It cannot be pretended that Alice was quite pleased with the way her
friends took her engagement, or rather the way in which they spoke of
Dan. It seemed to her that she alone, or she chiefly, ought to feel that
sweetness and loveliness of which every one told her, as if she could
not have known it. If he was sweet and lovely to every one, how was he
different to her except in degree? Ought he not to be different in kind?
She put the case to Miss Cotton, whom it puzzled, while she assured
Alice that he was different in kind to her, though he might not seem
so; the very fact that he was different in degree proved that he was
different in kind. This logic sufficed for the moment of its expression,
but it did not prevent Alice from putting the case to Dan himself. At
one of those little times when she sat beside him alone and rearranged
his necktie, or played with his watch chain, or passed a critical hand
over his cowlick, she asked him if he did not think they ought to have
an ideal in their engagement. “What ideal?” he asked. He thought it was
all solid ideal through and through. “Oh,” she said, “be more and more
to each other.” He said he did not see how that could be; if there was
anything more of him, she was welcome to it, but he rather thought she
had it all. She explained that she meant being less to others; and he
asked her to explain that.
“Well, when we're anywhere together, don't you think we ought to show
how different we are to each other from what we are to any one else.”
Dan laughed. “I'm afraid we do, Alice; I always supposed one ought to
hide that little preference as much as possible. You don't want me to be
dangling after you every moment?”
“No-o-o. But not--dangle after others.”
Dan sighed a little--a little impatiently. “Do I dangle after others?”
“Of course not. But show that we're thoroughly united in all our tastes
and feelings, and--like and dislike the same persons.”
“I don't think that will be difficult,” said Dan.
She was silent a moment, and then she said; “You don't like to have me
bring up such things?”
“Oh yes, I do. I wish to be and do just what you wish.”
“But I can see, I can understand, that you would sooner pass the time
without talking of them. You like to be perfectly happy, and not to have
any cares when--when you're with me this way?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I do,” said Dan, laughing again. “I suppose I
rather do like to keep pleasure and duty apart. But there's nothing you
can wish, Alice, that isn't a pleasure to me.”
“I'm very different,” said the girl. “I can't be at peace unless I know
that I have a right to be so. But now, after this, I'm going to do
your way. If it's your way, it'll be the right way--for me.” She looked
sublimely resolved, with a grand lift of the eyes, and Dan caught her to
him in a rapture, breaking into laughter.
“Oh, don't! Mine's a bad way--the worst kind of a way,” he cried.
“It makes everybody like you, and mine makes nobody like me.”
“It makes me like you, and that's quite enough. I don't want other
people to like you!”
“Yes, that's what I mean!” cried Alice; and now she flung herself on
his neck, and the tears came. “Do you suppose it can be very pleasant to
have everybody talking of you as if everybody loved you as much--as much
as I do?” She clutched him tighter and sobbed.
“O Alice! Alice! Alice! Nobody could ever be what you are to me!” He
soothed and comforted her with endearing words and touches; but before
he could have believed her half consoled she pulled away from him, and
asked, with shining eyes, “Do you think Mr. Boardman is a good influence
in your life?”
“Boardman!” cried Mavering, in astonishment. “Why, I thought you liked
Boardman?”
“I do; and I respect him very much. But that isn't the question. Don't
you think we ought to ask ourselves how others influence us?”
“Well, I don't see much of Boardy nowadays; but I like to drop down and
touch earth in Boardy once in a while--I'm in the air so much. Board has
more common-sense, more solid chunk-wisdom, than anybody I know. He's
kept me from making a fool of myself more times--”
“Wasn't he with you that day with--with those women in Portland?”
Dan winced a little, and then laughed. “No, he wasn't. That was the
trouble. Boardman was off on the press boat. I thought I told you. But
if you object to Boardman--”
“I don't. You mustn't think I object to people when I ask you about
them. All that I wished was that you should think yourself what sort of
influence he was. I think he's a very good influence.”
