GREEK MEETS GREEK
Moses was now within a day or two of the time of his sailing, and yet
the distance between him and Mara seemed greater than ever. It is
astonishing, when two people are once started on a wrong understanding
with each other, how near they may live, how intimate they may be, how
many things they may have in common, how many words they may speak, how
closely they may seem to simulate intimacy, confidence, friendship,
while yet there lies a gulf between them that neither crosses,--a
reserve that neither explores.
Like most shy girls, Mara became more shy the more really she understood
the nature of her own feelings. The conversation with Sally had opened
her eyes to the secret of her own heart, and she had a guilty feeling as
if what she had discovered must be discovered by every one else. Yes, it
was clear she loved Moses in a way that made him, she thought, more
necessary to her happiness than she could ever be to his,--in a way that
made it impossible to think of him as wholly and for life devoted to
another, without a constant inner conflict. In vain had been all her
little stratagems practiced upon herself the whole summer long, to prove
to herself that she was glad that the choice had fallen upon Sally. She
saw clearly enough now that she was not glad,--that there was no woman
or girl living, however dear, who could come for life between him and
her, without casting on her heart the shuddering sorrow of a dim
eclipse.
But now the truth was plain to herself, her whole force was directed
toward the keeping of her secret. "I may suffer," she thought, "but I
will have strength not to be silly and weak. Nobody shall know,--nobody
shall dream it,--and in the long, long time that he is away, I shall
have strength given me to overcome."
So Mara put on her most cheerful and matter-of-fact kind of face, and
plunged into the making of shirts and knitting of stockings, and talked
of the coming voyage with such a total absence of any concern, that
Moses began to think, after all, there could be no depth to her
feelings, or that the deeper ones were all absorbed by some one else.
"You really seem to enjoy the prospect of my going away," said he to
her, one morning, as she was energetically busying herself with her
preparations.
"Well, of course; you know your career must begin. You must make your
fortune; and it is pleasant to think how favorably everything is shaping
for you."
"One likes, however, to be a little regretted," said Moses, in a tone of
pique.
"A little regretted!" Mara's heart beat at these words, but her
hypocrisy was well practiced. She put down the rebellious throb, and
assuming a look of open, sisterly friendliness, said, quite naturally,
"Why, we shall all miss you, of course."
"Of course," said Moses,--"one would be glad to be missed some other way
than _of course_."
"Oh, as to that, make yourself easy," said Mara. "We shall all be dull
enough when you are gone to content the most exacting." Still she spoke,
not stopping her stitching, and raising her soft brown eyes with a
frank, open look into Moses's--no tremor, not even of an eyelid.
"You men must have everything," she continued, gayly, "the enterprise,
the adventure, the novelty, the pleasure of feeling that you are
something, and can do something in the world; and besides all this, you
want the satisfaction of knowing that we women are following in chains
behind your triumphal car!"
There was a dash of bitterness in this, which was a rare ingredient in
Mara's conversation.
Moses took the word. "And you women sit easy at home, sewing and
singing, and forming romantic pictures of our life as like its homely
reality as romances generally are to reality; and while we are off in
the hard struggle for position and the means of life, you hold your
hearts ready for the first rich man that offers a fortune ready made."
"The first!" said Mara. "Oh, you naughty! sometimes we try two or
three."
"Well, then, I suppose this is from one of them," said Moses, flapping
down a letter from Boston, directed in a masculine hand, which he had
got at the post-office that morning.
Now Mara knew that this letter was nothing in particular, but she was
taken by surprise, and her skin was delicate as peach-blossom, and so
she could not help a sudden blush, which rose even to her golden hair,
vexed as she was to feel it coming. She put the letter quietly in her
pocket, and for a moment seemed too discomposed to answer.
"You do well to keep your own counsel," said Moses. "No friend so near
as one's self, is a good maxim. One does not expect young girls to learn
it so early, but it seems they do."
"And why shouldn't they as well as young men?" said Mara. "Confidence
begets confidence, they say."
"I have no ambition to play confidant," said Moses; "although as one who
stands to you in the relation of older brother and guardian, and just on
the verge of a long voyage, I might be supposed anxious to know."
"And I have no ambition to be confidant," said Mara, all her spirit
sparkling in her eyes; "although when one stands to you in the relation
of an only sister, I might be supposed perhaps to feel some interest to
be in your confidence."
