The Rise Of Silas Lapham By William Dean Howells Part 1 by William Dean Howells (read dune txt) 📕

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"Well,  I'M Not Going to Try,  If It'S No Use.  But I

Didn'T Know It Had Got To Be The Fashion To Give Shavings

Instead Of Flowers.  But There'S Some Sense In it.

They Can Be Used for Kindlings When They Get Old,  And You

Can'T Do Anything with Old Flowers.  Perhaps He'Ll Get

To Sending 'Em By The Barrel."

 

Irene Laughed for Pleasure In this Tormenting.  "O Pen,

I Want To Tell You How It All Happened."

 

"Oh,  He Did Give It To You,  Then? Well,  I Guess I Don'T

Care To Hear."

 

"You Shall,  And You'Ve Got To!" Irene Ran And Caught

Her Sister,  Who Feigned to Be Going out Of The Room,

And Pushed her Into A Chair.  "There,  Now!" She Pulled up

Another Chair,  And Hemmed her In with It.  "He Came Over,

And Sat Down On The Trestle Alongside Of Me----"

 

"What? As Close As You Are To Me Now?"

 

"You Wretch! I Will Give It To You! No,  At A Proper Distance.

And Here Was This Shaving on The Floor,  That I'D Been

Poking with My Parasol----"

 

"To Hide Your Embarrassment."

 

"Pshaw! I Wasn'T A Bit Embarrassed.  I Was Just As Much At

My Ease! And Then He Asked me To Let Him Hold The Shaving

Down With His Foot,  While I Went On With My Poking.

And I Said Yes He Might----"

 

"What A Bold Girl! You Said He Might Hold A Shaving

Down For You?"

 

"And Then--And Then----" Continued irene,  Lifting her Eyes

Absently,  And Losing herself In the Beatific Recollection,

"And Then----Oh Yes! Then I Asked him If He Didn'T Like

The Smell Of Pine Shavings.  And Then He Picked it Up,

And Said It Smelt Like A Flower.  And Then He Asked

If He Might Offer It To Me--Just For A Joke,  You Know.

And I Took It,  And Stuck It In my Belt.  And We Had

Such A Laugh! We Got Into A Regular Gale.  And O Pen,

What Do You Suppose He Meant By It?" She Suddenly Caught

Herself To Her Sister'S Breast,  And Hid Her Burning face

On Her Shoulder.

 

"Well,  There Used to Be A Book About The Language Of Flowers.

But I Never Knew Much About The Language Of Shavings,

And I Can'T Say Exactly----"

 

"Oh,  Don'T--Don'T,  Pen!" And Here Irene Gave Over Laughing,

And Began To Sob In her Sister'S Arms.

 

"Why,  'Rene!" Cried the Elder Girl.

 

"You Know He Didn'T Mean Anything.  He Doesn'T Care A Bit

About Me.  He Hates Me! He Despises Me! Oh,  What Shall

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I Do?"

 

A Trouble Passed over The Face Of The Sister As She Silently

Comforted the Child In her Arms; Then The Drolling light

Came Back Into Her Eyes.  "Well,  'Rene,  You Haven'T Got

To Do Anything.  That'S One Advantage Girls Have Got--If

It Is An Advantage.  I'M Not Always Sure."

 

Irene'S Tears Turned to Laughing again.  When She Lifted

Her Head It Was To Look Into The Mirror Confronting them,

Where Her Beauty Showed all The More Brilliant For The

Shower That Had Passed over It.  She Seemed to Gather

Courage From The Sight.

 

"It Must Be Awful To Have To Do," She Said,  Smiling into

Her Own Face.  "I Don'T See How They Ever Can."

 

"Some Of 'Em Can'T--Especially When There'S Such A Tearing

Beauty Around."

 

"Oh,  Pshaw,  Pen! You Know That Isn'T So.  You'Ve Got

A Real Pretty Mouth,  Pen," She Added thoughtfully,

Surveying the Feature In the Glass,  And Then Pouting

Her Own Lips For The Sake Of That Effect On Them.

 

"It'S A Useful Mouth," Penelope Admitted; "I Don'T Believe

I Could Get Along Without It Now,  I'Ve Had It So Long."

 

"It'S Got Such A Funny Expression--Just The Mate

Of The Look In your Eyes; As If You Were Just Going

To Say Something ridiculous.  He Said,  The Very

First Time He Saw You,  That He Knew You Were Humorous."

 

"Is It Possible? It Must Be So,  If The Grand Mogul Said It.

Why Didn'T You Tell Me So Before,  And Not Let Me Keep On

Going round Just Like A Common Person?"

 

Irene Laughed as If She Liked to Have Her Sister Take

His Praises In that Way Rather Than Another.

 

"I'Ve Got Such A Stiff,  Prim Kind Of Mouth," She Said,

Drawing it Down,  And Then Looking anxiously At It.

 

"I Hope You Didn'T Put On That Expression When He Offered

You The Shaving.  If You Did,  I Don'T Believe He'Ll Ever

Give You Another Splinter."

 

The Severe Mouth Broke Into A Lovely Laugh,  And Then

Pressed itself In a Kiss Against Penelope'S Cheek.

 

"There! Be Done,  You Silly Thing! I'M Not Going to Have

You Accepting me Before I'Ve Offered myself,  Anyway."

