“We must, Si,” returned his wife, with gentle gratitude. Lapham groaned. “Where does he live?” she asked.
“On Bolingbroke Street. He gave me his number.”
“Well, it wouldn’t do any good. What could he say to us?”
“Oh, I don’t know as he could say anything,” said Lapham hopelessly; and neither of them said anything more till they crossed the Milldam and found themselves between the rows of city houses.
“Don’t drive past the new house, Si,” pleaded his wife. “I couldn’t bear to see it. Drive—drive up Bolingbroke Street. We might as well see where he does live.”
“Well,” said Lapham. He drove along slowly. “That’s the place,” he said finally, stopping the mare and pointing with his whip.
“It wouldn’t do any good,” said his wife, in a tone which he understood as well as he understood her words. He turned the mare up to the curbstone.
“You take the reins a minute,” he said, handing them to his wife.
He got down and rang the bell, and waited till the door opened; then he came back and lifted his wife out. “He’s in,” he said.
He got the hitching weight from under the buggy seat and made it fast to the mare’s bit.
“Do you think she’ll stand with that?” asked Mrs. Lapham.
“I guess so. If she don’t, no matter.”
“Ain’t you afraid she’ll take cold?” she persisted, trying to make delay.
“Let her!” said Lapham. He took his wife’s trembling hand under his arm, and drew her to the door.
“He’ll think we’re crazy,” she murmured in her broken pride.
“Well, we are,” said Lapham. “Tell him we’d like to see him alone awhile,” he said to the girl who was holding the door ajar for him, and she showed him into the reception room, which had been the Protestant confessional for many burdened souls before their time, coming, as they did, with the belief that they were bowed down with the only misery like theirs in the universe; for each one of us must suffer long to himself before he can learn that he is but one in a great community of wretchedness, which has been pitilessly repeating itself from the foundation of the world.
They were as loath to touch their trouble when the minister came in as if it were their disgrace; but Lapham did so at last, and, with a simple dignity which he had wanted in his bungling and apologetic approaches, he laid the affair clearly before the minister’s compassionate and reverent eye. He spared Corey’s name, but he did not pretend that it was not himself and his wife and their daughters who were concerned.
“I don’t know as I’ve got any right to trouble you with this thing,” he said, in the moment while Sewell sat pondering the case, “and I don’t know as I’ve got any warrant for doing it. But, as I told my wife here, there was something about you—I don’t know whether it was anything you said exactly—that made me feel as if you could help us. I guess I didn’t say so much as that to her; but that’s the way I felt. And here we are. And if it ain’t all right—”
“Surely,” said Sewell, “it’s all right. I thank you for coming—for trusting your trouble with me. A time comes to every one of us when we can’t help ourselves, and then we must get others to help us. If people turn to me at such a time, I feel sure that I was put into the world for something—if nothing more than to give my pity, my sympathy.”
The brotherly words, so plain, so sincere, had a welcome in them that these poor outcasts of sorrow could not doubt.
“Yes,” said Lapham huskily, and his wife began to wipe the tears again under her veil.
Sewell remained silent, and they waited till he should speak. “We can be of use to one another here, because we can always be wiser for someone else than we can for ourselves. We can see another’s sins and errors in a more merciful light—and that is always a fairer light—than we can our own; and we can look more sanely at others’ afflictions.” He had addressed these words to Lapham; now he turned to his wife. “If someone had come to you, Mrs. Lapham, in just this perplexity, what would you have thought?”
“I don’t know as I understand you,” faltered Mrs. Lapham.
Sewell repeated his words, and added, “I mean, what do you think someone else ought to do in your place?”
“Was there ever any poor creatures in such a strait before?” she asked, with pathetic incredulity.
“There’s no new trouble under the sun,” said the minister.
“Oh, if it was anyone else, I should say—I should say—Why, of course! I should say that their duty was to let—” She paused.
“One suffer instead of three, if none is to blame?” suggested Sewell. “That’s sense, and that’s justice. It’s the economy of pain which naturally suggests itself, and which would insist upon itself, if we were not all perverted by traditions which are the figment of the shallowest sentimentality. Tell me, Mrs. Lapham, didn’t this come into your mind when you first learned how matters stood?”
“Why, yes, it flashed across me. But I didn’t think it could be right.”
“And how was it with you, Mr. Lapham?”
“Why, that’s what I thought, of course. But I didn’t see my way—”
“No,” cried the minister, “we are all blinded, we are all weakened, by a false ideal of self-sacrifice. It wraps us ’round with its meshes, and we can’t fight our way out of it. Mrs. Lapham, what made you feel that it might be better for three to suffer than one?”
“Why, she did herself. I know she would die sooner than take him away from her.”
“I suppose so!” cried the minister bitterly. “And yet she is a sensible girl, your daughter?”
