“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 I can keep to myself exactly. It seems to belong to too many other people.”
Her mother took a crazy encouragement from her return to her old way of saying 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 come right — —”
“You tell Irene that, mother.”
Mrs. Lapham had put her hand on the door-key; she dropped it, and looked at the girl with a sort of beseeching appeal for the comfort she could not imagine herself. “Don’t look at me, mother,” said Penelope, shaking her head. “You know that if Irene were to die without knowing it, it wouldn’t come right for me.”
“Pen!”
“I’ve read of cases where a girl gives up the man that loves her so as to make some other girl happy that the man doesn’t love. That might be done.”
“Your father would think you were a fool,” said Mrs. Lapham, finding a sort of refuge in her strong disgust for the pseudo heroism. “No! If there’s to be any giving up, let it be by the one that shan’t make anybody but herself suffer. There’s trouble and sorrow enough in the world, without MAKING it on purpose!”
She unlocked the door, but Penelope slipped round and set herself against it. “Irene shall not give up!”
“I will see your father about it,” said the mother. “Let me out now — —”
“Don’t let Irene come here!”
“No. I will tell her that you haven’t slept. Go to bed now, and try to get some rest. She isn’t up herself yet. You must have some breakfast.”
“No; let me sleep if I can. I can get something when I wake up. I’ll come down if I can’t sleep. Life has got to go on. It does when there’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 out and opened Irene’s door. The girl lifted her head drowsily from her pillow “Don’t disturb your sister when you get up, Irene. She hasn’t slept well — —”
“PLEASE don’t talk! I’m almost DEAD with sleep!” returned Irene. “Do go, mamma! I shan’t disturb her.” She turned her face down in the pillow, and pulled the covering up over her ears.
The mother slowly closed the door and went downstairs, feeling bewildered and baffled almost beyond the power to move. The time had been when she would have tried to find out why this judgment had been sent upon her. But now she could not feel that the innocent suffering of others was inflicted for her fault; she shrank instinctively from that cruel and egotistic misinterpretation of the mystery of pain and loss. She saw her two children, equally if differently dear to her, destined to trouble that nothing could avert, and she could not blame either 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 him in this first moment, she could still be just to him in it. She was a woman who had been used to seek the light by striving; she had hitherto literally worked to it. But it is the curse of prosperity that it takes work away from us, and shuts that door to hope and health of spirit. In this house, where everything had come to be done for her, she had no tasks to interpose between her and her despair. She sat down in her own room and let her hands fall in her lap, — the hands that had once been so helpful and busy, — and tried to think it all out. She had never heard of the fate that was once supposed to appoint the sorrows of men irrespective of their blamelessness or blame, before the time when it came to be believed that sorrows were penalties; but in her simple way she recognised something like that mythic power when she rose 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 escape from the misery to come — the misery which had come already to Penelope and herself, and that must come to Irene and her father. She started when she definitely thought of her husband, and thought with what violence it would work in every fibre of his rude strength. She feared that, and she feared something worse — the effect which his pride and ambition might seek to give it; and it was with terror of this, as well as the natural trust with which a woman must turn to her husband in any anxiety at last, that she felt she could not wait for evening to take counsel with him. When she considered how wrongly he might take it all, it seemed as if it were already known to him, and she was impatient to prevent his error.
She sent out for a messenger, whom she despatched with a note to his place of business: “Silas, I should like to ride with you this afternoon. Can’t you come home early? Persis.” And she was at dinner with Irene, evading her questions about Penelope, when answer came that he would be at the house with the buggy at half-past two. It is easy to 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 not escape seeing how wholly Irene was engrossed with hopes now turned so vain and impossible. She was still talking of that dinner, of nothing but 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 her hair. I think it would become me, don’t you?”
“Yes; but Irene — I don’t like to have you go on so, till — unless he’s said something to show — You oughtn’t to give yourself up to thinking — —” But at this the girl turned so white, and looked such reproach at her, that she added frantically: “Yes, get the pin. It is just the thing for you! But don’t disturb Penelope. Let her alone till I get back. I’m going out to ride with your father. He’ll be here in half an hour. Are you through? Ring, then. Get yourself that fan you saw the other day. Your father won’t say anything; he likes to have you look well. I could see his eyes on you half the time the other night.”
“I should have liked to have Pen go with me,” said Irene, restored to her normal state of innocent selfishness by these flatteries. “Don’t you suppose she’ll be up in time? What’s the matter with her that she didn’t sleep?”
“I don’t know. Better let her alone.”
“Well,” submitted Irene.
XVIII.