The words "older brother" and "only sister" grated on the ears of both
the combatants as a decisive sentence. Mara never looked so pretty in
her life, for the whole force of her being was awake, glowing and
watchful, to guard passage, door, and window of her soul, that no
treacherous hint might escape. Had he not just reminded her that he was
only an older brother? and what would he think if he knew the
truth?--and Moses thought the words _only sister_ unequivocal
declaration of how the matter stood in her view, and so he rose, and
saying, "I won't detain you longer from your letter," took his hat and
went out.
"Are you going down to Sally's?" said Mara, coming to the door and
looking out after him.
"Yes."
"Well, ask her to come home with you and spend the evening. I have ever
so many things to tell her."
"I will," said Moses, as he lounged away.
"The thing is clear enough," said Moses to himself. "Why should I make a
fool of myself any further? What possesses us men always to set our
hearts precisely on what isn't to be had? There's Sally Kittridge likes
me; I can see that plainly enough, for all her mincing; and why couldn't
I have had the sense to fall in love with her? She will make a splendid,
showy woman. She has talent and tact enough to rise to any position I
may rise to, let me rise as high as I will. She will always have skill
and energy in the conduct of life; and when all the froth and foam of
youth has subsided, she will make a noble woman. Why, then, do I cling
to this fancy? I feel that this little flossy cloud, this delicate,
quiet little puff of thistledown, on which I have set my heart, is the
only thing for me, and that without her my life will always be
incomplete. I remember all our early life. It was she who sought me, and
ran after me, and where has all that love gone to? Gone to this fellow;
that's plain enough. When a girl like her is so comfortably cool and
easy, it's because her heart is off somewhere else."
This conversation took place about four o'clock in as fine an October
afternoon as you could wish to see. The sun, sloping westward, turned to
gold the thousand blue scales of the ever-heaving sea, and soft,
pine-scented winds were breathing everywhere through the forests, waving
the long, swaying films of heavy moss, and twinkling the leaves of the
silver birches that fluttered through the leafy gloom. The moon, already
in the sky, gave promise of a fine moonlight night; and the wild and
lonely stillness of the island, and the thoughts of leaving in a few
days, all conspired to foster the restless excitement in our hero's mind
into a kind of romantic unrest.
Now, in some such states, a man disappointed in one woman will turn to
another, because, in a certain way and measure, her presence stills the
craving and fills the void. It is a sort of supposititious courtship,--a
saying to one woman, who is sympathetic and receptive, the words of
longing and love that another will not receive. To be sure it is a game
unworthy of any true man,--a piece of sheer, reckless, inconsiderate
selfishness. But men do it, as they do many other unworthy things, from
the mere promptings of present impulse, and let consequences take care
of themselves. Moses met Sally that afternoon in just the frame to play
the lover in this hypothetical, supposititious way, with words and looks
and tones that came from feelings given to another. And as to Sally?
Well, for once, Greek met Greek; for although Sally, as we showed her,
was a girl of generous impulses, she was yet in no danger of immediate
translation on account of superhuman goodness. In short, Sally had made
up her mind that Moses should give her a chance to say that precious and
golden _No_, which should enable her to count him as one of her
captives,--and then he might go where he liked for all her.
So said the wicked elf, as she looked into her own great eyes in the
little square of mirror shaded by a misty asparagus bush; and to this
end there were various braidings and adornings of the lustrous black
hair, and coquettish earrings were mounted that hung glancing and
twinkling just by the smooth outline of her glowing cheek,--and then
Sally looked at herself in a friendly way of approbation, and nodded at
the bright dimpled shadow with a look of secret understanding. The real
Sally and the Sally of the looking-glass were on admirable terms with
each other, and both of one mind about the plan of campaign against the
common enemy. Sally thought of him as he stood kingly and triumphant on
the deck of his vessel, his great black eyes flashing confident glances
into hers, and she felt a rebellious rustle of all her plumage. "No,
sir," she said to herself, "you don't do it. You shall never find me
among your slaves,"--"that you know of," added a doubtful voice within
her. "Never to your knowledge," she said, as she turned away. "I wonder
if he will come here this evening," she said, as she began to work upon
a pillow-case,--one of a set which Mrs. Kittridge had confided to her
nimble fingers. The seam was long, straight, and monotonous, and Sally
was restless and fidgety; her thread would catch in knots, and when she
tried to loosen it, would break, and the needle had to be threaded over.
