XX.
The next morning Alice was walking slowly along the road toward thefishing village, when she heard rapid, plunging strides down the woodedhillside on her right. She knew them for Mavering's, and she did notaffect surprise when he made a final leap into the road, and shortenedhis pace beside her.
"May I join you, Miss Pasmer?"
"I am only going down to the herring-houses," she began.
"And you'll let me go with you?" said the young fellow. "The factis--you're always so frank that you make everything else seemsilly--I've been waiting up there in the woods for you to come by.Mrs. Pasmer told me you had started this way, and I cut across lots toovertake you, and then, when you came in sight, I had to let you passbefore I could screw my courage up to the point of running after you.How is that for open-mindedness?"
"It's a very good beginning, I should think."
"Well, don't you think you ought to say now that you're sorry you wereso formidable?"
"Am I so formidable?" she asked, and then recognised that she had beentrapped into a leading question.
"You are to me. Because I would like always to be sure that I hadpleased you, and for the last twelve hours I've only been able tomake sure that I hadn't. That's the consolation I'm going away with. Ithought I'd get you to confirm my impression explicitly. That's why Iwished to join you."
"Are you--were you going away?"
"I'm going by the next boat. What's the use of staying? I should onlymake bad worse. Yesterday I hoped But last night spoiled everything.'Miss Pasmer,'" he broke out, with a rush of feeling, "you must know whyI came up here to Campobello."
His steps took him a little ahead of her, and he could look back intoher face as he spoke. But apparently he saw nothing in it to give himcourage to go on, for he stopped, and then continued, lightly: "And I'mgoing away because I feel that I've made a failure of the expedition. Iknew that you were supremely disgusted with me last night; but it willbe a sort of comfort if you'll tell me so."
"Oh," said Alice, "everybody thought it was very brilliant, I'm sure."
"And you thought it was a piece of buffoonery. Well, it was. I wishyou'd say so, Miss Pasmer; though I didn't mean the playing entirely. Itwould be something to start from, and I want to make a beginning--turnover a new leaf. Can't you help me to inscribe a good resolution of themost iron-clad description on the stainless page? I've lain awake allnight composing one. Wouldn't you like to hear it?"
"I can't see what good that would do," she said, with some relentingtoward a smile, in which he instantly prepared himself to bask.
"But you will when I've done it. Now listen!"
"Please don't go on." She cut him short with a return to her severity,which he would not recognise.
"Well, perhaps I'd better not," he consented. "It's rather a longresolution, and I don't know that I've committed it perfectly yet. ButI do assure you that if you were disgusted last night, you were not theonly one. I was immensely disgusted myself; and why I wanted you to tellme so, was because when I have a strong pressure brought to bear I canbrace up, and do almost anything," he said, dropping into earnest. Thenhe rose lightly again, and added, "You have no idea how unpleasant itis to lie awake all night throwing dust in the eyes of an accusingconscience."
"It must have been, if you didn't succeed," said Alice drily.
"Yes, that's it--that's just the point. If I'd succeeded, I should beall right, don't you see. But it was a difficult case." She turned herface away, but he saw the smile on her cheek, and he laughed as if thiswere what he had been trying to make her do. "I got beaten. I had togive up, and own it. I had to say that I had thrown my chance away, andI had better take myself off." He looked at her with a real anxiety inhis gay eyes.
"The boat goes just after lunch, I believe," she said indifferently.
"Oh yes, I shall have time to get lunch before I go," he said, withbitterness. "But lunch isn't the only thing; it isn't even the mainthing, Miss Pasmer."
"No?" She hardened her heart.
He waited for her to say something more, and then he went on. "Thequestion is whether there's time to undo last night, abolish it, eraseit from the calendar of recorded time--sponge it out, in short--andget back to yesterday afternoon." She made no reply to this. "Don'tyou think it was a very pleasant picnic, Miss Pasmer?" he asked, withpensive respectfulness.
"Very," she answered drily.
He cast a glance at the woods that bordered the road on either side."That weird forest--I shall never forget it."
"No; it was something to remember," she said.
"And the blueberry patch? We mustn't forget the blueberry patch."
"There were a great many blueberries."
She walked on, and he said, "And that bridge--you don't have thatfeeling of having been here before?"
"No."
"Am I walking too fast for you, Miss Pasmer?"
