"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? Iexpect 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 "Iexpected 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."XLI.
Mavering came to lunch the next day, and had a word with Mrs. Pasmer before Alice came in. Mr. Pasmer usually lunched at the club.
"We don't see much of Mrs. Saintsbury nowadays," he suggested.
"No; it's a great way to Cambridge," said Mrs. Pasmer, stifling, in a little sigh of apparent regret for the separation, the curiosity she felt as to Dan's motive in mentioning Mrs. Saintsbury. She was very patient with him when he went on.
"Yes, it is a great way. And a strange thing about it is that when you're living here it's a good deal further from Boston to Cambridge than it is from Cambridge to Boston.""Yes," said Mrs. Pasmer; "every one notices that."Dan sat absently silent for a time before he said, "Yes, I guess I must go out and see Mrs. Saintsbury.""Yes, you ought. She's very fond of you. You and Alice ought both to go.""Does Mrs. Saintsbury like me?" asked Dan. "Well, she's awfully nice.
Don't you think she's awfully fond of formulating people?""Oh, everybody in Cambridge does that. They don't gossip; they merely accumulate materials for the formulation of character.""And they get there just the same!" cried Dan. "Mrs. Saintsbury used to think she had got me down pretty fine," he suggested.
"Yes!" said Mrs. Pasmer, with an indifference which they both knew she did not feel.
"Yes. She used to accuse me of preferring to tack, even in a fair wind."He looked inquiringly at Mrs. Pasmer; and she said, "How ridiculous!""Yes, it was. Well, I suppose I am rather circuitous about some things.""Oh, not at all!"
"And I suppose I'm rather a trial to Alice in that way."He looked at Mrs. Pasmer again, and she said: "I don't believe you are, in the least. You can't tell what is trying to a girl.""No," said Dan pensively, "I can't." Mrs. Pasmer tried to render the interest in her face less vivid. "I can't tell where she's going to bring up. Talk about tacking!""Do you mean the abstract girl; or Alice?""Oh, the abstract girl," said Dan, and they laughed together. "You think Alice is very straightforward, don't you?""Very," said Mrs. Pasmer, looking down with a smile--"for a girl.""Yes, that's what I mean. And don't you think the most circuitous kind of fellow would be pretty direct compared with the straight-forwardest kind of girl?"There was a rueful defeat and bewilderment in Dan's face that made Mrs.
Pasmer laugh. "What has she been doing now?" she asked.
"Mrs. Pasmer," said Dan, "you and I are the only frank and open people Iknow. Well, she began to talk last night about influence--the influence of other people on us; and she killed off nearly all the people I like before I knew what she was up to, and she finished with Mrs. Brinkley.
