She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of his bow, and he whirled out of the room and down the dim narrow passageway into the arms of Mrs. Pasmer, who had resisted as long as she could her curiosity to know what the angry voices of himself and Alice meant.
"0 Mr. Mavering, is it you?" she buzzed; and she flung aside one pretence for another in adding, "Couldn't Alice make you stay to breakfast?"Dan felt a rush of tenderness in his heart at the sound of the kind, humbugging little voice. "No, thank you, Mrs. Pasmer, I couldn't stay, thank you. I--I thank you very much. I--good-bye, Mrs. Pasmer." He wrung her hand, and found his way out of the apartment door, leaving her to clear up the mystery of his flight and his broken words as she could.
"Alice," she said, as she entered the room, where the girl had remained, "what have you been doing now?""Oh, nothing," she said, with a remnant of her scorn for Dan qualifying her tone and manner to her mother. "I've dismissed Mr. Mavering.""Then you want him to come to lunch?" asked her mother. "I should advise him to refuse.""I don't think he'd accept," said Alice. Then, as Mrs. Pasmer stood in the door, preventing her egress, as Dan had done before, she asked meekly "Will you let me pass, mamma? My head aches."Mrs. Pasmer, whose easy triumphs in so many difficult circumstances kept her nearly always in good temper, let herself go, at these words, in vexation very uncommon with her. "Indeed I shall not!" she retorted.
"And you will please sit down here and tell me what you mean by dismissing Mr. Mavering. I'm tired of your whims and caprices.""I can't talk," began the girl stubbornly.
"Yes, I think you can," said her mother. "At any rate, I can. Now what is it all?""Perhaps this letter, will explain," said Alice, continuing to dignify her enforced submission with a tone of unabated hauteur; and she gave her mother Mrs. Mavering's letter, which Dan had mechanically restored to her.
Mrs. Pasmer read it, not only without indignation, but apparently without displeasure. But, she understood perfectly what the trouble was, when she looked up and asked, cheerfully, "Well?""Well!" repeated Alice, with a frown of astonishment. "Don't you see that he's promised us one thing and her another, and that he's false to both?""I don't know," said Mrs. Pasmer, recovering her good-humour in view of a situation that she felt herself able to cope with. "Of course he has to temporise, to manage a little. She's an invalid, and of course she's very exacting. He has to humour her. How do you know he has promised her? He hasn't promised us.""Hasn't promised us?" Alice gasped.
"No. He's simply fallen in with what we've said. It's because he's so sweet and yielding, and can't bear to refuse. I can understand it perfectly.""Then if he hasn't promised us, he's deceived us all the more shamefully, for he's made us think he had.""He hasn't me," said Mrs. Pasmer, smiling at the stormy virtue in her daughter's face. "And what if you should go home awhile with him--for the summer, say? It couldn't last longer, much; and it wouldn't hurt us to wait. I suppose he hoped for something of that kind.""Oh, it isn't that," groaned the girl, in a kind of bewilderment. "Icould have gone there with him joyfully, and lived all my days, if he'd only been frank with me.""Oh no, you couldn't," said her mother, with cosy security. "When it comes to it, you don't like giving up any more than other people. It's very hard for you to give up; he sees that--he knows it, and he doesn't really like to ask any sort of sacrifice from you. He's afraid of you.""Don't I know that?" demanded Alice desolately: "I've known it from the first, and I've felt it all the time. It's all a mistake, and has been.
We never could understand each other. We're too different.""That needn't prevent you understanding him. It needn't prevent you from seeing how really kind and good he is--how faithful and constant he is.""Oh, you say that--you praise him--because you like him.""Of course I do. And can't you?"
"No. The least grain of deceit--of temporising, you call it--spoils everything. It's over," said the girl, rising, with a sigh, from the chair she had dropped into. "We're best apart; we could only have been wretched and wicked together.""What did you say to him, Alice?" asked her mother, unshaken by her rhetoric.
"I told him he was a faithless person."
"Then you were a cruel girl," cried Mrs. Pasmer, with sudden indignation;"and if you were not my daughter I could be glad he had escaped you. Idon't know where you got all those silly, romantic notions of yours about these things. You certainly didn't get them from me," she continued, with undeniable truth, "and I don't believe you get them from your Church, It's just as Miss Anderson said: your Church makes allowance for human nature, but you make none.""I shouldn't go to Julia Anderson for instruction in such matters," said the girl, with cold resentment.
"I wish you would go to her for a little commonsense--or somebody," said Mrs. Pasmer. "Do you know what talk this will make?""I don't care for the talk. It would be worse than talk to marry a man whom I couldn't trust--who wanted to please me so much that he had to deceive me, and was too much afraid of me to tell me the truth.""You headstrong girl!" said her mother impartially, admiring at the same time the girl's haughty beauty.
There was an argument in reserve in Mrs. Pasmer's mind which perhaps none but an American mother would have hesitated to urge; but it is so wholly our tradition to treat the important business of marriage as a romantic episode that even she could not bring herself to insist that her daughter should not throw away a chance so advantageous from every worldly point of view. She could only ask, "If you break this engagement, what do you expect to do?""The engagement is broken. I shall go into a sisterhood.""You will do nothing of the kind, with my consent," said Mrs. Pasmer.