MRS. LAPHAM went away to put on her bonnet and cloak, and she was waiting at the window when her husband drove up. She opened the door and ran down the steps. “Don’t get out; I can help myself in,” and she clambered to his side, while he kept the fidgeting mare still with voice and touch.
“Where do you want I should go?” he asked, turning the buggy.
“Oh, I don’t care. Out Brookline way, I guess. I wish you hadn’t brought this fool of a horse,” she gave way petulantly. “I wanted to have a talk.”
“When I can’t drive this mare and talk too, I’ll sell out altogether,” said Lapham. “She’ll be quiet enough when she’s had her spin.”
“Well,” said his wife; and while they were making their way across the city to the Milldam she answered certain questions he asked about some points in the new house.
“I should have liked to have you stop there,” he began; but she answered so quickly, “Not to-day,” that he gave it up and turned his horse’s head westward when they struck Beacon Street.
He let the mare out, and he did not pull her in till he left the Brighton road and struck off under the low boughs that met above one of the quiet streets of Brookline, where the stone cottages, with here and there a patch of determined ivy on thei
r northern walls, did what they could to look English amid the glare of the autumnal foliage. The smooth earthen track under the mare’s hoofs was scattered with flakes of the red and yellow gold that made the air luminous around them, and the perspective was gay with innumerable tints and tones.
“Pretty sightly,” said Lapham, with a long sigh, letting the reins lie loose in his vigilant hand, to which he seemed to relegate the whole charge of the mare. “I want to talk with you about Rogers, Persis. He’s been getting in deeper and deeper with me; and last night he pestered me half to death to go in with him in one of his schemes. I ain’t going to blame anybody, but I hain’t got very much confidence in Rogers. And I told him so last night.”
“Oh, don’t talk to me about Rogers!” his wife broke in. “There’s something a good deal more important than Rogers in the world, and more important than your business. It seems as if you couldn’t think of anything else — that and the new house. Did you suppose I wanted to ride so as to talk Rogers with you?” she demanded, yielding to the necessity a wife feels of making her husband pay for her suffering, even if he has not inflicted it. “I declare — —”
“Well, hold on, now!” said Lapham. “What DO you want to talk about? I’m listening.”
His wife began, “Why, it’s just this, Silas Lapham!” and then she broke off to say, “Well, you may wait, now — starting me wrong, when it’s hard enough anyway.”
Lapham silently turned his whip over and over in his hand and waited.
“Did you suppose,” she asked at last, “that that young Corey had been coming to see Irene?”
“I don’t know what I supposed,” replied Lapham sullenly. “You always said so.” He looked sharply at her under his lowering brows.
“Well, he hasn’t,” said Mrs. Lapham; and she replied to the frown that blackened on her husband’s face. “And I can tell you what, if you take it in that way I shan’t speak another word.”
“Who’s takin’ it what way?” retorted Lapham savagely. “What are you drivin’ at?”
“I want you should promise that you’ll hear me out quietly.”
“I’ll hear you out if you’ll give me a chance. I haven’t said a word yet.”
“Well, I’m not going to have you flying into forty furies, and looking like a perfect thunder-cloud at the very start. I’ve had to bear it, and you’ve got to bear it too.”
“Well, let me have a chance at it, then.”
“It’s nothing to blame anybody about, as I can see, and the only question is, what’s the best thing to do about it. There’s only one thing we can do; for if he don’t care for the child, nobody wants to make him. If he hasn’t been coming to see her, he hasn’t, and that’s all there is to it.”
“No, it ain’t!” exclaimed Lapham.
“There!” protested his wife.
“If he hasn’t been coming to see her, what HAS he been coming for?”
“He’s been coming to see Pen!” cried the wife. “NOW are you satisfied?” Her tone implied that he had brought it all upon them; but at the sight of the swift passions working in his face to a perfect comprehension of the whole trouble, she fell to trembling, and her broken voice lost all the spurious indignation she had put into it. “O Silas! what are we going to do about it? I’m afraid it’ll kill Irene.”
Lapham pulled off the loose driving-glove from his right hand with the fingers of his left, in which the reins lay. He passed it over his forehead, and then flicked from it the moisture it had gathered there. He caught his breath once or twice, like a man who meditates a struggle with superior force and then remains passive in its grasp.
His wife felt the need of comforting him, as she had felt the need of afflicting him. “I don’t say but what it can be made to come out all right in the end. All I say is, I don’t see my way clear yet.”
“What makes you think he likes Pen?” he asked quietly.
“He told her so last night, and she told me this morning. Was he at the office to-day?”
“Yes, he was there. I haven’t been there much myself. He didn’t say anything to me. Does Irene know?”
“No; I left her getting ready to go out shopping. She wants to get a pin like the one Nanny Corey had on.”
“O my Lord!” groaned Lapham.
