XXX.
By eight o'clock in the evening the pain with which every day beganfor Mrs. Mavering was lulled, and her jarred nerves were stayed by theopiates till she fell asleep about midnight. In this interval the familygathered into her room, and brought her their news and the cheer oftheir health. The girls chattered on one side of her bed, and theirfather sat with his newspaper on the other, and read aloud the passageswhich he thought would interest her, while she lay propped among herpillows, brilliantly eager for the world opening this glimpse of itselfto her shining eyes. That was on her good nights, when the drugs didtheir work, but there were times when they failed, and the day's agonyprolonged itself through the evening, and the sleep won at last was aheavy stupor. Then the sufferer's temper gave way under the stress; shebecame the torment she suffered, and tore the hearts she loved. Most ofall, she afflicted the man who had been so faithful to her misery, andmaddened him to reprisals, of which he afterward abjectly repented. Hertongue was sharpened by pain, and pitilessly skilled to inculpate and topunish; it pierced and burned like fire but when a good day came againshe made it up to the victims by the angelic sweetness and sanitywhich they felt was her real self; the cruelty was only the mask of hersuffering.
When she was better they brought to her room anybody who was stayingwith them, and she liked them to be jolly in the spacious chamber. Thepleasantest things of the house were assembled, and all its comfortsconcentrated, in the place which she and they knew she should quit butonce. It was made gay with flowers and pictures; it was the salon forthose fortunate hours when she became the lightest and blithest ofthe company in it, and made the youngest guest forget that there wassickness or pain in the world by the spirit with which she ignored herown. Her laugh became young again; she joked; she entered into whatthey were doing and reading and thinking, and sent them away full of thesympathy which in this mood of hers she had for every mood in others.Girls sighed out their wonder and envy to her daughters when they lefther; the young men whom she captivated with her divination of theirpassions or ambitions went away celebrating her supernatural knowledgeof human nature. The next evening after some night of rare and happyexcitement, the family saw her nurse carrying the pictures and flowersand vases out of her room, in sign of her renunciation of them all,and assembled silently, shrinkingly, in her chamber, to take each theirportion of her anguish, of the blame and the penalty. The householdadjusted itself to her humours, for she was supreme in it.
When Dan used to come home from Harvard she put on a pretty cap forhim, and distinguished him as company by certain laces hiding her wastedframe, and giving their pathetic coquetry to her transparent wrists. Hewas her favourite, and the girls acknowledged him so, and made theirfun of her for spoiling him. He found out as he grew up that her brokenhealth dated from his birth, and at first this deeply affected him; buthis young life soon lost the keenness of the impression, and he lovedhis mother because she loved him, and not because she had been dying forhim so many years.
As he now came into her room, and the waiting-woman went out of it withher usual, "Well, Mr. Dan!" the tenderness which filled him at sight ofhis mother was mixed with that sense of guilt which had tormented him attimes ever since he met his sisters. He was going to take himself fromher; he realised that.
"Well, Dan!" she called, so gaily that he said to himself, "No, fatherhasn't told her anything about it," and was instantly able to answer heras cheerfully, "Well, mother!"
He bent over her to kiss her, and the odour of the clean linen minglingwith that of the opium, and the cologne with which she had triedto banish its scent, opened to him one of those vast reaches ofassociations which perfumes can unlock, and he saw her lying therethrough those years of pain, as many as half his life, and suddenly thetears gushed into his eyes, and he fell on his knees, and hid his facein the bed-clothes and sobbed.
She kept smoothing his head, which shook under her thin hand, andsaying, "Poor Dan! poor Dan!" but did not question him. He knew thatshe knew what he had come to tell her, and that his tears, which had notbeen meant for that, had made interest with her for him and his cause,and that she was already on his side.
He tried boyishly to dignify the situation when he lifted his face, andhe said, "I didn't mean to come boohooing to you in this way, and I'mashamed of myself."
"I know, Dan; but you've been wrought up, and I don't wonder. Youmustn't mind your father and your sisters. Of course, they're rathersurprised, and they don't like your taking yourself from them--we, noneof us do."
At these honest words Dan tried to become honest too. At least hedropped his pretence of dignity, and became as a little child in hissimple greed for sympathy. "But it isn't necessarily that; is it,mother?"
