Mavering first woke in the morning with the mechanical recurrence of
that shame and grief which each day had brought him since Alice refused
him. Then with a leap of the heart came the recollection of all that
had happened yesterday. Yet lurking within his rapture was a mystery
of regret: a reasonless sense of loss, as if the old feeling had been
something he would have kept. Then this faded, and he had only the
longing to see her, to realise in her presence and with her help the
fact that she was his. An unspeakable pride filled him, and a joy in
her love. He tried to see some outward vision of his bliss in the glass;
but, like the mirror which had refused to interpret his tragedy in the
Portland restaurant, it gave back no image of his transport: his face
looked as it always did, and he and the refection laughed at each other:
He asked himself how soon he could go and see her. It was now seven
o'clock: eight would be too early, of course--it would be ridiculous;
and nine--he wondered if he might go to see her at nine. Would they have
done breakfast? Had he any right to call before ten? He was miserable at
the thought of waiting till ten: it would be three hours. He thought of
pretexts--of inviting her to go somewhere, but that was absurd, for he
could see her at home all day if he liked; of carrying her a book, but
there could be no such haste about a book; of going to ask if he had
left his cane, but why should he be in such a hurry for his cane? All at
once he thought he could take her some flowers--a bouquet to lay beside
her plate at breakfast. He dramatised himself charging the servant who
should take it from him at the door not to say who left it; but Alice
would know, of course, and they would all know; it would be very pretty.
He made Mrs. Pasmer say some flattering things of him; and he made Alice
blush deliciously to hear them. He could not manage Mr. Pasmer very
well, and he left him out of the scene: he imagined him shaving in
another room; then he remembered his wearing a full beard.
He dressed himself as quickly as he could, and went down into the hotel
vestibule, where he had noticed people selling flowers the evening
before, but there was no one there with them now, and none of the
florists' shops on the street were open yet. He could not find anything
till he went to the Providence Depot, and the man there had to take some
of his yesterday's flowers out of the refrigerator where he kept them;
he was not sure they would be very fresh; but the heavy rosebuds had
fallen open, and they were superb. Dan took all there were, and when
they had been sprinkled with water, and wrapped in cotton batting, and
tied round with paper, it was still only quarter of eight, and he
left them with the man till he could get his breakfast at the Depot
restaurant. There it had a consoling effect of not being so early; many
people were already breakfasting, and when Dan said, with his order,
“Hurry it up, please,” he knew that he was taken for a passenger just
arrived or departing. By a fantastic impulse he ordered eggs and bacon
again; he felt, it a fine derision of the past and a seal of triumph
upon the present to have the same breakfast after his acceptance as he
had ordered after his rejection; he would tell Alice about it, and it
would amuse her. He imagined how he would say it, and she would laugh;
but she would be full of a ravishing compassion for his past suffering.
They were long bringing the breakfast; when it came he despatched it so
quickly that it was only half after eight when he paid his check at the
counter. He tried to be five minutes more getting his flowers, but the
man had them all ready for him, and it did not take him ten seconds. He
had said he would carry them at half-past nine; but thinking it over
on a bench in the Garden, he decided that he had better go sooner; they
might breakfast earlier, and there would be no fun if Alice did not find
the roses beside her plate: that was the whole idea. It was not till he
stood at the door of the Pasmer apartment that he reflected that he was
not accomplishing his wish to see Alice by leaving her those flowers; he
was a fool, for now he would have to postpone coming a little, because
he had already come.
The girl who answered the bell did not understand the charge he gave her
about the roses, and he repeated his words. Some one passing through
the room beyond seemed to hesitate and pause at the sound of his voice.
Could it be Alice? Then he should see her, after all! The girl looked
over her shoulder, and said, “Mrs. Pasmer.”
Mrs. Pasmer came forward, and he fell into a complicated explanation and
apology. At the end she said, “You had better give them yourself. She
will be here directly.” They were in the room now, and Mrs. Pasmer made
the time pass in rapid talk; but Dan felt that he ought to apologise
from time to time. “No!” she said, letting herself go. “Stay and
breakfast with us, Mr. Mavering. We shall be so glad to have you.”
At last Alice came in, and they decorously shook hands. Mrs. Pasmer
turned away a smile at their decorum. “I will see that there's a place
for you,” she said, leaving them.
They were instantly in each other's arms. It seemed to him that all this
had happened because he had so strongly wished it.
“What is it, Dan? What did you come for?” she asked.
“To see if it was really true, Alice. I couldn't believe it.”
“Well--let me go--you mustn't--it's too silly. Of course it's true.”
She pulled herself free. “Is my hair tumbled? You oughtn't to have come;
it's ridiculous; but I'm glad you came. I've been thinking it all over,
and I've got a great many things to say to you. But come to breakfast
now.”