“It’s been Pen from the start, I guess, or almost from the start. I don’t say but what he was attracted some by Irene at the very first; but I guess it’s been Pen ever since he saw her; and we’ve taken up with a notion, and blinded ourselves with it. Time and again I’ve had my doubts whether he cared for Irene any; but I declare to goodness, when he kept coming, I never hardly thought of Pen, and I couldn’t help believing at last he DID care for Irene. Did it ever strike you he might be after Pen?”
“No. I took what you said. I supposed you knew.”
“Do you blame me, Silas?” she asked timidly.
“No. What’s the use of blaming? We don’t either of us want anything but the children’s good. What’s it all of it for, if it ain’t for that? That’s what we’ve both slaved for all our lives.”
“Yes, I know. Plenty of people LOSE their children,” she suggested.
“Yes, but that don’t comfort me any. I never was one to feel good because another man felt bad. How would you have liked it if some one had taken comfort because his boy lived when ours died? No, I can’t do it. And this is worse than death, someways. That comes and it goes; but this looks as if it was one of those things that had come to stay. The way I look at it, there ain’t any hope for anybody. Suppose we don’t want Pen to have him; will that help Irene any, if he don’t want her? Suppose we don’t want to let him have either; does that help either!”
“You talk,” exclaimed Mrs. Lapham, “as if our say was going to settle it. Do you suppose that Penelope Lapham is a girl to take up with a fellow that her sister is in love with, and that she always thought was in love with her sister, and go off and be happy with him? Don’t you believe but what it would come back to her, as long as she breathed the breath of life, how she’d teased her about him, as I’ve heard Pen tease Irene, and helped to make her think he was in love with her, by showing that she thought so herself? It’s ridiculous!”
Lapham seemed quite beaten down by this argument. His huge head hung forward over his breast; the reins lay loose in his moveless hand; the mare took her own way. At last he lifted his face and shut his heavy jaws.
“Well?” quavered his wife.
“Well,” he answered, “if he wants her, and she wants him, I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.” He looked straight forward, and not at his wife.
She laid her hands on the reins. “Now, you stop right here, Silas Lapham! If I thought that — if I really believed you could be willing to break that poor child’s heart, and let Pen disgrace herself by marrying a man that had as good as killed her sister, just because you wanted Bromfield Corey’s son for a son-in-law — —”
Lapham turned his face now, and gave her a look. “You had better NOT believe that, Persis! Get up!” he called to the mare, without glancing at her, and she sprang forward. “I see you’ve got past being any use to yourself on this subject.”
“Hello!” shouted a voice in front of him. “Where the devil you goin’ to?”
“Do you want to KILL somebody!” shrieked his wife.
There was a light crash, and the mare recoiled her length, and separated their wheels from those of the open buggy in front which Lapham had driven into. He made his excuses to the occupant; and the accident relieved the tension of their feelings, and left them far from the point of mutual injury which they had reached in their common trouble and their unselfish will for their children’s good.
It was Lapham who resumed the talk. “I’m afraid we can’t either of us see this thing in the right light. We’re too near to it. I wish to the Lord there was somebody to talk to about it.”
“Yes,” said his wife; “but there ain’t anybody.”
“Well, I dunno,”
suggested Lapham, after a moment; “why not talk to the minister of your church? May be he could see some way out of it.”
Mrs. Lapham shook her head hopelessly. “It wouldn’t do. I’ve never taken up my connection with the church, and I don’t feel as if I’d got any claim on him.”
“If he’s anything of a man, or anything of a preacher, you HAVE got a claim on him,” urged Lapham; and he spoiled his argument by adding, “I’ve contributed enough MONEY to his church.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Mrs. Lapham. “I ain’t well enough acquainted with Dr. Langworthy, or else I’m TOO well. No; if I was to ask any one, I should want to ask a total stranger. But what’s the use, Si? Nobody could make us see it any different from what it is, and I don’t know as I should want they should.”
It blotted out the tender beauty of the day, and weighed down their hearts ever more heavily within them. They ceased to talk of it a hundred times, and still came back to it. They drove on and on. It began to be late. “I guess we better go back, Si,” said his wife; and as he turned without speaking, she pulled her veil down and began to cry softly behind it, with low little broken sobs.
Lapham started the mare up and drove swiftly homeward. At last his wife stopped crying and began trying to find her pocket. “Here, take mine, Persis,” he said kindly, offering her his handkerchief, and she took it and dried her eyes with it. “There was one of those fellows there the other night,” he spoke again, when his wife leaned back against the cushions in peaceful despair, “that I liked the looks of about as well as any man I ever saw. I guess he was a pretty good man. It was that Mr. Sewell.”
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 246