“She has more common sense—”
“Of course! But in such a case we somehow think it must be wrong to use our common sense. I don’t know where this false ideal comes from, unless it comes from the novels that befool and debauch almost every intelligence in some degree. It certainly doesn’t come from Christianity, which instantly repudiates it when confronted with it. Your daughter believes, in spite of her common sense, that she ought to make herself and the man who loves her unhappy, in order to assure the lifelong wretchedness of her sister, whom he doesn’t love, simply because her sister saw him and fancied him first! And I’m sorry to say that ninety-nine young people out of a hundred—oh, nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand!—would consider that noble and beautiful and heroic; whereas you know at the bottom of your hearts that it would be foolish and cruel and revolting. You know what marriage is! And what it must be without love on both sides.”
The minister had grown quite heated and red in the face.
“I lose all patience!” he went on vehemently. “This poor child of yours has somehow been brought to believe that it will kill her sister if her sister does not have what does not belong to her, and what it is not in the power of all the world, or any soul in the world, to give her. Her sister will suffer—yes, keenly!—in heart and in pride; but she will not die. You will suffer too, in your tenderness for her; but you must do your duty. You must help her to give up. You would be guilty if you did less. Keep clearly in mind that you are doing right, and the only possible good. And God be with you!”
XIX
“HE talked sense, Persis,” said Lapham gently, as he mounted to his wife’s side in the buggy and drove slowly homeward through the dusk.
“Yes, he talked sense,” she admitted. But she added bitterly, “I guess, if he had it to do! Oh, he’s right, and it’s got to be done. There ain’t any other way for it. It’s sense; and, yes, it’s justice.” They walked to their door after they left the horse at the livery stable around the corner, where Lapham kept it. “I want you should send Irene up to our room as soon as we get in, Silas.”
“Why, ain’t you going to have any supper first?” faltered Lapham with his latchkey in the lock.
“No. I can’t lose a minute. I
f I do, I shan’t do it at all.”
“Look here, Persis,” said her husband tenderly, “let me do this thing.”
“Oh, you!” said his wife, with a woman’s compassionate scorn for a man’s helplessness in such a case. “Send her right up. And I shall feel—” She stopped to spare him.
Then she opened the door, and ran up to her room without waiting to speak to Irene, who had come into the hall at the sound of her father’s key in the door.
“I guess your mother wants to see you upstairs,” said Lapham, looking away.
Her mother turned ’round and faced the girl’s wondering look as Irene entered the chamber, so close upon her that she had not yet had time to lay off her bonnet; she stood with her wraps still on her arm.
“Irene!” she said harshly, “there is something you have got to bear. It’s a mistake we’ve all made. He don’t care anything for you. He never did. He told Pen so last night. He cares for her.”
The sentences had fallen like blows. But the girl had taken them without flinching. She stood up immovable, but the delicate rose-light of her complexion went out and left her colorless. She did not offer to speak.
“Why don’t you say something?” cried her mother. “Do you want to kill me, Irene?”
“Why would I want to hurt you, Mama?” the girl replied steadily, but in an alien voice. “There’s nothing to say. I want to see Pen a minute.”
She turned and left the room. As she mounted the stairs that led to her own and her sister’s rooms, on the floor above, her mother helplessly followed. Irene went first to her own room, at the front of the house, and then came out, leaving the door open and the gas flaring behind her. The mother could see that she had tumbled many things out of the drawers of her bureau upon the marble top.
She passed her mother, where she stood in the entry. “You can come too, if you want to, Mama,” she said.
She opened Penelope’s door without knocking, and went in. Penelope sat at the window, as in the morning. Irene did not go to her; but she went and laid a gold hairpin on her bureau, and said, without looking at her, “There’s a pin that I got today, because it was like his sister’s. It won’t become a dark person so well, but you can have it.”
She stuck a scrap of paper in the side of Penelope’s mirror. “There’s that account of Mr. Stanton’s ranch. You’ll want to read it, I presume.”
She laid a withered boutonniere on the bureau beside the pin. “There’s his buttonhole bouquet. He left it by his plate, and I stole it.”
She had a pine shaving, fantastically tied up with a knot of ribbon, in her hand. She held it a moment; then, looking deliberately at Penelope, she went up to her, and dropped it in her lap without a word. She turned, and, advancing a few steps, tottered and seemed about to fall.
Her mother sprang forward with an imploring cry, “Oh, ’Rene, ’Rene, ’Rene!”
Irene recovered herself before her mother could reach her. “Don’t touch me,” she said icily. “Mama, I’m going to put on my things. I want Papa to walk with me. I’m choking here.”
“I—I can’t let you go out, Irene, child,” began her mother.
“You’ve got to,” replied the girl. “Tell Papa to hurry his supper.”
“Oh, poor soul! He doesn’t want any supper. He knows it too.”
“I don’t want to talk about that. Tell him to get ready.”
She left them once more.
Mrs. Lapham turned a hapless glance upon Penelope.
“Go and tell him, Mother,” said the girl. “I would, if I could. If she can walk, let her. It’s the only thing for her.” She sat still; she did not even brush to the floor the fantastic thing that lay in her lap, and that sent up faintly the odor of the sachet powder with which Irene liked to perfume her boxes.
Lapham went out with the unhappy child, and began to talk with her, crazily, incoherently, enough.
She mercifully stopped him. “Don’t talk, Papa. I don’t want anyone should talk with me.”