"Yes, it's all that, Dan; and it's all right, because it's that. Wedon't like it, but our not liking it has nothing to do with its beingright or wrong."
"I supposed that father would have been pleased, anyway; for he has seenher, and--and. Of course the girls haven't, but I think they might havetrusted my judgment a little. I'm not quite a fool."
His mother smiled. "Oh, it isn't a question of the wisdom of yourchoice; it's the unexpectedness. We all saw that you were very unhappywhen you were here before, and we supposed it had gone wrong."
"It had, mother," said Dan. "She refused me at Campobello. But it was amisunderstanding, and as soon as we met--"
"I knew you had met again, and what you had come home for, and I toldyour father so, when he came to say you were here."
"Did you, mother?" he asked, charmed at her having guessed that.
"Yes. She must be a good girl to send you straight home to tell us."
"You knew I wouldn't have thought of that myself," said Dan joyously. "Iwanted to write; I thought that would do just as well. I hated to leaveher, but she made me come. She is the best, and the wisest, and the mostunselfish--O mother, I can't tell you about her! You must see her. Youcan't realise her till you see her, mother. You'll like each other,I'm sure of that. You're just alike." It seemed to Dan that they wereexactly alike.
"Then perhaps we sha'n't," suggested his mother. "Let me see herpicture."
"How did you know I had it? If it hadn't been for her, I shouldn't havebrought any. She put it into my pocket just as I was leaving. She saidyou would all want to see what she looked like."
He had taken it out of his pocket, and he held it, smiling fondly uponit. Alice seemed to smile back at him. He had lost her in the reluctanceof his father and sisters; and now his mother--it was his mother who hadgiven her to him again. He thought how tenderly he loved his mother.
When he could yield her the photograph, she looked long and silently atit. "She has a great deal of character, Dan."
"There you've hit it, mother! I'd rather you would have said that thananything else. But don't you think she's beautiful? She's the gentlestcreature, when you come to know her! I was awfully afraid of her atfirst. I thought she was very haughty. But she isn't at all. She'sreally very self-depreciatory; she thinks she isn't good enough for me.You ought to hear her talk, mother, as I have. She's full of the noblestideals--of being of some use in the world, of being self-devoted,and--all that kind of thing. And you can see that she's capable of it.Her aunt's in a Protestant sisterhood," he said, with a solemnity whichdid not seem to communicate itself to his mother, for Mrs. Maveringsmiled. Dan smiled too, and said: "But I can't tell you about Alice,mother. She's perfect." His heart overflowed with proud delight in her,and he was fool enough to add, "She's so affectionate!"
His mother kept herself from laughing. "I dare say she is, Dan--withyou." Then she hid all but her eyes with the photograph, and gave way.
"What a donkey!" said Dan, meaning himself. "If I go on, I shall disgustyou with her. What I mean is that she isn't at all proud, as I used tothink she was."
"No girl is, under the circumstances. She has all she can do to be proudof you."
"Do you think so, mother?" he said, enraptured with the notion. "I'vedone my best--or my worst-
-not to give her any reason to be so."
"She doesn't 'want any--the less the better. You silly boy! Don't yousuppose she wants to make you out of whole cloth just as you do withher? She doesn't want any facts to start with; they'd be in the way.Well, now, I can make out, with your help, what the young lady is;but what are the father and mother? They're rather important in thesecases."
"Oh, they're the nicest kind of people," said Dan, in optimisticgeneralisation. "You'd like Mrs. Pasmer. She's awfully nice."
"Do you say that because you think I wouldn't?" asked his mother. "Isn'tshe rather sly and hum-bugging?"
"Well, yes, she is, to a certain extent," Dan admitted, with a laugh."But she doesn't mean any harm by it. She's extremely kind-hearted."
"To you? I dare say. And Mr. Pasmer is rather under her thumb?"
"Well, yes, you might say thumb," Dan consented, feeling it useless todefend the Pasmers against this analysis.
"We won't say heel," returned his mother; "we're too polite. And yourfather says he had the reputation in college of being one of the mostselfish fellows in the world. He's never done anything since but losemost of his money. He's been absolutely idle and useless all his days."She turned her vivid blue eyes suddenly upon her son's.
