Chapter 17

by William Dean Howells

　　"In the sitting-room.""Was Pen there?""I didn't see her."Mrs. Lapham paused, with her hand on the cream-jug. "Why, what in theland did he want? Did he say he wanted you?""That's what he said.""And then he wouldn't stay?""Well, then, I'll tell you just what it is, Silas Lapham. He camehere"--she looked about the room and lowered her voice--"to see youabout Irene, and then he hadn't the courage.""I guess he's got courage enough to do pretty much what he wants to,"said Lapham glumly. "All I know is, he was here. You better ask Penabout it, if she ever gets down.""I guess I shan't wait for her," said Mrs. Lapham; and, as her husbandclosed the front door after him, she opened that of her daughter's roomand entered abruptly.The girl sat at the window, fully dressed, and as if she had beensitting there a long time. Without rising, she turned her face towardsher mother. It merely showed black against the light, and revealednothing till her mother came close to her with successive questions."Why, how long have you been up, Pen? Why don't you come to yourbreakfast? Did you see Mr. Corey when he called last night? Why, what'sthe matter with you? What have you been crying about?""Have I been crying?""Yes! Your cheeks are all wet!""I thought they were on fire. Well, I'll tell you what's happened."She rose, and then fell back in her chair. "Lock the door!" sheordered, and her mother mechanically obeyed. "I don't want Irene inhere. There's nothing the matter. Only, Mr. Corey offered himself tome last night."Her mother remained looking at her, helpless, not so much with amaze,perhaps, as dismay. "Oh, I'm not a ghost! I wish I was! You had bettersit down, mother. You have got to know all about it."Mrs. Lapham dropped nervelessly into the chair at the other window, andwhile the girl went slowly but briefly on, touching only the vitalpoints of the story, and breaking at times into a bitter drollery, shesat as if without the power to speak or stir."Well, that's all, mother. I should say I had dreamt, it, if I hadslept any last night; but I guess it really happened."The mother glanced round at the bed, and said, glad to occupy herselfdelayingly with the minor care: "Why, you have been sitting up allnight! You will kill yourself.""I don't know about killing myself, but I've been sitting up allnight," answered the girl. Then, seeing that her mother remainedblankly silent again, she demanded, "Why don't you blame me, mother?Why don't you say that I led him on, and tried to get him away fromher? Don't you believe I did?"Her mother made her no answer, as if these ravings of self-accusalneeded none. "Do you think," she asked simply, "that he got the ideayou cared for him?""He knew it! How could I keep it from him? I said I didn't--at first!""It was no use," sighed the mother. "You might as well said you did.It couldn't help Irene any, if you didn't.""I always tried to help her with him, even when I----""Yes, I know. But she never was equal to him. I saw that from thestart; but I tried to blind myself to it. And when he kept coming----""You never thought of me!" cried the girl, with a bitterness thatreached her mother's heart. "I was nobody! I couldn't feel! No onecould care for me!" The turmoil of despair, of triumph, of remorse andresentment, which filled her soul, tried to express itself in the words."No," said the mother humbly. "I didn't think of you. Or I didn'tthink of you enough. It did come across me sometimes that maybe----But it didn't seem as if----And your going on so for Irene----""You let me go on. You made me always go and talk with him for her,and you didn't think I would talk to him for myself. Well, I didn't!""I'm punished for it. When did you--begin to care for him!""How do I know? What difference does it make? It's all over now, nomatter when it began. He won't come here any more, unless I let him."She could not help betraying her pride in this authority of hers, butshe went on anxiously enough, "What will you say to Irene? She's safeas far as I'm concerned; but if he don't care for her, what will youdo?""I don't know what to do," said Mrs. Lapham. She sat in an apathy fromwhich she apparently could not rouse herself. "I don't see as anythingcan be done."Penelope laughed in a pitying derision."Well, let things go on then. But they won't go on.""No, they won't go on," echoed her mother. "She's pretty enough, andshe's capable; and your father's got the money--I don't know what I'msaying! She ain't equal to him, and she never was. I kept feeling itall the time, and yet I kept blinding myself.""If he had ever cared for her," said Penelope, "it wouldn't havemattered whether she was equal to him or not. I'M not equal to himeither."Her mother went on: "I might have thought it was you; but I had gotset----Well! I can see it all clear enough, now it's too late. I don'tknow what to do.""And what do you expect me to do?" demanded the girl. "Do you want MEto go to Irene and tell her that I've got him away from her?""O good Lord!" cried Mrs. Lapham. "What shall I do? What do you want Ishould do, Pen?""Nothing for me," said