MAGIC
For several seconds after Savage had made off Sally delayed there,
alone on the empty lawn in the westerly shadow of Gosnold House,
doubting what next to do, where next to turn in quest of Mrs. Gosnold;
questioning the motive for that furtive meeting which she had
surprised, wondering at Savage's insistence on a spot so remote and
inconvenient for their appointment, and why it must needs be kept in
so underhand a fashion, and whether she had been wise to consent to it
and would be wise to keep it. She was at a loss how to fill in the
time until the hour nominated, shrinking alike from the lights and
gaiety of the hall, the supper-room and the veranda, and the romantic,
love-sick peace of moonlit lawns and gardens. Altogether she was in a
most complicated, distracted, uncertain and unhappy frame of mind.
Then a latch clicked softly, the hinges of a shutter whined, and the
startled young woman found herself staring up into the face of Mrs.
Gosnold--a pallid oval against the dark background of an
unlighted window not two feet above Sally's head.
She gasped, but respected the admonition of a finger pressed lightly
upon the lady's smiling lips.
"S-s-s-sh!" said Mrs. Gosnold mysteriously, with cautious glances
right and left.
"There's no one here," Sally assured her in tones appropriately
guarded. "You've been listening--" Mrs. Gosnold nodded with a
mischievous twinkle: "I have that!"
"You heard--?"
"Something--not much--not enough. If you had only been a few minutes
later. . ."
"I'm sorry, but I've been looking for you everywhere. Please, may I
come in and tell you something?"
"Not now."
"It's very important--something you ought to know at once."
"Oh, my dear!" the woman sighed with genuine regret: "I know already
far more than I care to know!"
"But this--"
"Not now, I say. I've been too frequently and too long away from my
guests as it is. I'll have to show myself for a little while. Then,
come to my room in half an hour."
"At half past twelve?"
"Yes, and don't be late. Now do run along and have a good time."
The shutter was drawn gently to, and Sally, with an embittered smile
for the unconscious irony of that parting injunction, moved slowly on
toward the front of the house.
But it was true that she felt a little less disconsolate now than she
had two minutes ago; after all, it seemed, she wasn't altogether
friendless and forsaken; and as for those doubts and questions which
so perplexed her, they would all be resolved and answered once she had
opportunity to lay them, together with the story of last night, before
the judgment of her benefactress. . . .
Still, if she reckoned confidently upon her hostess, she reckoned not
wisely without her host, whose mask to-night was that of a sardonic
destiny. And when a tentative venture into the throngs on the veranda
had been discouraged by the spirited advances of a forward young
Cavalier who chose to consider his honour piqued, first by her demure
Quaker garb, then by her unresponsiveness, Sally was glad enough to
fall back upon the comparative quiet and solitude of the moon-drenched
gardens. Whereupon her destiny grinned a heartless grin and arranged
to throw her to the lions that, all unsuspected, raged in the maiden
bosom of Mercedes Pride.
The tireless ingenuity with which that rampant spinster devised ways
and means of rendering herself a peripatetic pest had long since won
the ungrudged admiration of Sally, who elected to be amused more than
annoyed by the impertinences, the pretentiousness, the fawning
adulation and the corrosive jealousy of Mrs. Gosnold's licensed
pick-thank. And when she had first divined the woman beneath the
disguise of the witch Sally had wondered what new method of making a
sprightly nuisance of herself Miss Pride had invented to go with her
impersonation.
It proved, naturally enough, remembering the limitations of a New
England maiden's imagination, to be compulsory fortune-telling with
the aid of cards, a crystal ball, the palm of the victim's hand,
unlimited effrontery, and a "den" rigged up in a corner of a hedge
with a Navajo blanket for a canopy and for properties two wooden
stools, a small folding table, a papier-mache skull, a jointed wooden
snake, an artificial pumpkin-head with a candle in it, and a black cat
tethered by a string to a stake in the ground and wishing he had never
been born.