Somehow the work was terribly irksome to her, and the house looked so
still and dim and lonesome, and the tick-tock of the kitchen-clock was
insufferable, and Sally let her work fall in her lap and looked out of
the open window, far to the open ocean, where a fresh breeze was
blowing toward her, and her eyes grew deep and dreamy following the
gliding ship sails. Sally was getting romantic. Had she been reading
novels? Novels! What can a pretty woman find in a novel equal to the
romance that is all the while weaving and unweaving about her, and of
which no human foresight can tell her the catastrophe? It is _novels_
that give false views of life. Is there not an eternal novel, with all
these false, cheating views, written in the breast of every beautiful
and attractive girl whose witcheries make every man that comes near her
talk like a fool? Like a sovereign princess, she never hears the truth,
unless it be from the one manly man in a thousand, who understands both
himself and her. From all the rest she hears only flatteries more or
less ingenious, according to the ability of the framer. Compare, for
instance, what Tom Brown says to little Seraphina at the party to-night,
with what Tom Brown sober says to sober sister Maria _about_ her
to-morrow. Tom remembers that he was a fool last night, and knows what
he thinks and always has thought to-day; but pretty Seraphina thinks he
adores her, so that no matter what she does he will never see a flaw,
she is sure of that,--poor little puss! She does not know that
philosophic Tom looks at her as he does at a glass of champagne, or a
dose of exhilarating gas, and calculates how much it will do for him to
take of the stimulus without interfering with his serious and settled
plans of life, which, of course, he doesn't mean to give up for her. The
one-thousand-and-first man in creation is he that can feel the
fascination but will not flatter, and that tries to tell to the little
tyrant the rare word of truth that may save her; he is, as we say, the
one-thousand-and-first. Well, as Sally sat with her great dark eyes
dreamily following the ship, she mentally thought over all the
compliments Moses had paid her, expressed or understood, and those of
all her other admirers, who had built up a sort of cloud-world around
her, so that her little feet never rested on the soil of reality. Sally
was shrewd and keen, and had a native mother-wit in the discernment of
spirits, that made her feel that somehow this was all false coin; but
still she counted it over, and it looked so pretty and bright that she
sighed to think it was not real.
"If it only had been," she thought; "if there were only any truth to the
creature; he is so handsome,--it's a pity. But I do believe in his
secret heart he is in love with Mara; he is in love with some one, I
know. I have seen looks that must come from something real; but they
were not for me. I have a kind of power over him, though," she said,
resuming her old wicked look, "and I'll puzzle him a little, and torment
him. He shall find his match in me," and Sally nodded to a cat-bird that
sat perched on a pine-tree, as if she had a secret understanding with
him, and the cat-bird went off into a perfect roulade of imitations of
all that was going on in the late bird-operas of the season.
Sally was roused from her revery by a spray of goldenrod that was thrown
into her lap by an invisible hand, and Moses soon appeared at the
window.
"There's a plume that would be becoming to your hair," he said; "stay,
let me arrange it."
"No, no; you'll tumble my hair,--what can you know of such things?"
Moses held the spray aloft, and leaned toward her with a sort of quiet,
determined insistence.
"By your leave, fair lady," he said, wreathing it in her hair, and then
drawing back a little, he looked at her with so much admiration that
Sally felt herself blush.
"Come, now, I dare say you've made a fright of me," she said, rising and
instinctively turning to the looking-glass; but she had too much
coquetry not to see how admirably the golden plume suited her black
hair, and the brilliant eyes and cheeks; she turned to Moses again, and
courtesied, saying "Thank you, sir," dropping her eyelashes with a mock
humility.
"Come, now," said Moses; "I am sent after you to come and spend the
evening; let's walk along the seashore, and get there by degrees."
And so they set out; but the path was circuitous, for Moses was always
stopping, now at this point and now at that, and enacting some of those
thousand little by-plays which a man can get up with a pretty woman.
They searched for smooth pebbles where the waves had left
them,--many-colored, pink and crimson and yellow and brown, all smooth
and rounded by the eternal tossings of the old sea that had made
playthings of them for centuries, and with every pebble given and taken
were things said which should have meant more and more, had the play
been earnest. Had Moses any idea of offering himself to Sally? No; but
he was in one of those fluctuating, unresisting moods of mind in which
he was willing to lie like a chip on the tide of present emotion, and
let it rise and fall and dash him when it liked; and Sally never had
seemed more beautiful and attractive to him than that afternoon, because
there was a shade of reality and depth about her that he had never seen
before.