Penelope. "I've had it out with myself. Now dothe best you can for Irene.""I couldn't say you had done wrong, if you was to marry him to-day.""Mother!""No, I couldn't. I couldn't say but what you had been good andfaithfull all through, and you had a perfect right to do it. Thereain't any one to blame. He's behaved like a gentleman, and I can seenow that he never thought of her, and that it was you all the while.Well, marry him, then! He's got the right, and so have you.""What about Irene? I don't want you to talk about me. I can take careof myself.""She's nothing but a child. It's only a fancy with her. She'll getover it. She hain't really got her heart set on him.""She's got her heart set on him, mother. She's got her whole life seton him. You know that.""Yes, that's so," said the mother, as promptly as if she had beenarguing to that rather than the contrary effect."If I could give him to her, I would. But he isn't mine to give." Sheadded in a burst of despair, "He isn't mine to keep!""Well," said Mrs. Lapham, "she has got to bear it. I don't know what'sto come of it all. But she's got to bear her share of it." She roseand went toward the door.Penelope ran after her in a sort of terror. "You're not going to tellIrene?" she gasped, seizing her mother by either shoulder."Yes, I am," said Mrs. Lapham. "If she's a woman grown, she can bear awoman's burden.""I can't let you tell Irene," said the girl, letting fall her face onher mother's neck. "Not Irene," she moaned. "I'm afraid to let you.How can I ever look at her again?""Why, you haven't done anything, Pen," said her mother soothingly."I wanted to! Yes, I must have done something. How could I help it? Idid care for him from the first, and I must have tried to make him likeme. Do you think I did? No, no! You mustn't tell Irene! Not--not--yet! Mother! Yes! I did try to get him from her!" she cried,lifting her head, and suddenly looking her mother in the face withthose large dim eyes of hers. "What do you think? Even last night! Itwas the first time I ever had him all to myself, for myself, and I knownow that I tried to make him think that I was pretty and--funny. And Ididn't try to make him think of her. I knew that I pleased him, and Itried to please him more. Perhaps I could have kept him from sayingthat he cared for me; but when I saw he did--I must have seen it--Icouldn't. I had never had him to myself, and for myself before. Ineedn't have seen him at all, but I wanted to see him; and when I wassitting there alone with him, how do I know what I did to let him feelthat I cared for him? Now, will you tell Irene? I never thought he didcare for me, and never expected him to. But I liked him. Yes--I didlike him! Tell her that! Or else I will.""If it was to tell her he was dead," began Mrs. Lapham absently."How easy it would be!" cried the girl in self-mockery. "But he'sworse than dead to her; and so am I. I've turned it over a millionways, mother; I've looked at it in every light you can put it in, and Ican't make anything but misery out of it. You can see the misery atthe first glance, and you can't see more or less if you spend your lifelooking at it." She laughed again, as if the hopelessness of the thingamused her. Then she flew to the extreme of self-assertion. "Well, IHAVE a right to him, and he has a right to me. If he's never doneanything to make her think he cared for her,--and I know he hasn't;it's all been our doing, then he's free and I'm free. We can't makeher happy whatever we do; and why shouldn't I----No, that won't do! Ireached that point before!" She broke again into her desperate laugh."You may try now, mother!""I'd best speak to your father first----"Penelope smiled a little more forlornly than she had laughed."Well, yes; the Colonel will have to know. It isn't a trouble that Ican keep to myself exactly. It seems to belong to too many otherpeople."Her mother took a crazy encouragement from her return to her old way ofsaying things. "Perhaps he can think of something.""Oh, I don't doubt but the Colonel will know just what to do!""You mustn't be too down-hearted about it. It--it'll all comeright----""You tell Irene that, mother."Mrs. Lapham had put her hand on the door-key; she dropped it, andlooked at the girl with a sort of beseeching appeal for the comfort shecould not imagine herself. "Don't look at me, mother," said Penelope,shaking her head. "You know that if Irene were to die without knowingit, it wouldn't come right for me.""Pen!""I've read of cases where a girl gives up the man that loves her so asto make some other girl happy that the man doesn't love. That might bedone.""Your father would think you were a fool," said Mrs. Lapham, finding asort of refuge in her strong disgust for the pseudo heroism. "No! Ifthere's to be any giving up, let it be by the one that shan't makeanybody but herself suffer. There's trouble and sorrow enough in theworld, without MAKING it on purpose!"She unlocked the door, but Penelope slipped round and set herselfagainst it. "Irene shall not give up!""I will see your father about it," said the mother. "Let me outnow----""Don't let Irene come