"No; I like to walk fast."
"But wouldn't you like to sit down? On this wayside log, for example?"He pointed it out with his stick. "It seems to invite repose, and I knowyou must be tired."
"I'm not tired."
"Ah, that shows that you didn't lie awake grieving over your folliesall night. I hope you rested well, Miss Pasmer." She said nothing. "IfI thought--if I could hope that you hadn't, it would be a bond ofsympathy, and I would give almost anything for a bond of sympathy justnow, Miss Pasmer. Alice!" he said, with sudden seriousness. "I know thatI'm not worthy even to think of you, and that you're whole worlds aboveme in every way. It's that that takes all heart out of me, and leavesme without a word to say when I'd like to say so much. I would like tospeak--tell you--"
She interrupted him. "I wish to speak to you, Mr. Mavering, and tell youthat--I'm very tired, and I'm going back to the hotel. I must ask you tolet me go back alone."
"Alice, I love you."
"I'm sorry you said it--sorry, sorry."
"Why?" he asked, with hopeless futility.
"Because there can be no love between us--not friendship even--notacquaintance."
"I shouldn't have asked for your acquaintance, your friendship, if--"His words conveyed a delicate reproach, and they stung her, because theyput her in the wrong.
"No matter," she began wildly. "I didn't mean to wound you. But we mustpart, and we must never see each other again:"
He stood confused, as if he could not make it out or believe it. "Butyesterday--"
"It's to-day now."
"Ah, no! It's last night. And I can explain."
"No!" she cried. "You shall not make me out so mean and vindictive. Idon't care for last night, nor for anything that happened." This was nottrue, but it seemed so to her at the moment; she thought that she reallyno longer resented his association with Miss Anderson and his separationfrom herself in all that had taken place.
"Then what is it?"
"I can't tell you. But everything is over between us--that's all."
"But yesterday--and all these days past--you seemed--"
"It's unfair of you to insist--it's ungenerous, ungentlemanly."
That word, which from a woman's tongue always strikes a man like a blowin the face, silenced Mavering. He set his lips and bowed, and theyparted. She turned upon her way, and he kept the path which she had beengoing.
It was not the hour when the piazzas were very full, and she slippedinto the dim hotel corridor undetected, or at least undetained. Sheflung into her room, and confronted her mother.
Mrs. Pasmer was there looking into a trunk that had overflowed from herown chamber. "What is the matter?" she said to her daughter's excitedface.
"Mr. Mavering--"
"Well?"
"And I refused him."
Mrs. Pasmer was one of those ladies who in any finality have a keenretrovision of all the advantages of a different conclusion. She hadbeen thinking, since she told Dan Mavering which way Alice had gone towalk, that if he were to speak to her now, and she were to accept him,it would involve a great many embarrassing conseque
nces; but she hadconsoled herself with the probability that he would not speak so soonafter the effects of last night, but would only try at the furthestto make his peace with Alice. Since he had spoken, though, and she hadrefused him, Mrs. Pasmer instantly saw all the pleasant things thatwould have followed in another event. "Refused him?" she repeatedprovisionally, while she gathered herself for a full exploration of allthe facts.
"Yes, mamma; and I can't talk about it. I wish never to hear his nameagain, or to see him, or to speak to him."
"Why, of course not," said Mrs. Pasmer, with a fine smile, from thevantage-ground of her superior years, "if you've refused him." She leftthe trunk which she had been standing over, and sat down, while Aliceswept to and fro before her excitedly. "But why did you refuse him, mydear?"
"Why? Because he's detestable--perfectly ignoble."
Her mother probably knew how to translate these exalted expressions intothe more accurate language of maturer life. "Do you mean last night?"
"Last night?" cried Alice tragically. "No. Why should I care for lastnight?"
"Then I don't understand what you mean," retorted Mrs. Pasmer. "What didhe say?" she demanded, with authority.
"Mamma, I can't talk about it--I won't."
"But you must, Alice. It's your duty. Of course I must know about it.What did he say?"
Alice walked up and down the room with her lips firmly closed--likeMavering's lips, it occurred to her; and then she opened them, butwithout speaking.
"What did he say?" persisted her mother, and her persistence had itseffect.
"Say?" exclaimed the girl indignantly. "He tried to make me say."
"I see," said Mrs. Pasmer. "Well?"
