In the edge of the woods and the open spaces among the trees the
blueberries grew larger and sweeter in the late Northern summer than
a more southern sun seems to make them. They hung dense upon the low
bushes, and gave them their tint through the soft grey bloom that veiled
their blue. Sweet-fern in patches broke their mass here and there, and
exhaled its wild perfume to the foot or skirt brushing through it.
“I don't think there's anything much prettier than these clusters; do
you, Miss Pasmer?” asked Mavering, as he lifted a bunch pendent from the
little tree before he stripped it into the bowl he carried. “And see! it
spoils the bloom to gather them.” He held out a handful, and then tossed
them away. “It ought to be managed more aesthetically for an
occasion like this. I'll tell you what, Miss Pasmer: are you used to
blueberrying?”
“No,” she said; “I don't know that I ever went blueberrying before.
Why?” she asked.
“Because, if you haven't, you wouldn't be very efficient perhaps, and so
you might resign yourself to sitting on that log and holding the berries
in your lap, while I pick them.”
“But what about the bowls, then?”
“Oh, never mind them. I've got an idea. See here!” He clipped off a
bunch with his knife, and held it up before her, tilting it this way
and that. “Could anything be more graceful! My idea is to serve the
blueberry on its native stem at this picnic. What do you think? Sugar
would profane it, and of course they've only got milk enough for the
coffee.”
“Delightful!” Alice arranged herself on the log, and made a lap for the
bunch. He would not allow that the arrangement was perfect till he had
cushioned the seat and carpeted the ground for her feet with sweet-fern.
“Now you're something like a wood-nymph,” he laughed. “Only, wouldn't a
real wood-nymph have an apron?” he asked, looking down at her dress.
“Oh, it won't hurt the dress. You must begin now, or they'll be calling
us.”
He was standing and gazing at her with a distracted enjoyment of her
pose. “Oh yes, yes,” he answered, coming to himself, and he set about
his work.
He might have got on faster if he had not come to her with nearly every
bunch he cut at first, and when he began to deny himself this pleasure
he stopped to admire an idea of hers.
“Well, that's charming--making them into bouquets.”
“Yes, isn't it?” she cried delightedly, holding a bunch of the berries
up at arm's-length to get the effect.
“Ah, but you must have some of this fern and this tall grass to go with
it. Why, it's sweet-grass--the sweet-grass of the Indian baskets!”
“Is it?” She looked up at him. “And do you think that the mixture would
be better than the modest simplicity of the berries, with a few leaves
of the same?”
“No; you're right; it wouldn't,” he said, throwing away his ferns. “But
you'll want something to tie the stems with; you must use the grass.” He
left that with her, and went back to his bushes. He added, from beyond
a little thicket, as if what he said were part of the subject, “I was
afraid you wouldn't like my skipping about there on the rocks, doing the
coloured uncle.”
“Like it?”
“I mean--I--you thought it undignified--trivial--”
She said, after a moment: “It was very funny; and people do all sorts of
things at picnics. That's the pleasure of it, isn't it?”
“Yes, it is; but I know you don't always like that kind of thing.”
“Do I seem so very severe?” she asked.
“Oh no, not severe. I should be afraid of you if you were. I shouldn't
have dared to come to Campobello.”
He looked at her across the blueberry bushes. His gay speech meant
everything or nothing. She could parry it with a jest, and then it would
mean nothing. She let her head droop over her work, and made no answer.
“I wish you could have seen those fellows on the boat,” said Mavering.
“Hello, Mavering!” called the voice of John Munt, from another part of
the woods.
“Alice!--Miss Pasmer!” came that of Miss Anderson.
He was going to answer, when he looked at Alice. “We'll let them see if
they can find us,” he said, and smiled.
Alice said nothing at first; she smiled too. “You know more about the
woods than I do. I suppose if they keep looking--”
“Oh yes.” He came toward her with a mass of clusters which he had
clipped. “How fast you do them!” he said, standing and looking down at
her. “I wish you'd let me come and make up the withes for you when you
need them.”
“No, I couldn't allow that on any account,” she answered, twisting some
stems of the grass together.
“Well, will you let me hold the bunches while you tie them; or tie them
when you hold them?”
“No.”
“This once, then?”
“This once, perhaps.”
“How little you let me do for you!” he sighed.
“That gives you a chance to do more for other people,” she answered;
and then she dropped her eyes, as if she had been surprised into
that answer. She made haste to add: “That's what makes you so popular
with--everybody!”
“Ah, but I'd rather be popular with somebody!”
He laughed, and then they both laughed together consciously; and still
nothing or everything had been said. A little silly silence followed,
and he said, for escape from it, “I never saw such berries before, even
in September, on the top of Ponkwasset.”
“Why, is it a mountain?” she asked. “I thought it was a--falls.”
“It's both,” he said.
“I suppose it's very beautiful, isn't it! All America seems so lovely,
so large.”
“It's pretty in the summer. I don't know that I shall like it there in
the winter if I conclude to--Did your--did Mrs. Pasmer tell you what my
father wants me to do?”
“About going there to--manufacture?”
Mavering nodded. “He's given me three weeks to decide whether I would
like to do that or go in for law. That's what I came up here for.”
There was a little pause. She bent her head down over the clusters she
was grouping. “Is the light of Campobello particularly good on such
questions?” she asked.
“I don't mean that exactly, but I wish you could help me to some
conclusion.”
“Yes; why not?”
“It's the first time I've ever had a business question referred to me.”
“Well, then, you can bring a perfectly fresh mind to it.”
“Let me see,” she said, affecting to consider. “It's really a very
important matter?”
“It is to me.”