She Freed herself From Her Sister'S Embrace,  And Ran

From Her Round The Room.

 

Irene Pursued her,  In the Need of Hiding her Face Against

Her Shoulder Again.  "O Pen! O Pen!" She Cried.

 

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The Next Day,  At The First Moment Of Finding herself Alone

With Her Eldest Daughter,  Mrs. Lapham Asked,  As If Knowing

That Penelope Must Have Already Made It Subject Of Inquiry:

"What Was Irene Doing with That Shaving in her Belt Yesterday?"

 

"Oh,  Just Some Nonsense Of Hers With Mr. Corey.

He Gave It To Her At The New House." Penelope Did Not

Choose To Look Up And Meet Her Mother'S Grave Glance.

 

"What Do You Think He Meant By It?"

 

Penelope Repeated irene'S Account Of The Affair,

And Her Mother Listened without Seeming to Derive Much

Encouragement From It.

 

"He Doesn'T Seem Like One To Flirt With Her," She Said

At Last.  Then,  After A Thoughtful Pause: "Irene Is As Good

A Girl As Ever Breathed,  And She'S A Perfect Beauty.

But I Should Hate The Day When A Daughter Of Mine Was

Married for Her Beauty."

 

"You'Re Safe As Far As I'M Concerned,  Mother."

 

Mrs. Lapham Smiled ruefully.  "She Isn'T Really Equal

To Him,  Pen.  I Misdoubted that From The First,

And It'S Been Borne In upon Me More And More Ever Since.

She Hasn'T Mind Enough." "I Didn'T Know That A Man Fell

In Love With A Girl'S Intellect," Said Penelope Quietly.

 

"Oh No.  He Hasn'T Fallen In love With Irene At All.

If He Had,  It Wouldn'T Matter About The Intellect."

 

Penelope Let The Self-Contradiction Pass.

 

"Perhaps He Has,  After All."

 

"No," Said Mrs. Lapham.  "She Pleases Him When He Sees Her.

But He Doesn'T Try To See Her."

 

"He Has No Chance.  You Won'T Let Father Bring him Here."

 

"He Would Find Excuses To Come Without Being brought,

If He Wished to Come," Said The Mother.  "But She Isn'T

In His Mind Enough To Make Him.  He Goes Away And

Doesn'T Think Anything more About Her.  She'S A Child.

She'S A Good Child,  And I Shall Always Say It; But She'S

Nothing but A Child.  No,  She'S Got To Forget Him."

 

"Perhaps That Won'T Be So Easy."

 

"No,  I Presume Not.  And Now Your Father Has Got The Notion

In His Head,  And He Will Move Heaven And Earth To Bring

It To Pass.  I Can See That He'S Always Thinking about It."

 

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"The Colonel Has A Will Of His Own," Observed the Girl,

Rocking to And Fro Where She Sat Looking at Her Mother.

 

"I Wish We Had Never Met Them!" Cried mrs. Lapham.

"I Wish We Had Never Thought Of Building! I Wish He Had

Kept Away From Your Father'S Business!"

 

"Well,  It'S Too Late Now,  Mother," Said The Girl.

"Perhaps It Isn'T So Bad As You Think."

 

"Well,  We Must Stand It,  Anyway," Said Mrs. Lapham,

With The Grim Antique Yankee Submission.

 

"Oh Yes,  We'Ve Got To Stand It," Said Penelope,

With The Quaint Modern American Fatalism.

 

 

 

 

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It Was Late June,  Almost July,  When Corey Took Up His Life

In Boston Again,  Where The Summer Slips Away So Easily.

If You Go Out Of Town Early,  It Seems A Very Long

Summer When You Come Back In october; But If You Stay,

It Passes Swiftly,  And,  Seen Foreshortened in its Flight,

Seems Scarcely A Month'S Length.  It Has Its Days Of Heat,

When It Is Very Hot,  But For The Most Part It Is Cool,

With Baths Of The East Wind That Seem To Saturate The Soul

With Delicious Freshness.  Then There Are Stretches Of Grey

Westerly Weather,  When The Air Is Full Of The Sentiment

Of Early Autumn,  And The Frying,  Of The Grasshopper

In The Blossomed weed of The Vacant Lots On The Back

Bay Is Intershot With The Carol Of Crickets; And The

Yellowing leaf On The Long Slope Of Mt. Vernon Street

Smites The Sauntering observer With Tender Melancholy.

The Caterpillar,  Gorged with The Spoil Of The Lindens

On Chestnut,  And Weaving his Own Shroud About Him In his

Lodgment On The Brick-Work,  Records The Passing of Summer

By Mid-July; And If After That Comes August,  Its Breath

Is Thick And Short,  And September Is Upon The Sojourner

Before He Has Fairly Had Time To Philosophise The Character

Of The Town Out Of Season.

 

But It Must Have Appeared that Its Most Characteristic

Feature Was The Absence Of Everybody He Knew.  This Was

One Of The Things That Commended boston To Bromfield

Corey During the Summer; And If His Son Had Any Qualms

About The Life He Had Entered upon With Such Vigour,

It Must Have Been A Relief To Him That There Was Scarcely

A Soul Left To Wonder Or Pity.  By The Time People Got Back

To Town The