"But I forced him to speak, and then--I rejected him. That's all."
"Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Pasmer. "He was afraid of you."
"And that's what made it the more odious. Do you think I wished him tobe afraid of me? Would that be any pleasure? I should hate myself if Ihad to quell anybody into being unlike themselves." She sat down for amoment, and then jumped up again, and went to the window, for no reason,and came back.
"Yes," said her mother impartially, "he's light, and he's roundabout. Hecouldn't come straight at anything."
"And would you have me accept such a--being?"
Mrs. Pasmer smiled a little at the literary word, and continued: "Buthe's very sweet, and he's as good as the day's long, and he's very fondof you, and--I thought you liked him."
The girl threw up her arms across her eyes. "Oh, how can you say such athing, mamma?"
She dropped into a chair at the bedside, and let her face fall into herhands, and cried.
Her mother waited for the gust of tears to pass before she said, "But ifyou feel so about it--"
"Mamma!" Alice sprang to her feet.
"It needn't come from you. I could make some excuse to see him--writehim a little note--"
"Never!" exclaimed Alice grandly. "What I've done I've done from myreason, and my feelings have nothing to do with it."
"Oh, very well," said her mother, going out of the room, not whollydisappointed with what she viewed as a respite, and amused by herdaughter's tragics. "But if you think that the feelings have nothing todo with such a matter, you're very much mistaken." If she believed thather daughter did not know her real motives in rejecting Dan Mavering, orhad not been able to give them, she did not say so.
The little group of Aliceolaters on the piazza, who began to canvass thecauses of Mavering's going before the top of his hat disappeared belowthe bank on the path leading to the ferry-boat, were of two minds. Onefaction held that he was going because Alice had refused him, and thathis gaiety up to the last moment was only a mask to hide his despair.The other side contended that, if he and Alice were not actuallyengaged, they understood each other, and he was going away because hewanted to tell his family, or something of that kind. Between the twoopinions Miss Cotton wavered with a sentimental attraction to either."What do you really think?" she asked Mrs. Brinkley, arriving from lunchat the corner of the piazza where the group was seated.
"Oh, what does it matter, at their age?" she demanded.
"But they're just of the age when it does happen to matter," suggestedMrs. Stamwell.
"Yes," said Mrs. Brinkley, "and that's what makes the whole thing soperfectly ridiculous. Just think of two children, one of twenty and theother of twenty-three, proposing to decide their lifelong destiny insuch a vital matter! Should we trust their judgment in regard to thesmallest business affair? Of course not. They're babes in arms, morallyand mentally speaking. People haven't the data for being wisely in lovetill they've reached the age when they haven't the least wish to be so.Oh, I suppose I thought that I was a grown woman too when I was twenty;I can look back and see that I did; and, what's more preposterous still,I thought Mr. Brinkley was a man at twenty-four. But we were no more fitto accept or reject each other at that infantile period--"
"Do you really think so?" asked Miss Cotton, only partially credulous ofMrs. Brinkley's irony.
"Yes, it does seem out of all reason," admitted Mrs. Stamwell.
"Of course it is," said Mrs. Brinkley. "If she has rejected him, she'sdone a very safe thing. Nobody should be allowed to marry before fifty.Then, if people married, it would be because they knew that they lovedeach other."
Miss Cotton reflected a moment. "It is strange that such an importantquestion should have to be decided at an age when the judgment is so farfrom mature. I never happened to look at it in that light before."
"Yes," said Mrs. Brinkley--and she made herself comfortable in an armchair commanding a stretch of the bay over which the ferry-boat mustpass--"but it's only part and parcel of the whole affair. I'm sure thatno grown person can see the ridiculous young things--inexperienced,ignorant, featherbrained--that nature intrusts with children, theirimmortal little souls and their extremely perishable little bodies,without rebelling at the whole system. When you see what most youngmothers are, how perfectly unfit and incapable, you wonder that thewhole race doesn't teeth and die. Yes, there's one thing I feel prettysure of--that, as matters are arranged now, there oughtn't to be mothersat all, there ought to be only grandmothers."
The group all laughed, even Miss Cotton, but she was the first to becomegrave. At the bottom of her heart there was a doubt whether so light away of treating serious things was not a little wicked.
"Perhaps," she said, "we shall have to go back to the idea thatengagements and marriages are not intended to be regulated by thejudgment, but by the affections."