here!""No. I will tell her that you haven't slept. Go to bed now, and try toget some rest. She isn't up herself yet. You must have somebreakfast.""No; let me sleep if I can. I can get something when I wake up. I'llcome down if I can't sleep. Life has got to go on. It does whenthere's a death in the house, and this is only a little worse.""Don't you talk nonsense!" cried Mrs. Lapham, with angry authority."Well, a little better, then," said Penelope, with meek concession.Mrs. Lapham attempted to say something, and could not. She went outand opened Irene's door. The girl lifted her head drowsily from herpillow "Don't disturb your sister when you get up, Irene. She hasn'tslept well----""PLEASE don't talk! I'm almost DEAD with sleep!" returned Irene. "Dogo, mamma! I shan't disturb her." She turned her face down in thepillow, and pulled the covering up over her ears.The mother slowly closed the door and went downstairs, feelingbewildered and baffled almost beyond the power to move. The time hadbeen when she would have tried to find out why this judgment had beensent upon her. But now she could not feel that the innocent sufferingof others was inflicted for her fault; she shrank instinctively fromthat cruel and egotistic misinterpretation of the mystery of pain andloss. She saw her two children, equally if differently dear to her,destined to trouble that nothing could avert, and she could not blameeither of them; she could not blame the means of this misery to them;he was as innocent as they, and though her heart was sore against himin this first moment, she could still be just to him in it. She was awoman who had been used to seek the light by striving; she had hithertoliterally worked to it. But it is the curse of prosperity that ittakes work away from us, and shuts that door to hope and health ofspirit. In this house, where everything had come to be done for her,she had no tasks to interpose between her and her despair. She satdown in her own room and let her hands fall in her lap,--the hands thathad once been so helpful and busy,--and tried to think it all out. Shehad never heard of the fate that was once supposed to appoint thesorrows of men irrespective of their blamelessness or blame, before thetime when it came to be believed that sorrows were penalties; but inher simple way she recognised something like that mythic power when sherose from her struggle with the problem, and said aloud to herself,"Well, the witch is in it." Turn which way she would, she saw no escapefrom the misery to come--the misery which had come already to Penelopeand herself, and that must come to Irene and her father. She startedwhen she definitely thought of her husband, and thought with whatviolence it would work in every fibre of his rude strength. She fearedthat, and she feared something worse--the effect which his pride andambition might seek to give it; and it was with terror of this, as wellas the natural trust with which a woman must turn to her husband in anyanxiety at last, that she felt she could not wait for evening to takecounsel with him. When she considered how wrongly he might take itall, it seemed as if it were already known to him, and she wasimpatient to prevent his error.She sent out for a messenger, whom she despatched with a note to hisplace of business: "Silas, I should like to ride with you thisafternoon. Can't you come home early? Persis." And she was at dinnerwith Irene, evading her questions about Penelope, when answer came thathe would be at the house with the buggy at half-past two. It is easyto put off a girl who has but one thing in her head; but though Mrs.Lapham could escape without telling anything of Penelope, she could notescape seeing how wholly Irene was engrossed with hopes now turned sovain and impossible. She was still talking of that dinner, of nothingbut that dinner, and begging for flattery of herself and praise of him,which her mother had till now been so ready to give."Seems to me you don't take very much interest, mamma!" she said,laughing and blushing at one point."Yes,--yes, I do," protested Mrs. Lapham, and then the girl prattled on."I guess I shall get one of those pins that Nanny Corey had in herhair. I think it would become me, don't you?" "Yes; but Irene--I don'tlike to have you go on so, till--unless he's said something toshow--You oughtn't to give yourself up to thinking----" But at this thegirl turned so white, and looked such reproach at her, that she addedfrantically: "Yes, get the pin. It is just the thing for you! Butdon't disturb Penelope. Let her alone till I get back. I'm going outto ride with your father. He'll be here in half an hour. Are youthrough? Ring, then. Get yourself that fan you saw the other day.Your father won't say anything; he likes to have you look well. Icould see his eyes on you half the time the other night.""I should have liked to have Pen go with me," said Irene, restored toher normal state of innocent selfishness by these flatteries. "Don'tyou suppose she'll be up in time? What's the matter with her that shedidn't sleep?""I don't know. Better let her alone.""Well," submitted Irene.