CHAPTER XXV.
I will not suppose that any of my readers are superficial persons; and only superficial persons need be told that Alice Carter was a young woman of unusually strong judgment and sound sense. And, further: all persons like her are similarly characterized. Doubtless, a sense of humor is not necessary to the chemist or the naturalist or the mathematician,—to one pursuing a special branch of knowledge; but in that science of sciences, the knowledge of men and things, no eminence is possible without it. ’Tis the blind who fall into pits; and the man who cannot see the absurd in others can in nowise himself escape being ridiculous. I know of but one bird with long ears; and he looks exceeding wise; but let him but venture forth from the twilight of his hiding-place into the full glare of day, and the first school-boy that passes whistling by, shall knock him on the head. And so, among men, the most solemn owl is ever the most solemn ass.
Yes, our little Alice of the merry-glancing hazel eyes was a wise virgin and of exceeding tact; but when she warned her friend against falling in love with the Don, she blundered,—blundered most grieviously when she planted in Mary’s mind the idea that he was not indifferent to her. She loved Mary dearly, with a love securely based on similarity of principles and dissimilarity of temperament, and cemented by the closest association from their very infancy. She admired her, too,—admired her gifts, the unusual range of her womanly culture, her enthusiasm for all that was high and noble, the glowing beauty of her language when she discoursed of anything that kindled her blood. At such times she would sit gazing upon Mary’s face, illumined as it was with a beautiful enthusiasm, and feel that she herself was almost despicable. Yet a reaction always came. Mary was not what is called practical. Her head was among the stars, as it were, while her feet were stumbling along the earth; and Alice revenged herself upon her goddess, for her enforced worship, by playing upon her foibles and blunders with an incessant spray of delicate and sparkling raillery. Even the school-girl love-affairs that they had had when about twelve or thirteen years of age had been characteristic of the two friends. Mary’s youth rejoiced in the aristocratic name of Arthur, while Alice’s lad was known as plain Harry. Arthur was curly-haired and pale of face, and generally had, as he sauntered to school, some novel or other concealed about his person. Harry was a brisk, bullet-headed chap, champion knucks’ player of the school; while, at mumble-peg, his stubby, upturned nose allowed him to rise superior even to defeat.
“I can’t see, Alice, how you can fancy a boy with a pug nose,” said Mary, one day.
“Harry’s nose turns up, that’s true; but so did he, yesterday, and with his umbrella, which kept you and me dry, while he ran home in the rain. Somebody else was afraid of getting his curls wet. I’ll tell you what it is, Mary, I like a boy that carries my books for me and gives me peaches and French candy and oranges and things; but you want one with a novelly name and a ‘chiselled nose,’ as you call it,—a pretty boy, in fact.” All which Mary denied With some heat, and they had a tiff and “didn’t speak” for five long and weary minutes. Alice phrased the same idea differently some years later. “Mary, I’ll tell you the difference between you and myself. Your idea of a husband is a man whom you can adore; mine must adore me.”
Alice blundered,—blundered through over-zeal for her friend’s welfare. She knew Mary’s nature in its every recess; she erred through not knowing human nature as well. She was only eighteen; hence her knowledge of mankind was special rather than general. She knew the exaltation of Mary’s imagination, and felt the danger of her fervid fancy’s laying hold of such a man as the Don, and converting him into a demi-god by the alchemy of her fresh, girlish heart. But generalization is not a trait of the feminine mind. When we hear that some one admires us, we—all of us—instinctively give that person credit for good taste and discernment,—that, she of the hazel eyes overlooked. Now, good taste and discernment are admirable traits; how, then, other things being favorable, can we help admiring our admirers?
“Good-night!” answered Mary; and the two fair heads lay side by side, deep-sunk in vast, beruffled pillows. Alice, fatigued by the day’s journey, fell asleep almost immediately. Her companion, though her eyes were closed, lay thinking. Ah, little Alice, you have sadly blundered! Mary is thinking of what you have said to her—ransacking her brain for confirmation of your suggestion. “Yes, I did remark his looking at me several times at dinner; but what of that? People can look at other people without being in love with them. And—yes, I did think his eyes wore a very intense look; but then they always glow like coals. How beautiful they are!” [Oh, Alice! Alice!!] “terribly beautiful! Oh, if he but hated you!” And she shivered.
Lying, as she was, locked in Alice’s arms, the nervous, rippling movement of her body slightly disturbed the latter’s slumbers; but she merely drew a long breath and exhaled it again with force,—taking a fresh hold, as it were, on sleep.
“Pshaw! it’s all nonsense! Alice forgets what we all agreed to in Richmond. Lucy Poythress was obviously his favorite. Of course she was. Everybody remarked it. I never saw anything like the suddenness of the fancy he took for her. Well, Lucy will reach the neighborhood in a few weeks, and then we shall see. I wonder—no, I cannot think that of him. ‘Out of sight, out of mind,’—no, that’s impossible; whatever he may be, he is not fickle. Let me think. I do recall that he seemed to bow a shade lower to me than to the others when we left the parlor; but what of that? Bows must differ like everything else; one must be lower than the rest. And he is so strong, I suppose he hardly knew that he almost hurt my hand.” “Stuff!” cried she aloud, with emphasis; whirling out of Alice’s arms and changing her position.
Many men, in many lands, Poor Thing, have tried that method of changing the current of their thoughts, and have failed. The chronometer goes ticking on, lay it how you will; and so the human heart; but that, alas, unlike the tireless watch, throbs fiercest when ’tis broken.
Alice gave the half-conscious moan of disturbed sleep; and Mary resumed her meditations, going, again and again, over the same ground. At last youth and fatigue asserted their claims, and she fell asleep and slept for hours; then suddenly sprang up with a sharp cry.
“What’s the matter?” asked Alice, in terror.
“Oh, I had such a fearful dream!”
“You did?” said Alice, dropping back upon her pillow. “You frightened me so-o-o.” And she was asleep again.
Mary had dreamt that she was walking alone on a road through a dark forest, when suddenly she heard, behind her, the clatter of a horse’s hoofs. Looking around in terror, she beheld a Knight in full armor, with visor down, mounted on a powerful black charger, and riding furiously. The Knight seemed to be making full at her, and she stood transfixed with fright, and rooted to the ground. As he came up to her, he did not slacken his speed, but bending to the right, and encircling her waist with his mighty arm, lifted her from the ground, and, without an effort, placed her before him on the charger’s neck. On, on, they rushed for miles and miles; but the horseman spake never a word, nor, for very terror, could she utter a cry. At last they emerged into a bright, moonlit plain, and there, standing before them, was the figure of a young girl. She turned her head at the sound of the charger’s hoofs, and the moon, shining full on her face, revealed the features of Lucy. “Aha! it is she!” cried the Knight, breaking silence for the first time. ’Twas the voice of the Don! And tossing his trembling captive disdainfully to the ground, he stooped once more, and, seizing Lucy, sped on as before. Oh, Alice! Alice!! Alice!!!