not believe that the English parties, if they existed, had any notion of buying his mills.
“What if they are not for sale?” he asked. “You know that I’ve been expecting an offer from the G. L. & P.”
“I’ve kept watch of that. They haven’t made you any offer,” said Rogers quietly.
“And did you think,” demanded Lapham, firing up, “that I would turn them in on somebody else as you turned them in on me, when the chances are that they won’t be worth ten cents on the dollar six months from now?”
“I didn’t know what you would do,” said Rogers non-committally. “I’ve come here to tell you that these parties stand ready to take the mills off your hands at a fair valuation–at the value I put upon them when I turned them in.”
“I don’t believe you!” cried Lapham brutally, but a wild predatory hope made his heart leap so that it seemed to turn over in his breast. “I don’t believe there are any such parties to begin with; and in the next place, I don’t believe they would buy at any such figure; unless–unless you’ve lied to them, as you’ve lied to me. Did you tell them about the G. L. & P.?”
Rogers looked compassionately at him, but he answered, with unvaried dryness, “I did not think that necessary.”
Lapham had expected this answer, and he had expected or intended to break out in furious denunciation of Rogers when he got it; but he only found himself saying, in a sort of baffled gasp, “I wonder what your game is!”
Rogers did not reply categorically, but he answered, with his impartial calm, and as if Lapham had said nothing to indicate that he differed at all with him as to disposing of the property in the way he had suggested: “If we should succeed in selling, I should be able to repay you your loans, and should have a little capital for a scheme that I think of going into.”
“And do you think that I am going to steal these men’s money to help you plunder somebody in a new scheme?” answered Lapham. The sneer was on behalf of virtue, but it was still a sneer.
“I suppose the money would be useful to you too, just now.”
“Why?”
“Because I know that you have been trying to borrow.”
At this proof of wicked omniscience in Rogers, the question whether he had better not regard the affair as a fatality, and yield to his destiny, flashed upon Lapham; but he answered, “I shall want money a great deal worse than I’ve ever wanted it yet, before I go into such rascally business with you. Don’t you know that we might as well knock these parties down on the street, and take the money out of their pockets?”
“They have come on,” answered Rogers, “from Portland to see you. I expected them some weeks ago, but they disappointed me. They arrived on the Circassian last night; they expected to have got in five days ago, but the passage was very stormy.”
“Where are they?” asked Lapham, with helpless irrelevance, and feeling himself somehow drifted from his moorings by Rogers’s shipping intelligence.
“They are at Young’s. I told them we would call upon them after dinner this evening; they dine late.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” asked Lapham, trying to drop another anchor for a fresh clutch on his underlying principles. “Well, now, you go and tell them that I said I wouldn’t come.”
“Their stay is limited,” remarked Rogers. “I mentioned this evening because they were not certain they could remain over another night. But if to-morrow would suit you better—-“
“Tell ’em I shan’t come at all,” roared Lapham, as much in terror as defiance, for he felt his anchor dragging. “Tell ’em I shan’t come at all! Do you understand that?”
“I don’t see why you should stickle as to the matter of going to them,” said Rogers; “but if you think it will be better to have them approach you, I suppose I can bring them to you.”
“No, you can’t! I shan’t let you! I shan’t see them! I shan’t have anything to do with them. NOW do you understand?”
“I inferred from our last interview,” persisted Rogers, unmoved by all this violent demonstration of Lapham’s, “that you wished to meet these parties. You told me that you would give me time to produce them; and I have promised them that you would meet them; I have committed myself.”
It was true that Lapham had defied Rogers to bring on his men, and had implied his willingness to negotiate with them. That was before he had talked the matter over with his wife, and perceived his moral responsibility in it; even she had not seen this at once. He could not enter into this explanation with Rogers; he could only say, “I said I’d give you twenty-four hours to prove yourself a liar, and you did it. I didn’t say twenty-four days.”
“I don’t see the difference,” returned Rogers. “The parties are here now, and that proves that I was acting in good faith at the time. There has been no change in the posture of affairs. You don’t know now any more than you knew then that the G. L. & P. is going to want the property. If there’s any difference, it’s in favour of the Road’s having changed its mind.”
There was some sense in this, and Lapham felt it–felt it only too eagerly, as he recognised the next instant.
Rogers went on quietly: “You’re not obliged to sell to these parties when you meet them; but you’ve allowed me to commit myself to them by the promise that you would talk with them.”
“‘Twan’t a promise,” said Lapham.
“It was the same thing; they have come out from England on my guaranty that there was such and such an opening for their capital; and now what am I to say to them? It places me in a ridiculous position.” Rogers urged his grievance calmly, almost impersonally, making his appeal to Lapham’s sense of justice. “I CAN’T go back to those parties and tell them you won’t see them. It’s no answer to make. They’ve got a right to know why you won’t see them.”