Dan winced. "You know how hard father is upon people who haven't doneanything. It's a mania of his. Of course Mr. Pasmer doesn't show toadvantage where there's no--no leisure class."
"Poor man!"
Dan was going to say, "He's very amiable, though," but he was afraidof his mother's retorting, "To you?" and he held his peace, lookingchapfallen.
Whether his mother took pity on him or not, her next sally wasconsoling. "But your Alice may not take after either of them. Her fatheris the worst of his breed, it seems; the rest are useful people,from what your father knows, and there's a great deal to be hoped forcollaterally. She had an uncle in college at the same time who waseverything that her father was not."
"One of her aunts is in one of those Protestant religious houses inEngland," repeated Dan.
"Oh!" said his mother shortly, "I don't know that I like thatparticularly. But probably she isn't useless there. Is Alice veryreligious?"
"Well, I suppose," said Dan, with a smile for the devotions that cameinto his thought, "she's what would be called 'Piscopal pious."
Mrs. Mavering referred to the photograph, which she still held inher hand. "Well, she's pure and good, at any rate. I suppose you lookforward to a long engagement?"
Dan was somewhat taken aback at a supposition so very contrary to whatwas in his mind. "Well, I don't know. Why?"
"It might be said that you are very young. How old is Agnes--Alice, Imean?"
"Twenty-one. But now, look here, mother! It's no use considering such athing in the abstract, is it?"
"No," said his mother, with a smile for what might be coming.
"This is the way I've been viewing it; I may say it's the way Alice hasbeen viewing it--or Mrs. Pasmer, rather."
"Decidedly Mrs. Pasmer, rather. Better be honest, Dan."
"I'll do my best. I was thinking, hoping, that is, that as I'm goingright into the business--have gone into it already, in fact--and couldbegin life at once, that perhaps there wouldn't be much sense in waitinga great while."
"Yes?"
"That's all. That is, if you and father are agreed." He reflected uponthis provision, and added, with a laugh of confusion and pleasure: "Itseems to be so very much more of a family affair than I used to think itwas."
"You thought it concerned just you and her?" said his mother, with archsympathy.
"Well, yes."
"Poor fellow! She knew better than that, you may be sure. At any rate,her mother did."
"What Mrs. Pasmer doesn't know isn't probably worth knowing," said Dan,with an amused sense of her omniscience.
"I thought so," sighed his mother, smiling too. "And now you begin tofind out that it concerns the families in all their branches on bothsides."
"Oh, if it stopped at the families and their ramifications! But it seemsto take in society and the general public."
"So it does--more than you can realise. You can't get married toyourself alone, as young people think; and if you don't marry happily,you sin against the peace and comfort of the whole community."
"Yes, that's what I'm chiefly looking out for now. I don't want any ofthose people in Central Africa to suffer. That's the reason I want tomarry Alice at the earliest opportunity. But I suppose there'll have tobe a Mavering embassy to the high contracting powers of the other partnow?"
"Your father and one of the girls had better go down."
"Yes?"
"And invite Mr. and Mrs. Pasmer and their daughter to come up here."
"All on probation?"
"Oh no. If you're pleased, Dan--"
"I am, mother--measurably." They both laughed at this mild way ofputting it.
"Why, then it's to be supposed that we're all pleased. You needn't bringthe whole Pasmer family home to live with you, if you do marry themall."
"No," said Dan, and suddenly he became very distraught. It flashedthrough him that his mother was expecting him to come home with Aliceto live, and that she would not be at all pleased with his scheme ofa European sojourn, which Mrs. Pasmer had so cordially adopted. Hewas amazed that he had not thought of that, but he refused to see anydifficulty which his happiness could not cope with.
"No, there's that view of it," he said jollily; and he buried hismomentary anxiety out of sight, and, as it were, danced upon its grave.Nevertheless, he had a desire to get quickly away from the spot. "I hopethe Mavering embassy won't be a great while getting ready to go," hesaid. "Of course it's all right; but I shouldn't want an appearance ofreluctance exactly, you know, mother; and if there should be much of aninterval between my getting back and their coming on, don't you know,why, the cat might let herself out of the bag."