He obeyed, and they walked silently on and on. In their aimless course they reached the new house on the water side of Beacon, and she made him stop, and stood looking up at it. The scaffolding, which had so long defaced the front, was gone, and in the light of the gas lamp before it all the architectural beauty of the facade was suggested, and much of the finely felt detail was revealed. Seymour had pretty nearly satisfied himself in that rich facade; certainly Lapham had not stinted him of the means.
“Well,” said the girl, “I shall never live in it,” and she began to walk on.
Lapham’s sore heart went down, as he lumbered heavily after her. “Oh yes, you will, Irene. You’ll have lots of good times there yet.”
“No,” she answered, and said nothing more about it. They had not talked of their trouble at all, and they did not speak of it now. Lapham understood that she was trying to walk herself weary, and he was glad to hold his peace and let her have her way. She halted him once more before the red and yellow lights of an apothecary’s window.
“Isn’t there something they give you to make you sleep?” she asked vaguely. “I’ve got to sleep tonight!”
Lapham trembled. “I guess you don’t want anything, Irene.”
“Yes, I do! Get me something!” she retorted willfully. “If you don’t, I shall die. I must sleep.”
They went in, and Lapham asked for something to make a nervous person sleep. Irene stood poring over the showcase, full of brushes and trinkets, while the apothecary put up the bromide, which he guessed would be about the best thing. She did not show any emotion; her face was like a stone, while her father’s expressed the anguish of his sympathy. He looked as if he had not slept for a week; his fat eyelids drooped over his glassy eyes, and his cheeks and throat hung flaccid. He started as the apothecary’s cat stole smoothly up and rubbed itself against his leg; and it was to him that the man said, “You want to take a tablespoonful of that as long as you’re awake. I guess it won’t take a great many to fetch you.”
“All right,” said Lapham, and paid and went out. “I don’t know but I shall want some of it,” he said, with a joyless laugh.
Irene came closer up to him and took his arm. He laid his heavy paw on her gloved fingers. After a while she said, “I want you should let me go up to Lapham tomorrow.”
“To Lapham? Why, tomorrow’s Sunday, Irene. You can’t go tomorrow.”
“Well, Monday, then. I can live through one day here.”
“Well,” said the father passively. He made no pretense of asking her why she wished to go, nor any attempt to dissuade her.
“Give me that bottle,” she said, when he opened the door at home for her, and she ran up to her own room.
The next morning Irene came to breakfast with her mother; the Colonel and Penelope did not appear, and Mrs. Lapham looked sleep-broken and careworn.
The girl glanced at her. “Don’t you fret about me, Mama,” she said. “I shall get along.” She seemed herself as steady and strong as rock.
“I don’t like to see you keeping up so, Irene,” replied her mother. “It’ll be all the worse for you when you do break. Better give way a little at the start.”
“I shan’t break, and I’ve given way all I’m going to. I’m going to Lapham tomorrow—I want you should go with me, Mama—and I guess I can keep up one day here. All about it is, I don’t want you should say anything, or look anything. And, whatever I do, I don’t want you should try to stop me. And, the first thing, I’m going to take her breakfast up to her. Don’t!” she cried, intercepting the protest on her mother’s lips. “I shall not let it hurt Pen, if I can help it. She’s never done a thing nor thought a thing to wrong me. I had to fly out at her last night; but that’s all over now, and I know just what I’ve got to bear.”
She had her way unmolested. She carried Penelope’s breakfast to her, and omitted no care or at
tention that could make the sacrifice complete, with an heroic pretense that she was performing no unusual service. They did not speak, beyond her saying, in a clear dry note, “Here’s your breakfast, Pen,” and her sister’s answering, hoarsely and tremulously, “Oh, thank you, Irene.” And, though two or three times they turned their faces toward each other while Irene remained in the room, mechanically putting its confusion to rights, their eyes did not meet. Then Irene descended upon the other rooms, which she set in order, and some of which she fiercely swept and dusted. She made the beds; and she sent the two servants away to church as soon as they had eaten their breakfast, telling them that she would wash their dishes. Throughout the morning her father and mother heard her about the work of getting dinner, with certain silences which represented the moments when she stopped and stood stock-still, and then, readjusting her burden, forced herself forward under it again.
They sat alone in the family room, out of which their two girls seemed to have died. Lapham could not read his Sunday papers, and she had no heart to go to church, as she would have done earlier in life when in trouble. Just then she was obscurely feeling that the church was somehow to blame for that counsel of Mr. Sewell’s on which they had acted.
“I should like to know,” she said, having brought the matter up, “whether he would have thought it was such a light matter if it had been his own children. Do you suppose he’d have been so ready to act on his own advice if it had been?”
“He told us the right thing to do, Persis—the only thing. We couldn’t let it go on,” urged her husband gently.
“Well, it makes me despise Pen! Irene’s showing twice the character that she is, this very minute.”
The mother said this so that the father might defend her daughter to her. He did not fail. “Irene’s got the easiest part, the way I look at it. And you’ll see that Pen’ll know how to behave when the time comes.”
The Rise of Silas Lapham Page 27