Mrs. Pasmer, under cover of the noise, said, in a low tone, to her daughter, "Alice, I think you'd better keep a little more with me now.""Yes," said the girl, in a sympathy with her mother in which she did not always find herself.
But when Mavering, whom their tacit treaty concerned, turned toward them, and put himself in charge of Alice, Mrs. Pasmer found herself dispossessed by the charm of his confidence, and relinquished her to him.
They were going to walk to the Castle Rocks by the path that now loses and now finds itself among the fastnesses of the forest, stretching to the loftiest outlook on the bay. The savage woodland is penetrated only by this forgetful path, that passes now and then aver the bridge of a ravine, and offers to the eye on either hand the mystery deepening into wilder and weirder tracts of solitude. The party resolved itself into twos and threes, and these straggled far apart, out of conversational reach of one another. Mrs. Pasmer found herself walking and talking with John Munt.
"Mr. Pasmer hasn't much interest in these excursions," he suggested.
"No; he never goes," she answered, and, by one of the agile intellectual processes natural to women, she arrived at the question, "You and the Maverings are old friends, Mr. Munt?""I can't say about the son, but I'm his father's friend, and I suppose that I'm his friend too. Everybody seems to be so," suggested Munt.
"Oh Yes," Mrs. Pasmer assented; "he appears to be a universal favourite.""We used to expect great things of Elbridge Mavering in college. We were rather more romantic than the Harvard men are nowadays, and we believed in one another more than they do. Perhaps we idealised one another.
But, anyway, our class thought Mavering could do anything. You know about his taste for etchings?""Yes," said Mrs. Pasmer, with a sigh of deep appreciation. "What gifted people!""I understand that the son inherits all his father's talent.""He sketches delightfully."
"And Mavering wrote. Why, he was our class poet!" cried Munt, remembering the fact with surprise and gratification to himself. "He was a tremendous satirist.""Really? And he seems so amiable now."
"Oh, it was only on paper."
"Perhaps he still keeps it up--on wall-paper?" suggested Mrs. Pasmer.
Munt laughed at the little joke with a good-will that flattered the veteran flatterer. "I should like to ask him that some time. Will you lend it to me?""Yes, if such a sayer of good things will deign to borrow--""Oh, Mrs. Pasmer!" cried Munt, otherwise speechless.
"And the mother? Do you know Mrs. Mavering?""Mrs. Mavering I've never seen."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Pasmer, with a disappointment for which Munt tried to console her.
"I've never even been at their place. He asked me once a great while ago; but you know how those things are. I've heard that she used to be very pretty and very gay. They went about a great deal, to Saratoga and Cape May and such places--rather out of our beat.""And now?"
"And now she's been an invalid for a great many years. Bedridden, Ibelieve. Paralysis, I think."
Yes; Mrs. Saintsbury said something of the kind.""Well," said Munt, anxious to add to the store of knowledge which this remark let him understand he had not materially increased, "I think Mrs.
Mavering was the origin of the wall-paper--or her money. Mavering was poor; her father had started it, and Mavering turned in his talent.""How very interesting! And is that the reason--its being ancestral--that Mr. Mavering wishes his son to go into it?""Is he going into it?" asked Munt.
"He's come up here to think about it."
"I should suppose it would be a very good thing," said Munt.
"What a very remarkable forest!" said Mrs. Pasmer, examining it on either side, and turning quite round. This gave her, from her place in the van of the straggling procession, a glimpse of Alice and Dan Mavering far in the rear.
"Don't you know," he was saying to the girl at the same moment, "it's like some of those Dore illustrations to the Inferno, or the Wandering Jew.""Oh yes. I was trying to think what it was made me think I had seen it before," she answered. "It must be that. But how strange it is!" she exclaimed, "that sensation of having been there before--in some place before where you can't possibly have been.""And do you feel it here?" he asked, as vividly interested as if they two had been the first to notice the phenomenon which has been a psychical consolation to so many young observers.
"Yes," she cried.
"I hope I was with you," he said, with a sudden turn of levity, which did not displease her, for there seemed to be a tender earnestness lurking in it. "I couldn't bear to think of your being alone in such a howling wilderness.""Oh, I was with a large picnic," she retorted gaily. "You might have been among the rest. I didn't notice.""Well, the next time, I wish you'd look closer. I don't like being left out." They were so far behind the rest that he devoted himself entirely to her, and they had grown more and more confidential.
They came to a narrow foot-bridge over a deep gorge. The hand-rail had fallen away. He sprang forward and gave her his hand for the passage.