"Come on, and let me show you my hermitage," said Moses, guiding her
along the slippery projecting rocks, all covered with yellow tresses of
seaweed. Sally often slipped on this treacherous footing, and Moses was
obliged to hold her up, and instinctively he threw a meaning into his
manner so much more than ever he had before, that by the time they had
gained the little cove both were really agitated and excited. He felt
that temporary delirium which is often the mesmeric effect of a strong
womanly presence, and she felt that agitation which every woman must
when a determined hand is striking on the great vital chord of her
being. When they had stepped round the last point of rock they found
themselves driven by the advancing tide up into the little lonely
grotto,--and there they were with no lookout but the wide blue sea, all
spread out in rose and gold under the twilight skies, with a silver moon
looking down upon them.
"Sally," said Moses, in a low, earnest whisper, "you love me,--do you
not?" and he tried to pass his arm around her.
She turned and flashed at him a look of mingled terror and defiance, and
struck out her hands at him; then impetuously turning away and
retreating to the other end of the grotto, she sat down on a rock and
began to cry.
Moses came toward her, and kneeling, tried to take her hand. She raised
her head angrily, and again repulsed him.
"Go!" she said. "What right had you to say that? What right had you even
to think it?"
"Sally, you do love me. It cannot but be. You are a woman; you could not
have been with me as we have and not feel more than friendship."
"Oh, you men!--your conceit passes understanding," said Sally. "You
think we are born to be your bond slaves,--but for once you are
mistaken, sir. I _don't_ love you; and what's more, you don't love
me,--you know you don't; you know that you love somebody else. You love
Mara,--you know you do; there's no truth in you," she said, rising
indignantly.
Moses felt himself color. There was an embarrassed pause, and then he
answered,--
"Sally, why should I love Mara? Her heart is all given to another,--you
yourself know it."
"I don't know it either," said Sally; "I know it isn't so."
"But you gave me to understand so."
"Well, sir, you put prying questions about what you ought to have asked
her, and so what was I to do? Besides, I did want to show you how much
better Mara could do than to take you; besides, I didn't know till
lately. I never thought she could care much for any man more than I
could."
"And you think she loves me?" said Moses, eagerly, a flash of joy
illuminating his face; "do you, really?"
"There you are," said Sally; "it's a shame I have let you know! Yes,
Moses Pennel, she loves you like an angel, as none of you men deserve to
be loved,--as you in particular don't."
Moses sat down on a point of rock, and looked on the ground
discountenanced. Sally stood up glowing and triumphant, as if she had
her foot on the neck of her oppressor and meant to make the most of it.
"Now what do you think of yourself for all this summer's work?--for what
you have just said, asking me if I didn't love you? Supposing, now, I
had done as other girls would, played the fool and blushed, and said
yes? Why, to-morrow you would have been thinking how to be rid of me! I
shall save you all that trouble, sir."
"Sally, I own I have been acting like a fool," said Moses, humbly.
"You have done more than that,--you have acted wickedly," said Sally.
"And am I the only one to blame?" said Moses, lifting his head with a
show of resistance.
"Listen, sir!" said Sally, energetically; "I have played the fool and
acted wrong too, but there is just this difference between you and me:
you had nothing to lose, and I a great deal; your heart, such as it was,
was safely disposed of. But supposing you had won mine, what would you
have done with it? That was the last thing you considered."
"Go on, Sally, don't spare; I'm a vile dog, unworthy of either of you,"
said Moses.
Sally looked down on her handsome penitent with some relenting, as he
sat quite dejected, his strong arms drooping, and his long eyelashes
cast down.
"I'll be friends with you," she said, "because, after all, I'm not so
very much better than you. We have both done wrong, and made dear Mara
very unhappy. But after all, I was not so much to blame as you; because,
if there had been any reality in your love, I could have paid it
honestly. I had a heart to give,--I have it now, and hope long to keep
it," said Sally.
"Sally, you are a right noble girl. I never knew what you were till
now," said Moses, looking at her with admiration.
"It's the first time for all these six months that we have either of us
spoken a word of truth or sense to each other. I never did anything but
trifle with you, and you the same. Now we've come to some plain dry
land, we may walk on and be friends. So now help me up these rocks, and
I will go home."
"And you'll not come home with me?"
"Of course not. I think you may now go home and have one talk with Mara
without witnesses."