"What cat?" asked his mother demurely.
"Well, you know, you haven't received my engagement with unmingledenthusiasm, and--and I suppose they would find it out from me--from mymanner; and--and I wish they'd come along pretty soon, mother."
"Poor boy! I'm afraid the cat got out of the bag when Mrs. Pasmer cameto the years of discretion. But you sha'n't be left a prey to her. Theyshall go back with you. Ring the bell, and let's talk it over with themnow."
Dan joyfully obeyed. He could see that his mother was all on fire withinterest in his affair, and that the idea of somehow circumventing Mrs.Pasmer by prompt action was fascinating her.
His sisters came up at once, and his father followed a moment later.They all took their cue from the mother's gaiety, and began talking andlaughing, except the father, who sat looking on with a smile at theirlively spirits and the jokes of which Dan became the victim. Each familyhas its own fantastic medium, in which it gets affairs to relieve themof their concrete seriousness, and the Maverings now did this with Dan'sengagement, and played with it as an airy abstraction. They debated thecharacter of the embassy which was to be sent down to Boston on theirbehalf, and it was decided that Eunice had better go with her father,as representing more fully the age and respectability of the family: atfirst glance the Pasmers would take her for Dan's mother, and this wouldbe a tremendous advantage.
"And if I like the ridiculous little chit," said Eunice, "I think Ishall let Dan marry her at once. I see no reason why he shouldn't and Icouldn't stand a long engagement; I should break it off."
"I guess there are others who will have something to say about that,"retorted the younger sister. "I've always wanted a long engagement inthis family, and as there seems to be no chance for it with the ladies,I wish to make the most of Dan's. I always like it where the hero getssick and the heroine nurses him. I want Dan to get sick, and have Alicecome here and take care of him."
"No; this marriage must take place at once. What do you say, father?"asked Eunice.
Her father sat, enjoying the talk, at the foot of the bed, with atendency to doze. "You might ask
Dan," he said, with a lazy cast of hiseye toward his son.
"Dan has nothing to do with it."
"Dan shall not be consulted."
The two girls stormed upon their father with their different reasons.
"Now I will tell you Girls, be still!" their mother broke in. "Listen tome: I have an idea."
"Listen to her: she has an idea!" echoed Eunice, in recitative.
"Will you be quiet?" demanded the mother.
"We will be du-u-mb!"
When they became so, at the verge of their mother's patience, of whichthey knew the limits, she went on: "I think Dan had better get marriedat once."
"There, Minnie!"
"But what does Dan say?"
"I will--make the sacrifice," said Dan meekly.
"Noble boy! That's exactly what Washington said to his mother when sheasked him not to go to sea," said Minnie.
"And then he went into the militia, and made it all right with himselfthat way," said Eunice. "Dan can't play his filial piety on this family.Go on, mother."
"I want him to bring his wife home, and live with us," continued hismother.
"In the L part!" cried Minnie, clasping her hands in rapture. "I'vealways said what a perfect little apartment it was by itself."
"Well, don't say it again, then," returned her sister. "Always is oftenenough. Well, in the L part Go on, mother! Don't ask where you were,when it's so exciting."
"I don't care whether it's in the L part or not. There's plenty of roomin the great barn of a place everywhere."
"But what about his taking care of the business in Boston?" suggestedEunice, looking at her father.
"There's no hurry about that."
"And about the excursion to aesthetic centres abroad?" Minnie added.
"That could be managed," said her father, with the same ironical smile.
The mother and the girls went on wildly planning Dan's future for him.It was all in a strain of extravagant burlesque. But he could not takehis part in it with his usual zest. He laughed and joked too, but at thebottom of his heart was an uneasy remembrance of the different future hehad talked over with Mrs. Pasmer so confidently. But he said to himselfbuoyantly at last that it would come out all right. His mother wouldgive in, or else Alice could reconcile her mother to whatever seemedreally best.
He parted from his mother with fond gaiety. His sisters came out of theroom with him.
"I'm perfectly sore with laughing," said Minnie. "It seems like oldtimes--doesn't it, Dan?--such a gale with mother."