“He's a splendid fellow, Boardman is, Alice!” cried Dan. “You ought to
have seen how he fought his way through college on such a little money,
and never skulked or felt mean. He wasn't appreciated for it; the men
don't notice these things much; but he didn't want to have it noticed;
always acted as if it was neither here nor there; and now I guess he
sends out home whatever he has left after keeping soul and body together
every week.”
He spoke, perhaps, with too great an effect of relief. Alice listened,
as it seemed, to his tone rather than his words, and said absently--
“Yes, that's grand. But I don't want you to act as if you were afraid of
me in such things.”
“Afraid?” Dan echoed.
“I don't mean actually afraid, but as if you thought I couldn't be
reasonable; as if you supposed I didn't expect you to make mistakes or
to be imperfect.”
“Yes, I know you're very reasonable, and you're more patient with me
than I deserve; I know all that, and it's only my wish to come up to
your standard, I suppose, that gives me that apprehensive appearance.”
“That was what vexed me with you there at Campobello, when you--asked
me--”
“Yes, I know.”
“You ought to have understood me better. You ought to know now that I
don't wish you to do anything on my account, but because it's something
we owe to others.”
“Oh, excuse me! I'd much rather do it for you,” cried Dan; but Alice
looked so grave, so hurt, that he hastened on: “How in the world does it
concern others whether we are devoted or not, whether we're harmonious
and two-souls-with-but-a-single-thought, and all that?” He could not
help being light about it.
“How?” Alice repeated. “Won't it give them an idea of what--what--of how
much--how truly--if we care for each other--how people ought to care? We
don't do it for ourselves. That would be selfish and disgusting. We do
it because it's something that we owe to the idea of being engaged--of
having devoted our lives to each other, and would show--would teach--”
“Oh yes! I know what you mean,” said Dan, and he gave way in a
sputtering laugh. “But they wouldn't understand. They'd only think we
were spoons on each other; and if they noticed that I cooled off toward
people I'd liked, and warmed up toward those you liked, they'd say you
made me.”
“Should you care?” asked Alice sublimely, withdrawing a little from his
arm.
“Oh no! only on your account,” he answered, checking his laugh.
“You needn't on my account,” she returned. “If we sacrifice some
little preferences to each other, isn't that right? I shall be glad to
sacrifice all of mine to you. Isn't our--marriage to be full of such
sacrifices? I expect to give up everything to you.” She looked at him
with a sad severity.
He began to laugh again. “Oh no, Alice! Don't do that! I couldn't stand
it. I want some little chance at the renunciations myself.”
She withdrew still further from his side, and said, with a cold anger,
“It's that detestable Mrs. Brinkley.”
“Mrs. Brinkley!” shouted Dan.
“Yes; with her pessimism. I have heard her talk. She influences you.
Nothing is sacred to her. It was she who took up with those army women
that night.”
“Well, Alice, I must say you can give things as ugly names as the next
one. I haven't seen Mrs. Brinkley the whole winter, except in your
company. But she has more sense than all the other women I know.”
“Oh, thank you!”
“You know I don't mean you,” he pushed on. “And she isn't a pessimist.
She's very kindhearted, and that night she was very polite and good to
those army women, as you call them, when you had refused to say a word
or do anything for them.”
“I knew it had been rankling in your mind all along,” said the girl
“I expected it to coma out sooner or later. And you talk about
renunciation! You never forget nor forgive the slightest thing. But I
don't ask your forgiveness.”
“Alice!”
“No. You are as hard as iron. You have that pleasant outside manner that
makes people think you're very gentle and yielding, but all the time
you're like adamant. I would rather die than ask your forgiveness for
anything, and you'd rather let me than give it.”
“Well, then, I ask your forgiveness, Alice, and I'm sure you won't let
me die without it.”
They regarded each other a moment. Then the tenderness gushed up in
their hearts, a passionate tide, and swept them into each other's arms.
“O Dan,” she cried, “how sweet you are! how good! how lovely! Oh, how
wonderful it is! I wanted to hate you, but I couldn't. I couldn't do
anything but love you. Yes, now I understand what love is, and how it
can do everything, and last for ever.”