“Very well, then!” cried Lapham; “I’ll come and TELL them why. Who shall I ask for? When shall I be there?”
“At eight o’clock, please,” said Rogers, rising, without apparent alarm at his threat, if it was a threat. “And ask for me; I’ve taken a room at the hotel for the present.”
“I won’t keep you five minutes when I get there,” said Lapham; but he did not come away till ten o’clock.
It appeared to him as if the very devil was in it. The Englishmen treated his downright refusal to sell as a piece of bluff, and talked on as though it were merely the opening of the negotiation. When he became plain with them in his anger, and told them why he would not sell, they seemed to have been prepared for this as a stroke of business, and were ready to meet it.
“Has this fellow,” he demanded, twisting his head in the direction of Rogers, but disdaining to notice him otherwise, “been telling you that it’s part of my game to say this? Well, sir, I can tell you, on my side, that there isn’t a slipperier rascal unhung in America than Milton K. Rogers!”
The Englishmen treated this as a piece of genuine American humour, and returned to the charge with unabated courage. They owned now, that a person interested with them had been out to look at the property, and that they were satisfied with the appearance of things. They developed further the fact that they were not acting solely, or even principally, in their own behalf, but were the agents of people in England who had projected the colonisation of a sort of community on the spot, somewhat after the plan of other English dreamers, and that they were satisfied, from a careful inspection, that the resources and facilities were those best calculated to develop the energy and enterprise of the proposed community. They were prepared to meet Mr. Lapham–Colonel, they begged his pardon, at the instance of Rogers–at any reasonable figure, and were quite willing to assume the risks he had pointed out. Something in the eyes of these men, something that lurked at an infinite depth below their speech, and was not really in their eyes when Lapham looked again, had flashed through him a sense of treachery in them. He had thought them the dupes of Rogers; but in that brief instant he had seen them–or thought he had seen them–his accomplices, ready to betray the interests of which they went on to speak with a certain comfortable jocosity, and a certain incredulous slight of his show of integrity. It was a deeper game than Lapham was used to, and he sat looking with a sort of admiration from one Englishman to the other, and then to Rogers, who maintained an exterior of modest neutrality, and whose air said, “I have brought you gentlemen together as the friend of all parties, and I now leave you to settle it among yourselves. I ask nothing, and expect nothing, except the small sum which shall accrue to me after the discharge of my obligations to Colonel Lapham.”
While Rogers’s presence expressed this, one of the Englishmen was saying, “And if you have any scruple in allowin’ us to assume this risk, Colonel Lapham, perhaps you can console yourself with the fact that the loss, if there is to be any, will fall upon people who are able to bear it–upon an association of rich and charitable people. But we’re quite satisfied there will be no loss,” he added savingly. “All you have to do is to name your price, and we will do our best to meet it.”
There was nothing in the Englishman’s sophistry very shocking to Lapham. It addressed itself in him to that easy-going, not evilly intentioned, potential immorality which regards common property as common prey, and gives us the most corrupt municipal governments under the sun–which makes the poorest voter, when he has tricked into place, as unscrupulous in regard to others’ money as an hereditary prince. Lapham met the Englishman’s eye, and with difficulty kept himself from winking. Then he looked away, and tried to find out where he stood, or what he wanted to do. He could hardly tell. He had expected to come into that room and unmask Rogers, and have it over. But he had unmasked Rogers without any effect whatever, and the play had only begun. He had a whimsical and sarcastic sense of its being very different from the plays at the theatre. He could not get up and go away in silent contempt; he could not tell the Englishmen that he believed them a pair of scoundrels and should have nothing to do with them; he could no longer treat them as innocent dupes. He remained baffled and perplexed, and the one who had not spoken hitherto remarked–
“Of course we shan’t ‘aggle about a few pound, more or less. If Colonel Lapham’s figure should be a little larger than ours, I’ve no doubt ‘e’ll not be too ‘ard upon us in the end.”
Lapham appreciated all the intent of this subtle suggestion, and understood as plainly as if it had been said in so many words, that if they paid him a larger price, it was to be expected that a certain portion of the purchase-money was to return to their own hands. Still he could not move; and it seemed to him that he could not speak.
“Ring that bell, Mr. Rogers,” said the Englishman who had last spoken, glancing at the annunciator button in the wall near Rogers’s head, “and ‘ave up something ‘of, can’t you? I should like TO wet me w’istle, as you say ‘ere, and Colonel Lapham seems to find it rather dry work.”
Lapham jumped to his feet, and buttoned his overcoat about him. He remembered with terror the dinner at Corey’s where he had disgraced and betrayed himself, and if he went into this thing at all, he was going into it sober. “I can’t stop,” he said, “I must be going.”
“But you haven’t given us an answer yet, Mr. Lapham,” said the first Englishman with a successful show of dignified surprise.