"I don't know what's intended," said Mrs. Brinkley, "but I know what is.In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the affections have it their ownway, and I must say I don't think the judgment could make a greater messof it. In fact," she continued, perhaps provoked to the excess by thedeprecation she saw in Miss Cotton's eye, "I consider every brokenengagement nowadays a blessing in disguise."
Miss Cotton said nothing. The other ladies said, "Why, Mrs. Brinkley!"
"Yes. The thing has gone altogether too far. The pendulum has swung inthat direction out of all measure. We are married too much. And as anatural consequence we are divorced too much. The whole case is in anutshell: if there were no marriages, there would be no divorces, andthat great abuse would be corrected, at any rate."
All the ladies laughed, Miss Cotton more and more sorrowfully. She likedto have people talk as they do in genteel novels. Mrs. Brinkley's boldexpressions were a series of violent shocks to her nature, and imparteda terrible vibration to the fabric of her whole little rose-colouredideal world; if they had not been the expressions of a person whom agreat many unquestionable persons accepted, who had such an undoubtedstanding, she would have thought them very coarse. As it was, they hada great fascination for her. "But in a case like that of"--she lookedround and lowered her voice--"our young friends, I'm sure you couldn'trejoice if the engagement were broken off."
"Well, I'm not going to be 'a mush of concession,' as Emerson says, MissCotton. And, in
the first place, how do you know they're engaged?"
"Ah, I don't; I didn't mean that they were. But wouldn't it be alittle pathetic if, after all that we've seen going on, his coming hereexpressly on her account, and his perfect devotion to her for the pasttwo weeks, it should end in nothing?"
"Two weeks isn't a very long time to settle the business of a lifetime."
"No."
"Perhaps she's proposed delay; a little further acquaintance."
"Oh, of course that would be perfectly right. Do you think she did?"
"Not if she's as wise as the rest of us would have been at her age. ButI think she ought."
"Yes?" said Miss Cotton semi-interrogatively.
"Do you think his behaviour last night would naturally impress her withhis wisdom and constancy?"
"No, I can't say that it would, but--"
"And this Alice of yours is rather a severe young person. She has herideas, and I'm afraid they're rather heroic. She'd be just with him, ofcourse. But there's nothing a man dreads so much as justice--some men."
"Yes," pursued Miss Cotton, "but that very disparity--I know they'revery unlike--don't you think--"
"Oh yes, I know the theory about that. But if they were exactly alikein temperament, they'd be sufficiently unlike for the purposes ofcounterparts. That was arranged once for all when 'male and femalecreated He them.' I've no doubt their fancy was caught by all the kindsof difference they find in each other; that's just as natural as it'ssilly. But the misunderstanding, the trouble, the quarrelling, thewear and tear of spirit, that they'd have to go through before theyassimilated--it makes me tired, as the boys say. No: I hope, for theyoung man's own sake, he's got his conge."
"But he's so kind, so good--"
"My dear, the world is surfeited with kind, good men. There are half adozen of them at the other end of the piazza smoking; and there comesanother to join them," she added, as a large figure, semicircular inprofile, advanced itself from a doorway toward a vacant chair among thesmokers. "The very soul of kindness and goodness." She beckoned towardher husband, who caught sight of her gesture. "Now I can tell you allhis mental processes. First, surprise at seeing some one beckoning;then astonishment that it's I, though who else should beckon him?--thenwonder what I can want; then conjecture that I may want him to comehere; then pride in his conjecture; rebellion; compliance."
The ladies were in a scream of laughter as Mr. Brinkley lumbered heavilyto their group.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Do you believe in broken engagements? Now quick--off-hand!"
"Who's engaged?"
"No matter."
"Well, you know Punch's advice to those about to marry?"
"I know--chestnuts," said his wife scornfully. They dismissed each otherwith tender bluntness, and he went in to get a match.
"Ah, Mrs. Brinkley," said one of the ladies, "it would be of no use foryou to preach broken engagements to any one who saw you and Mr. Brinkleytogether." They fell upon her, one after another, and mocked her withthe difference between her doctrine and practice; and they were all themore against her because they had been perhaps a little put down by herwhimsical sayings.
"Yes," she admitted. "But we've been thirty years coming to theunderstanding that you all admire so much; and do you think it was worththe time?"