I will not suppose that any of my readers are superficial persons; and
only superficial persons need be told that Alice Carter was a young
woman of unusually strong judgment and sound sense. And, further: all
persons like her are similarly characterized. Doubtless, a sense of
humor is not necessary to the chemist or the naturalist or the
mathematician,—to one pursuing a special branch of knowledge; but in
that science of sciences, the knowledge of men and things, no eminence
is possible without it. ’Tis the blind who fall into pits; and the man
who cannot see the absurd in others can in nowise himself escape being
ridiculous. I know of but one bird with long ears; and he looks
exceeding wise; but let him but venture forth from the twilight of his
hiding-place into the full glare of day, and the first school-boy that
passes whistling by, shall knock him on the head. And so, among men, the
most solemn owl is ever the most solemn ass.
Yes, our little Alice of the merry-glancing hazel eyes was a wise virgin
and of exceeding tact; but when she warned her friend against falling in
love with the Don, she blundered,—blundered most grieviously when she
planted in Mary’s mind the idea that he was not indifferent to her. She
loved Mary dearly, with a love securely based on similarity of
principles and dissimilarity of temperament, and cemented by the closest
association from their very infancy. She admired her, too,—admired her
gifts, the unusual range of her womanly culture, her enthusiasm for all
that was high and noble, the glowing beauty of her language when she
discoursed of anything that kindled her blood. At such times she would
sit gazing upon Mary’s face, illumined as it was with a beautiful
enthusiasm, and feel that she herself was almost despicable. Yet a
reaction always came. Mary was not what is called practical. Her head
was among the stars, as it were, while her feet were stumbling along the
earth; and Alice revenged herself upon her goddess, for her enforced
worship, by playing upon her foibles and blunders with an incessant
spray of delicate and sparkling raillery. Even the school-girl
love-affairs that they had had when about twelve or thirteen years of
age had been characteristic of the two friends. Mary’s youth rejoiced in
the aristocratic name of Arthur, while Alice’s lad was known as plain
Harry. Arthur was curly-haired and pale of face, and generally had, as
he sauntered to school, some novel or other concealed about his person.
Harry was a brisk, bullet-headed chap, champion knucks’ player of the
school; while, at mumble-peg, his stubby, upturned nose allowed him to
rise superior even to defeat.
“I can’t see, Alice, how you can fancy a boy with a pug nose,” said
Mary, one day.
“Harry’s nose turns up, that’s true; but _so did he_, yesterday, and
with his umbrella, which kept you and me dry, while he ran home in the
rain. Somebody else was afraid of getting his _curls_ wet. I’ll tell you
what it is, Mary, _I_ like a boy that carries my books for me and gives
me peaches and French candy and oranges and things; but _you_ want one
with a novelly name and a ‘chiselled nose,’ as you call it,—a _pretty_
boy, in fact.” All which Mary denied With some heat, and they had a tiff
and “didn’t speak” for five long and weary minutes. Alice phrased the
same idea differently some years later. “Mary, I’ll tell you the
difference between you and myself. Your idea of a husband is a man whom
_you_ can adore; mine must adore _me_.”
Alice blundered,—blundered through over-zeal for her friend’s welfare.
She knew Mary’s nature in its every recess; she erred through not
knowing human nature as well. She was only eighteen; hence her knowledge
of mankind was special rather than general. She knew the exaltation of
Mary’s imagination, and felt the danger of her fervid fancy’s laying
hold of such a man as the Don, and converting him into a demi-god by the
alchemy of her fresh, girlish heart. But generalization is not a trait
of the feminine mind. When we hear that some one admires us, we—all of
us—instinctively give that person credit for good taste and
discernment,—_that_, she of the hazel eyes overlooked. Now, good taste
and discernment are admirable traits; how, then, other things being
favorable, can we help admiring our admirers?
“Good-night!” answered Mary; and the two fair heads lay side by side,
deep-sunk in vast, beruffled pillows. Alice, fatigued by the day’s
journey, fell asleep almost immediately. Her companion, though her eyes
were closed, lay thinking. Ah, little Alice, you have sadly blundered!
Mary is thinking of what you have said to her—ransacking her brain for
confirmation of your suggestion. “Yes, I did remark his looking at me
several times at dinner; but what of that? People can look at other
people without being in love with them. And—yes, I did think his eyes
wore a very intense look; but then they always glow like coals. How
beautiful they are!” [Oh, Alice! Alice!!] “terribly beautiful! Oh, if he
but hated you!” And she shivered.
Lying, as she was, locked in Alice’s arms, the nervous, rippling
movement of her body slightly disturbed the latter’s slumbers; but she
merely drew a long breath and exhaled it again with force,—taking a
fresh hold, as it were, on sleep.
“Pshaw! it’s all nonsense! Alice forgets what we all agreed to in
Richmond. Lucy Poythress was obviously his favorite. Of course she was.
Everybody remarked it. I never saw anything like the suddenness of the
fancy he took for her. Well, Lucy will reach the neighborhood in a few
weeks, and then we shall see. I wonder—no, I cannot think that of him.
‘Out of sight, out of mind,’—no, that’s impossible; whatever he may be,
he is not fickle. Let me think. I do recall that he seemed to bow a
shade lower to me than to the others when we left the parlor; but what
of that? Bows must differ like everything else; one must be lower than
the rest. And he is so strong, I suppose he hardly knew that he almost
hurt my hand.” “Stuff!” cried she aloud, with emphasis; whirling out of
Alice’s arms and changing her position.
Many men, in many lands, Poor Thing, have tried that method of changing
the current of their thoughts, and have failed. The chronometer goes
ticking on, lay it how you will; and so the human heart; but that, alas,
unlike the tireless watch, throbs fiercest when ’tis broken.
Alice gave the half-conscious moan of disturbed sleep; and Mary resumed
her meditations, going, again and again, over the same ground. At last
youth and fatigue asserted their claims, and she fell asleep and slept
for hours; then suddenly sprang up with a sharp cry.
“What’s the matter?” asked Alice, in terror.
“Oh, I had such a fearful dream!”
“You did?” said Alice, dropping back upon her pillow. “You frightened me
so-o-o.” And she was asleep again.
Mary had dreamt that she was walking alone on a road through a dark
forest, when suddenly she heard, behind her, the clatter of a horse’s
hoofs. Looking around in terror, she beheld a Knight in full armor, with
visor down, mounted on a powerful black charger, and riding furiously.
The Knight seemed to be making full at her, and she stood transfixed
with fright, and rooted to the ground. As he came up to her, he did not
slacken his speed, but bending to the right, and encircling her waist
with his mighty arm, lifted her from the ground, and, without an effort,
placed her before him on the charger’s neck. On, on, they rushed for
miles and miles; but the horseman spake never a word, nor, for very
terror, could she utter a cry. At last they emerged into a bright,
moonlit plain, and there, standing before them, was the figure of a
young girl. She turned her head at the sound of the charger’s hoofs, and
the moon, shining full on her face, revealed the features of Lucy. “Aha!
it is she!” cried the Knight, breaking silence for the first time. ’Twas
the voice of the Don! And tossing his trembling captive disdainfully to
the ground, he stooped once more, and, seizing Lucy, sped on as before.
Oh, Alice! Alice!! Alice!!!