She had a business-like way of treating the situation that was more
intoxicating than sentiment would have been, and gave it more actuality.
Mrs. Pasmer was alone at the table, and explained that Alice's father
never breakfasted with them, or very seldom. “Where are your flowers?”
she asked Alice.
“Flowers? What flowers?”
“That Mr. Mavering brought.”
They all looked at one another. Dan ran out and brought in his roses.
“They were trying to get away in the excitement, I guess, Mrs. Pasmer;
I found them behind the door.” He had flung them there, without knowing
it, when Mrs. Pasmer left him with Alice.
He expected her to join him and her mother in being amused at this, but
he was as well pleased to have her touched at his having brought them,
and to turn their gaiety off in praise of the roses. She got a vase for
them, and set it on the table. He noticed for the first time the pretty
house-dress she had on, with its barred corsage and under-skirt, and the
heavy silken rope knotted round it at the waist, and dropping in heavy
tufts or balls in front.
The breakfast was Continental in its simplicity, and Mrs. Pasmer said
that they had always kept up their Paris habit of a light breakfast,
even in London, where it was not so easy to follow foreign customs as it
was in America. She was afraid he might find it too light. Then he told
all about his morning's adventure, ending with his breakfast at the
Providence Depot. Mrs. Pasmer entered into the fun of it, but she said
it was for only once in a way, and he must not expect to be let in if
he came at that hour another morning. He said no; he understood what an
extraordinary piece of luck it was for him to be there; and he was there
to be bidden to do whatever they wished. He said so much in recognition
of their goodness, that he became abashed by it. Mrs. Pasmer sat at the
head of the table, and Alice across it from him, so far off that she
seemed parted from him by an insuperable moral distance. A warm flush
seemed to rise from his heart into his throat and stifle him. He wished
to shed tears. His eyes were wet with grateful happiness in answering
Mrs. Pasmer that he would not have any more coffee. “Then,” she said,
“we will go into the drawing-room;” but she allowed him and Alice to go
alone.
He was still in that illusion of awe and of distance, and he submitted
to the interposition of another table between their chairs.
“I wish to talk with you,” she said, so seriously that he was
frightened, and said to himself: “Now she is going to break it off. She
has thought it over, and she finds she can't endure me.”
“Well?” he said huskily.
“You oughtn't to have come here, you know, this morning.”
“I know it,” he vaguely conceded. “But I didn't expect to get in.”
“Well, now you're here, we may as well talk. You must tell your family
at once.”
“Yes; I'm going to write to them as soon as I get back to my room. I
couldn't last night.”
“But you mustn't write; you must go--and prepare their minds.”
“Go?” he echoed. “Oh, that isn't necessary! My father knew about it from
the beginning, and I guess they've all talked it over. Their minds
are prepared.” The sense of his immeasurable superiority to any one's
opposition began to dissipate Dan's unnatural awe; at the pleading face
which Alice put on, resting one cheek against the back of one of her
clasped hands, and leaning on the table with her elbows, he began to be
teased by that silken rope round her waist.
“But you don't understand, dear,” she said; and she said “dear” as if
they were old married people. “You must go to see them, and tell them;
and then some of them must come to see me--your father and sisters.”
“Why, of course.” His eye now became fastened to one of the fluffy
silken balls.
“And then mamma and I must go to see your mother, mustn't we?”
“It'll be very nice of you--yes. You know she can't come to you.”
“Yes, that's what I thought, and--What are you looking at?” she drew
herself back from the table and followed the direction of his eye with a
woman's instinctive apprehension of disarray.
He was ashamed to tell. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking.”
“What?”
“Well, I don't know. That it seems so strange any one else should have
any to do with it--my family and yours. But I suppose they must. Yes,
it's all right.”
“Why, of course. If your family didn't like it--”
“It wouldn't make any difference to me,” said Dan resolutely.
“It would to me,” she retorted, with tender reproach. “Do you suppose it
would be pleasant to go into a family that didn't like you? Suppose papa
and mamma didn't like you?”
“But I thought they did,” said Mavering, with his mind still partly on
the rope and the fluffy ball, but keeping his eyes away.
“Yes, they do,” said Alice. “But your family don't know me at all; and
your father's only seen me once. Can't you understand? I'm afraid we
don't look at it seriously enough--earnestly--and oh, I do wish to have
everything done as it should be! Sometimes, when I think of it, it
makes me tremble. I've been thinking about it all the morning,
and--and--praying.”
Dan wanted to fall on his knees to her. The idea of Alice in prayer was
fascinating.
“I wish our life to begin with others, and not with ourselves. If we're
intrusted with so much happiness, doesn't it mean that we're to do good
with it--to give it to others as if it were money?”