After a moment she looked up at him. “I should think that you wouldn't
mind living there if your business was there. I suppose it's being idle
in places that makes them dull. I thought it was dull in London. One
ought to be glad--oughtn't he?--to live in any place where there's
something to do.”
“Well, that isn't the way people usually feel,” said Mavering. “That's
the kind of a place most of them fight shy of.”
Alice laughed with an undercurrent of protest, perhaps because she had
seen her parents' whole life, so far as she knew it, passed in this sort
of struggle. “I mean that I hate my own life because there seems nothing
for me to do with it. I like to have people do something.”
“Do you really?” asked Mavering soberly, as if struck by the novelty of
the idea.
“Yes!” she said, with exaltation. “If I were a man--”
He burst into a ringing laugh. “Oh no; don't!”
“Why?” she demanded, with provisional indignation.
“Because then there wouldn't be any Miss Pasmer.”
It seemed to Alice that this joking was rather an unwarranted liberty.
Again she could not help joining in his light-heartedness; but she
checked herself so abruptly, and put on a look so austere, that he was
quelled by it.
“I mean,” he began--“that is to say--I mean that I don't understand why
ladies are always saying that. I am sure they can do what they like, as
it is.”
“Do you mean that everything is open to them now?” she asked,
disentangling a cluster of the berries from those in her lap, and
beginning a fresh bunch.
“Yes,” said Mavering. “Something like that--yes. They can do anything
they like. Lots of them do.”
“Oh yes, I know,” said the girl. “But people don't like them to.”
“Why, what would you like to be?” he asked.
She did not answer, but sorted over the clusters in her lap. “We've got
enough now, haven't we?” she said.
“Oh, not half,” he said. “But if you're tired you must let me make up
some of the bunches.”
“No, no! I want to do them all myself,” she said, gesturing his offered
hands away, with a little nether appeal in her laughing refusal.
“So as to feel that you've been of some use in the world?” he said,
dropping contentedly on the ground near her, and watching her industry.
“Do you think that would be very wrong?” she asked. “What made that
friend of yours--Mr. Boardman--go into journalism?”
“Oh, virtuous poverty. You're not thinking of becoming a newspaper
woman, Miss Pasmer!”
“Why not?” She put the final cluster into the bunch in hand, and began
to wind a withe of sweet-grass around the stems. He dropped forward on
his knees to help her, and together they managed the knot. They were
both flushed a little when it was tied, and were serious.
“Why shouldn't one be a newspaper woman, if Harvard graduates are to be
journalists?”
“Well, you know, only a certain kind are.”
“What kind?”
“Well, not exactly what you'd call the gentlemanly sort.”
“I thought Mr. Boardman was a great friend of yours?”
“He is. He is one of the best fellows in the world. But you must have
seen that he wasn't a swell.”
“I should think he'd be glad he was doing something at once. If I were
a--” She stopped, and they laughed together. “I mean that I should hate
to be so long getting ready to do something as men are.”
“Then you'd rather begin making wall-paper at once than studying law?”
“Oh, I don't say that. I'm not competent to advise. But I should like
to feel that I was doing something. I suppose it's hereditary.” Mavering
stared a little. “One of my father's sisters has gone into a sisterhood.
She's in England.”
“Is she a--Catholic?” asked Mavering.
“She isn't a Roman Catholic.”
“Oh yes!” He dropped forward on his knees again to help her tie the
bunch she had finished. It was not so easy as the first.
“Oh, thank you!” she said, with unnecessary fervour.
“But you shouldn't like to go into a sisterhood, I suppose?” said
Mavering, ready to laugh.
“Oh, I don't know. Why not?” She looked at him with a flying glance, and
dropped her eyes.
“Oh, no reason, if you have a fancy for that kind of thing.”
“That kind of thing?” repeated Alice severely.
“Oh, I don't mean anything disrespectful to it,” said Mavering, throwing
his anxiety off in the laugh he had been holding back. “And I beg your
pardon. But I don't suppose you're in earnest.”
“Oh no, I'm not in earnest,” said the girl, letting her wrists fall upon
her knees, and the clusters drop from her hands. “I'm not in earnest
about anything; that's the truth--that's the shame. Wouldn't you like,”
she broke off, “to be a priest, and go round among these people up here
on their frozen islands in the winter?”
“No,” shouted Mavering, “I certainly shouldn't. I don't see how anybody
stands it. Ponkwasset Falls is bad enough in the winter, and compared to
this region Ponkwasset Falls is a metropolis. I believe in getting all
the good you can out of the world you were born in--of course without
hurting anybody else.” He stretched his legs out on the bed of
sweet-fern, where he had thrown himself, and rested his head on his
hand lifted on his elbow. “I think this is what this place is fit for--a
picnic; and I wish every one well out of it for nine months of the
year.”
“I don't,” said the girl, with a passionate regret in her voice. “It
would be heavenly here with--But you--no, you're different. You always
want to share your happiness.”
“I shouldn't call that happiness. But don't you?” asked Mavering.
“No. I'm selfish.”
“You don't expect me to be believe that, I suppose.”
“Yes,” she went on, “it must be selfishness. You don't believe I'm so,
because you can't imagine it. But it's true. If I were to be happy, I
should be very greedy about it; I couldn't endure to let any one else
have a part in it. So it's best for me to be wretched, don't you see--to
give myself up entirely to doing for others, and not expect any one to
do anything for me; then I can be of some use in the world. That's why I
should like to go into a sisterhood.”
Mavering treated it as the best kind of joke, and he was confirmed in
this view of it by her laughing with him, after a first glance of what
he thought mock piteousness.