“The only answer I can give you now is, NO,” said Lapham. “If you want another, you must let me have time to think it over.”
“But ‘ow much time?” said the other Englishman. “We’re pressed for time ourselves, and we hoped for an answer–‘oped for a hanswer,” he corrected himself, “at once. That was our understandin’ with Mr. Rogers.”
“I can’t let you know till morning, anyway,” said Lapham, and he went out, as his custom often was, without any parting salutation. He thought Rogers might try to detain him; but Rogers had remained seated when the others got to their feet, and paid no attention to his departure.
He walked out into the night air, every pulse throbbing with the strong temptation. He knew very well those men would wait, and gladly wait, till the morning, and that the whole affair was in his hands. It made him groan in spirit to think that it was. If he had hoped that some chance might take the decision from him, there was no such chance, in the present or future, that he could see. It was for him alone to commit this rascality–if it was a rascality–or not.
He walked all the way home, letting one car after another pass him on the street, now so empty of other passing, and it was almost eleven o’clock when he reached home. A carriage stood before his house, and when he let himself in with his key, he heard talking in the family-room. It came into his head that Irene had got back unexpectedly, and that the sight of her was somehow going to make it harder for him; then he thought it might be Corey, come upon some desperate pretext to see Penelope; but when he opened the door he saw, with a certain absence of surprise, that it was Rogers. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, talking to Mrs. Lapham, and he had been shedding tears; dry tears they seemed, and they had left a sort of sandy, glistening trace on his cheeks. Apparently he was not ashamed of them, for the expression with which he met Lapham was that of a man making a desperate appeal in his own cause, which was identical with that of humanity, if not that of justice.
“I some expected,” began Rogers, “to find you here—-“
“No, you didn’t,” interrupted Lapham; “you wanted to come here and make a poor mouth to Mrs. Lapham before I got home.”
“I knew that Mrs. Lapham would know what was going on,” said Rogers more candidly, but not more virtuously, for that he could not, “and I wished her to understand a point that I hadn’t put to you at the hotel, and that I want you should consider. And I want you should consider me a little in this business too; you’re not the only one that’s concerned, I tell you, and I’ve been telling Mrs. Lapham that it’s my one chance; that if you don’t meet me on it, my wife and children will be reduced to beggary.”
“So will mine,” said Lapham, “or the next thing to it.”
“Well, then, I want you to give me this chance to get on my feet again. You’ve no right to deprive me of it; it’s unchristian. In our dealings with each other we should be guided by the Golden Rule, as I was saying to Mrs. Lapham before you came in. I told her that if I knew myself, I should in your place consider the circumstances of a man in mine, who had honourably endeavoured to discharge his obligations to me, and had patiently borne my undeserved suspicions. I should consider that man’s family, I told Mrs. Lapham.”
“Did you tell her that if I went in with you and those fellows, I should be robbing the people who trusted them?”
“I don’t see what you’ve got to do with the people that sent them here. They are rich people, and could bear it if it came to the worst. But there’s no likelihood, now, that it will come to the worst; you can see yourself that the Road has changed its mind about buying. And here am I without a cent in the world; and my wife is an invalid. She needs comforts, she needs little luxuries, and she hasn’t even the necessaries; and you want to sacrifice her to a mere idea! You don’t know in the first place that the Road will ever want to buy; and if it does, the probability is that with a colony like that planted on its line, it would make very different terms from what it would with you or me. These agents are not afraid, and their principals are rich people; and if there was any loss, it would be divided up amongst them so that they wouldn’t any of them feel it.”
Lapham stole a troubled glance at his wife, and saw that there was no help in her. Whether she was daunted and confused in her own conscience by the outcome, so evil and disastrous, of the reparation to Rogers which she had forced her husband to make, or whether her perceptions had been blunted and darkened by the appeals which Rogers had now used, it would be difficult to say. Probably there was a mixture of both causes in the effect which her husband felt in her, and from which he turned, girding himself anew, to Rogers.
“I have no wish to recur to the past,” continued Rogers, with growing superiority. “You have shown a proper spirit in regard to that, and you have done what you could to wipe it out.”
“I should think I had,” said Lapham. “I’ve used up about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars trying.”
“Some of my enterprises,” Rogers admitted, “have been unfortunate, seemingly; but I have hopes that they will yet turn out well–in time. I can’t understand why you should be so mindful of others now, when you showed so little regard for me then. I had come to your aid at a time when you needed help, and when you got on your feet you kicked me out of the business. I don’t complain, but that is the fact; and I had to begin again, after I had supposed myself settled in life, and establish myself elsewhere.”