The nobleness of this thought stirred Dan greatly; his eyes wandered
back to the silken rope; but now it seemed to him an emblem of voluntary
suffering and self-sacrifice, like a devotee's hempen girdle. He
perceived that the love of this angelic girl would elevate him and
hallow his whole life if he would let it. He answered her, fervently,
that he would be guided by her in this as in everything; that he knew
he was selfish, and he was afraid he was not very good; but it was not
because he had not wished to be so; it was because he had not had any
incentive. He thought how much nobler and better this was than the talk
he had usually had with girls. He said that of course he would go home
and tell his people; he saw now that it would make them happier if they
could hear it directly from him. He had only thought of writing because
he could not bear to think of letting a day pass without seeing her; but
if he took the early morning train he could get back the same night,
and still have three hours at Ponkwasset Falls, and he would go the next
day, if she said so.
“Go to-day, Dan,” she said, and she stretched out her hand impressively
across the table toward him. He seized it with a gush of tenderness, and
they drew together in their resolution to live for others. He said he
would go at once. But the next train did not leave till two o'clock, and
there was plenty of time. In the meanwhile it was in the accomplishment
of their high aims that they sat down on the sofa together and talked of
their future; Alice conditioned it wholly upon his people's approval
of her, which seemed wildly unnecessary to Mavering, and amused him
immensely.
“Yes,” she said, “I know you will think me strange in a great many
things; but I shall never keep anything from you, and I'm going to tell
you that I went to matins this morning.”
“To matins?” echoed Dan. He would not quite have liked her a Catholic;
he remembered with relief that she had said she was not a Roman
Catholic; though when he came to think, he would not have cared a great
deal. Nothing could have changed her from being Alice.
“Yes, I wished to consecrate the first morning of our engagement; and
I'm always going. I determined that I would go before breakfast--that
was what made breakfast so late. Don't you like it?” she asked timidly.
“Like it!” he said. “I'm going with you:”
“Oh no!” she turned upon him. “That wouldn't do.” She became grave
again. “I'm glad you approve of it, for I should feel that there was
something wanting to our happiness. If marriage is a sacrament, why
shouldn't an engagement be?”
“It is,” said Dan, and he felt that it was holy; till then he had never
realised that marriage was a sacrament, though he had often heard the
phrase.
At the end of an hour they took a tender leave of each other, hastened
by the sound of Mrs. Pasmer's voice without. Alice escaped from one door
before her mother entered by the other. Dan remained, trying to look
unconcerned, but he was sensible of succeeding so poorly that he thought
he had better offer his hand to Mrs. Pasmer at once. He told her that he
was going up to Ponkwasset Falls at two o'clock, and asked her to please
remember him to Mr. Pasmer.
She said she would, and asked him if he were to be gone long.
“Oh no; just overnight--till I can tell them what's happened.” He felt
it a comfort to be trivial with Mrs. Pasmer, after bracing up to Alice's
ideals. “I suppose they'll have to know.”
“What an exemplary son!” said Mrs. Pasmer. “Yes, I suppose they will.”
“I supposed it would be enough if I wrote, but Alice thinks I'd better
report in person.”
“I think you had, indeed! And it will be a good thing for you both to
have the time for clarifying your ideas. Did she tell you she had been
at matins this morning?” A light of laughter trembled in Mrs. Pasmer's
eyes, and Mavering could not keep a responsive gleam out of his own. In
an instant the dedication of his engagement by morning prayer ceased to
be a high and solemn thought, and became deliciously amusing; and this
laughing Alice over with her mother did more to realise the fact that
she was his than anything else had yet done.
In that dark passage outside he felt two arms go tenderly round his
neck; and a soft shape strain itself to his heart. “I know you have been
laughing about me. But you may. I'm yours now, even to laugh at, if you
want.”
“You are mine to fall down and worship,” he vowed, with an instant
revulsion of feeling.
Alice didn't say anything; he felt her hand fumbling about his coat
lapel. “Where is your breast pocket?” she asked; and he took hold of her
hand, which left a carte-de-visite-shaped something in his.
“It isn't very good,” she murmured, as well as she could, with her lips
against his cheek, “but I thought you'd like to show them some proof of
my existence. I shall have none of yours while you're gone.”
“O Alice! you think of everything!”
His heart was pierced by the soft reproach implied in her words; he had
not thought to ask her for her photograph, but she had thought to give
it; she must have felt it strange that he had not asked for it, and she
had meant to slip it in his pocket and let him find it there. But even
his pang of self-upbraiding was a part of his transport. He seemed to
float down the stairs; his mind was in a delirious whirl. “I shall go
mad,” he said to himself in the excess of his joy--“I shall die!”