Chapter: "WHAT's the reason the girls never get down to breakfast any more?"
asked Lapham, when he met his wife at the table in the morning.  He had
been up an hour and a half, and he spoke with the severity of a hungry
man.  "It seems to me they don't amount to ANYthing.  Here I am, at my
time of life, up the first one in the house.  I ring the bell for the
cook at quarter-past six every morning, and the breakfast is on the
table at half-past seven right along, like clockwork, but I never see
anybody but you till I go to the office."

"Oh yes, you do, Si," said his wife soothingly.  "The girls are nearly
always down.  But they're young, and it tires them more than it does us
to get up early."

"They can rest afterwards.  They don't do anything after they ARE up,"
grumbled Lapham.

"Well, that's your fault, ain't it?  You oughtn't to have made so much
money, and then they'd have had to work." She laughed at Lapham's
Spartan mood, and went on to excuse the young people.  "Irene's been up
two nights hand running, and Penelope says she ain't well.  What makes
you so cross about the girls? Been doing something you're ashamed of?"

"I'll tell you when I've been doing anything to be ashamed of," growled
Lapham.

"Oh no, you won't!" said his wife jollily.  "You'll only be hard on the
rest of us.  Come now, Si; what is it?"

Lapham frowned into his coffee with sulky dignity, and said, without
looking up, "I wonder what that fellow wanted here last night?" "What
fellow?"

"Corey. I found him here when I came home, and he said he wanted to see
me; but he wouldn't stop."

"Where was he?"

"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 the
land 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 came
here"--she looked about the room and lowered her voice--"to see you
about 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 Pen
about it, if she ever gets down."

"I guess I shan't wait for her," said Mrs. Lapham; and, as her husband
closed the front door after him, she opened that of her daughter's room
and entered abruptly.

The girl sat at the window, fully dressed, and as if she had been
sitting there a long time.  Without rising, she turned her face towards
her mother.  It merely showed black against the light, and revealed
nothing till her mother came close to her with successive questions.
"Why, how long have you been up, Pen? Why don't you come to your
breakfast? Did you see Mr. Corey when he called last night? Why, what's
the 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!" she
ordered, and her mother mechanically obeyed.  "I don't want Irene in
here.  There's nothing the matter.  Only, Mr. Corey offered himself to
me 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 better
sit down, mother.  You have got to know all about it."

Mrs. Lapham dropped nervelessly into the chair at the other window, and
while the girl went slowly but briefly on, touching only the vital
points of the story, and breaking at times into a bitter drollery, she
sat as if without the power to speak or stir.

"Well, that's all, mother.  I should say I had dreamt, it, if I had
slept any last night; but I guess it really happened."

The mother glanced round at the bed, and said, glad to occupy herself
delayingly with the minor care: "Why, you have been sitting up all
night! You will kill yourself."

"I don't know about killing myself, but I've been sitting up all
night," answered the girl.  Then, seeing that her mother remained
blankly 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 from
her?  Don't you believe I did?"

Her mother made her no answer, as if these ravings of self-accusal
needed none.  "Do you think," she asked simply, "that he got the idea
you 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 the
start; but I tried to blind myself to it.  And when he kept coming----"

"You never thought of me!" cried the girl, with a bitterness that
reached her mother's heart.  "I was nobody! I couldn't feel! No one
could care for me!" The turmoil of despair, of triumph, of remorse and
resentment, 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't
think of you enough.  It did come across me sometimes that may
be----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, no
matter 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, but
she went on anxiously enough, "What will you say to Irene? She's safe
as far as I'm concerned; but if he don't care for her, what will you
do?"

"I don't know what to do," said Mrs. Lapham.  She sat in an apathy from
which she apparently could not rouse herself.  "I don't see as anything
can 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, and
she's capable; and your father's got the money--I don't know what I'm
saying! She ain't equal to him, and she never was.  I kept feeling it
all the time, and yet I kept blinding myself."

"If he had ever cared for her," said Penelope, "it wouldn't have
mattered whether she was equal to him or not.  I'M not equal to him
either."

Her mother went on: "I might have thought it was you; but I had got
set----Well! I can see it all clear enough, now it's too late.  I don't
know what to do."

"And what do you expect me to do?" demanded the girl.  "Do you want ME
to 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 I
should do, Pen?"

"Nothing for me," said Penelope.  "I've had it out with myself.  Now do
the 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 and
faithfull all through, and you had a perfect right to do it.  There
ain't any one to blame.  He's behaved like a gentleman, and I can see
now 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 care
of myself."

"She's nothing but a child.  It's only a fancy with her.  She'll get
over 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 set
on him.  You know that."

"Yes, that's so," said the mother, as promptly as if she had been
arguing to that rather than the contrary effect.

"If I could give him to her, I would.  But he isn't mine to give." She
added 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's
to come of it all.  But she's got to bear her share of it." She rose
and went toward the door.

Penelope ran after her in a sort of terror.  "You're not going to tell
Irene?" she gasped, seizing her mother by either shoulder.

"Yes, I am," said Mrs. Lapham.  "If she's a woman grown, she can bear a
woman's burden."

"I can't let you tell Irene," said the girl, letting fall her face on
her 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? I
did care for him from the first, and I must have tried to make him like
me.  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 with
those large dim eyes of hers.  "What do you think? Even last night! It
was the first time I ever had him all to myself, for myself, and I know
now that I tried to make him think that I was pretty and--funny. And I
didn't try to make him think of her.  I knew that I pleased him, and I
tried to please him more.  Perhaps I could have kept him from saying
that he cared for me; but when I saw he did--I must have seen it--I
couldn't.  I had never had him to myself, and for myself before.  I
needn't have seen him at all, but I wanted to see him; and when I was
sitting there alone with him, how do I know what I did to let him feel
that I cared for him? Now, will you tell Irene? I never thought he did
care for me, and never expected him to.  But I liked him.  Yes--I did
like 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's
worse than dead to her; and so am I. I've turned it over a million
ways, mother; I've looked at it in every light you can put it in, and I
can't make anything but misery out of it.  You can see the misery at
the first glance, and you can't see more or less if you spend your life
looking at it." She laughed again, as if the hopelessness of the thing
amused her.  Then she flew to the extreme of self-assertion. "Well, I
HAVE a right to him, and he has a right to me.  If he's never done
anything 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 make
her happy whatever we do; and why shouldn't I----No, that won't do! I
reached 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 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.

 Penelope reveals the predicament to her mother the next day. Mrs. Lapham admits that Irene is not as mentally equal to Tom as Penelope, but she says she did not consider the possibility of Tom loving her older daughter. Although Penelope tried to avoid any personal contact with Tom, she admits that she tried to attract him. Trying to find a solution to the problem, Penelope suggests the possibility of giving up Tom. "I've read of cases where a girl gives up the man that loves her so as to make the other girl happy that the man doesn't love. That might be done," she says. "Your father would think you were a fool," retorts Mrs. Lapham. Persis decides to confer with Silas before she reveals the situation to Irene. She sends a note to Silas, telling him to come home early that afternoon.