Lapham glanced again at his wife; her head had fallen; he could see that she was so rooted in her old remorse for that questionable act of his, amply and more than fully atoned for since, that she was helpless, now in the crucial moment, when he had the utmost need of her insight. He had counted upon her; he perceived now that when he had thought it was for him alone to decide, he had counted upon her just spirit to stay his own in its struggle to be just. He had not forgotten how she held out against him only a little while ago, when he asked her whether he might not rightfully sell in some such contingency as this; and it was not now that she said or even looked anything in favour of Rogers, but that she was silent against him, which dismayed Lapham. He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat, the self-pity, the pity for her, the despair, and said gently, “I guess you better go to bed, Persis. It’s pretty late.”
She turned towards the door, when Rogers said, with the obvious intention of detaining her through her curiosity–
“But I let that pass. And I don’t ask now that you should sell to these men.”
Mrs. Lapham paused, irresolute.
“What are you making this bother for, then?” demanded Lapham. “What DO you want?”
“What I’ve been telling your wife here. I want you should sell to me. I don’t say what I’m going to do with the property, and you will not have an iota of responsibility, whatever happens.”
Lapham was staggered, and he saw his wife’s face light up with eager question.
“I want that property,” continued Rogers, “and I’ve got the money to buy it. What will you take for it? If it’s the price you’re standing out for—-“
“Persis,” said Lapham, “go to bed,” and he gave her a look that meant obedience for her. She went out of the door, and left him with his tempter.
“If you think I’m going to help you whip the devil round the stump, you’re mistaken in your man, Milton Rogers,” said Lapham, lighting a cigar. “As soon as I sold to you, you would sell to that other pair of rascals. I smelt ’em out in half a minute.”
“They are Christian gentlemen,” said Rogers. “But I don’t purpose defending them; and I don’t purpose telling you what I shall or shall not do with the property when it is in my hands again. The question is, Will you sell, and, if so, what is your figure? You have got nothing whatever to do with it after you’ve sold.”
It was perfectly true. Any lawyer would have told him the same. He could not help admiring Rogers for his ingenuity, and every selfish interest of his nature joined with many obvious duties to urge him to consent. He did not see why he should refuse. There was no longer a reason. He was standing out alone for nothing, any one else would say. He smoked on as if Rogers were not there, and Rogers remained before the fire as patient as the clock ticking behind his head on the mantel, and showing the gleam of its pendulum beyond his face on either side. But at last he said, “Well?”
“Well,” answered Lapham, “you can’t expect me to give you an answer to-night, any more than before. You know that what you’ve said now hasn’t changed the thing a bit. I wish it had. The Lord knows, I want to be rid of the property fast enough.” “Then why don’t you sell to me? Can’t you see that you will not be responsible for what happens after you have sold?”
“No, I can’t see that; but if I can by morning, I’ll sell.”
“Why do you expect to know any better by morning? You’re wasting time for nothing!” cried Rogers, in his disappointment. “Why are you so particular? When you drove me out of the business you were not so very particular.”
Lapham winced. It was certainly ridiculous for man who had once so selfishly consulted his own interests to be stickling now about the rights of others.
“I guess nothing’s going to happen overnight,” he answered sullenly. “Anyway, I shan’t say what I shall do till morning.”
“What time can I see you in the morning?”
“Half-past nine.”
Rogers buttoned his coat, and went out of the room without another word. Lapham followed him to close the street-door after him.
His wife called down to him from above as he approached the room again, “Well?”
“I’ve told him I’d let him know in the morning.”
“Want I should come down and talk with you?”
“No,” answered Lapham, in the proud bitterness which his isolation brought, “you couldn’t do any good.” He went in and shut the door, and by and by his wife heard him begin walking up and down; and then the rest of the night she lay awake and listened to him walking up and down. But when the first light whitened the window, the words of the Scripture came into her mind: “And there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day…. And he said, Let me go, for the day breaketh. And he said, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me.”
She could not ask him anything when they met, but he raised his dull eyes after the first silence, and said, “I don’t know what I’m going to say to Rogers.”
She could not speak; she did not know what to say, and she saw her husband when she followed him with her eyes from the window, drag heavily down toward the corner, where he was to take, the horse-car.
He arrived rather later than usual at his office, and he found his letters already on his table. There was one, long and official-looking, with a printed letter-heading on the outside, and Lapham had no need to open it in order to know that it was the offer of the Great Lacustrine & Polar Railroad for his mills. But he went mechanically through the verification of his prophetic fear, which was also his sole hope, and then sat looking blankly at it.
Rogers came promptly at the appointed time, and Lapham handed him the letter. He must have taken it all in at a glance, and seen the impossibility of negotiating any further now, even with victims so pliant and willing as those Englishmen.
“You’ve ruined me!” Rogers broke out. “I haven’t a cent left in the world! God help my poor wife!”
He went out, and Lapham remained staring at the door which closed upon him. This was his reward for standing firm for right and justice to his own destruction: to feel like a thief and a murderer.