“You are what you are, my dear, and I would not have you other. But there is but one Lucy in the world. You know it and I know it, and neither of us would think of comparing ourselves with her.”
“Yes, Lucy is a real madonna.”
“And, somehow, I am not,—you may speak for yourself. Yes, I am glad she is not here. I’ll tell you, Mary: I wish he would fall in love with me,—I’ve got so much hard sense that I should never think of reciprocating. However,” added she, resting her head in her hand, while her elbow and fair, plump arm sank in the pillow, “I am not so sure. I, too, am human. Perhaps it would be too much for me. He is tall,” she continued, looking dreamily into space,—“he is distinguished-looking!—so brave!—so mysterious!—perhaps I haven’t as much sense as I thought,”—and she seemed to nod,—“and his teeth are so like stars! and his rows of eyes are so even and white! glitter so!—Am I asleep? Mary, my love,” cried she, bouncing off the bed, “are you going to talk all night? Talk on,—but I’ll tell you what I am going to do. I shall straightway put on my little N. G.,—the toggery, to wit, of repose; and then I shall fall on my little knees and say my little prayers; which done, I shall curl up my little self in my little bed, and know no more till the rising-bell. One word with you, however. Mary, do you know what all I have been saying to you means?”
“I don’t know what any of it means,—not one word; nor do you, I should imagine.”
“Then listen! All that I have said and done and danced to-night means this, and this only. The Pass’n is going to fall in love with you. That’s the Pass’n’s affair, and shows his good taste. Now, who on earth is the Pass’n? Do you see? Well, don’t you go and fall in love with him, now mind! don’t,—that’s a good, wise girl. Good-night!”
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.”