He might want to please you without wanting to change you by what he did.""Yes.He must have known that nothing would change me,--at least, nothing that he could do.I thought of that.
I shouldn't like him to feel that I couldn't appreciate it, even if I did think it was silly.Should you write to him?""I don't see why not."
"It would be too pointed.No, I shall just let it go.
I wish he hadn't done it."
"Well, he has done it." "And I've tried to write to him about it--two letters: one so humble and grateful that it couldn't stand up on its edge, and the other so pert and flippant.Mother, I wish you could have seen those two letters! I wish I had kept them to look at if I ever got to thinking I had any sense again.
They would take the conceit out of me."
"What's the reason he don't come here any more?""Doesn't he come?" asked Penelope in turn, as if it were something she had not noticed particularly.
"You'd ought to know."
"Yes." She sat silent a while."If he doesn't come, I suppose it's because he's offended at something I did.""What did you do?"
"Nothing.I--wrote to him--a little while ago.I suppose it was very blunt, but I didn't believe he would be angry at it.But this--this that he's done shows he was angry, and that he wasn't just seizing the first chance to get out of it.""What have you done, Pen?" demanded her mother sharply.
"Oh, I don't know.All the mischief in the world, I suppose.
I'll tell you.When you first told me that father was in trouble with his business, I wrote to him not to come any more till I let him.I said I couldn't tell him why, and he hasn't been here since.I'm sure I don't know what it means."Her mother looked at her with angry severity.
"Well, Penelope Lapham! For a sensible child, you AREthe greatest goose I ever saw.Did you think he would come here and SEE if you wouldn't let him come?""He might have written," urged the girl.
Her mother made that despairing "Tchk!" with her tongue, and fell back in her chair."I should have DESPISEDhim if he had written.He's acted just exactly right, and you--you've acted--I don't know HOW you've acted.
I'm ashamed of you.A girl that could be so sensible for her sister, and always say and do just the right thing, and then when it comes to herself to be such a DISGUSTING******ton!"
"I thought I ought to break with him at once, and not let him suppose that there was any hope for him or me if father was poor.It was my one chance, in this whole business, to do anything heroic, and I jumped at it.
You mustn't think, because I can laugh at it now, that Iwasn't in earnest, mother! I WAS--dead! But the Colonel has gone to ruin so gradually, that he's spoilt everything.
I expected that he would be bankrupt the next day, and that then HE would understand what I meant.
But to have it drag along for a fortnight seems to take all the heroism out of it, and leave it as flat!" She looked at her mother with a smile that shone through her tears, and a pathos that quivered round her jesting lips.
"It's easy enough to be sensible for other people.
But when it comes to myself, there I am! Especially, when I want to do what I oughtn't so much that it seems as if doing what I didn't want to do MUST be doing what Iought! But it's been a great success one way, mother.
It's helped me to keep up before the Colonel.If it hadn't been for Mr.Corey's staying away, and my feeling so indignant with him for having been badly treated by me, I shouldn't have been worth anything at all."The tears started down her cheeks, but her mother said, "Well, now, go along, and write to him.It don't matter what you say, much; and don't be so very particular."Her third attempt at a letter pleased her scarcely better than the rest, but she sent it, though it seemed so blunt and awkward.She wrote:--DEAR FRIEND,--I expected when I sent you that note, that you would understand, almost the next day, why Icould not see you any more.You must know now, and you must not think that if anything happened to my father, I should wish you to help him.But that is no reason why I should not thank you, and I do thank you, for offering.
It was like you, I will say that.
Yours sincerely, PENELOPE LAPHAM.
She posted her letter, and he sent his reply in the evening, by hand:--DEAREST,--What I did was nothing, till you praised it.
Everything I have and am is yours.Won't you send a line by the bearer, to say that I may come to see you? I know how you feel; but l am sure that I can make you think differently.You must consider that I loved you without a thought of your father's circumstances, and always shall.
T.C.
The generous words were blurred to her eyes by the tears that sprang into them.But she could only write in answer:--"Please do not come; I have made up my mind.As long as this trouble is hanging over us, I cannot see you.
And if father is unfortunate, all is over between us."She brought his letter to her mother, and told her what she had written in reply.Her mother was thoughtful a while before she said, with a sigh, "Well, I hope you've begun as you can carry out, Pen.""Oh, I shall not have to carry out at all.I shall not have to do anything.That's one comfort--the only comfort." She went away to her own room, and when Mrs.Lapham told her husband of the affair, he was silent at first, as she had been.Then he said, "I don't know as I should have wanted her to done differently;I don't know as she could.If I ever come right again, she won't have anything to feel meeching about; and if Idon't, I don't want she should be beholden to anybody.
And I guess that's the way she feels."
The Coreys in their turn sat in judgment on the fact which their son felt bound to bring to their knowledge.
"She has behaved very well," said Mrs.Corey, to whom her son had spoken.