Within this noisome lair the sorceress squatted and practised her
unholy arts upon all comers without mercy or distinction as to race,
caste, sex, age, colour, or previous condition of servitude. And when
trade slackened (as inevitably it did when "the young people"
for whose "amusement" this mummery ostensibly was staged asserted
their ennui by avoiding the neighbourhood) Ecstatica, nothing daunted,
would rise up and go forth and stalk her prey among the more mature,
dragging them off forcibly by the hand, when needs must, to sit at her
table and sympathise with the unfortunate cat and humour her nonsense.
Thus she inveigled Sally when the latter unwarily wandered her way.
Miss Pride knew her victim perfectly, but for the sake of appearances
kept up the semblance of mystification.
"Sit you there, my pretty," she grabbed vivaciously, two hands on
Sally's shoulders urging her to rest on one of the stools. "Don't be
afraid of my simple magic; the black art has nothing to do with the
lore of the wise old woman. Just show me your rosy palm, and I will
tell you your fortune. No, you needn't cross my palm with silver; I
will ply my mystic trade and tell your future all for the sake of your
pretty eyes."
She peered, blinking with make-believe myopia, into the hollow of
Sally's hand.
"Ah, yes, yes!" she grunted, "you have an amiable and affectionate
disposition; you love pretty things to wear and every sort of
pleasure. There is your gravest fault and greatest danger,
pretty: love of clothes and pleasure and--forgive the wise old woman's
plain speaking--false ambitions. Beware of the sin of vain ambition;
only wrong and unhappiness can come of that. No, no; don't draw your
hand away. I have not finished. Let me look closer. There is much
written here that you should know and none but my wise old eyes can
read, pretty."
Effrontery battened on indulgence:
"The past has been unfortunate. The present is bright with misleading
glamour--beware of the vanities of the flesh! The future--I see a
shadow. It is dark. It is difficult to read. I see a journey before
you--a long journey; you will cross water and travel by the
steam-cars. And there is a lover waiting for you at the journey's
end--not here, but far away. I cannot see him clearly, but he waits.
Perhaps later, when I consult my magic sphere of crystal. But wait!"
She breathed hard for a moment, perhaps appreciating her temerity; but
she was as little capable of reading Sally's character as her palm.
"I see danger in your path," she resumed in accents of awe; "the
shadow of something evil--and a window barred with iron. I cannot say
what this means, but you should know. Look into your heart, my pretty;
think. If perhaps you have done something you should not have done,
and if you would not suffer shame for it, you must make all
haste to undo that which you have done--"
"Miss Pride!" Sally interrupted hotly, snatching her hand away.
"You--"
"No, no. I have no name!" the other protested in the falsetto she had
adopted to suit her impersonation; "I am only the wise old woman who
tells the future and the past and reads the secrets . . ."
But the white anger that glowed in Sally's countenance abashed her.
The shrill tones trailed off into a mumble. She looked uneasily aside.
"You must not be angry with the poor old wise woman," she stammered
uncertainly.
"You know very well what you have said," Sally told her in a low voice
vibrant with indignation. "You know very well you have deliberately
insulted me."
"No, no!"
"You know who I am and what your insinuation means, after what has
happened here to-night. Miss Pride! Do you dare accuse me--?"
"Oh, no-please!" Mercedes begged, aghast, quaking in realisation of
the enormity of her mistake. "I didn't think--I didn't know you--I
didn't mean--"
"That," Sally cut in tensely, "is a deliberate falsehood. You
inveigled me into this for the sole purpose of insulting me. Now I
mean to have you repeat your accusation before witnesses. I
shall inform Mrs. Gosnold--"
"Oh, no, Miss Manwaring! I beg of you, no! I didn't mean what you
think, indeed I didn't!"
Sally made to speak, choked upon her indignation, and gulped.
"That's a lie!" she declared huskily; and rising fled the place.
She went a few hasty paces blindly, then remembering she mustn't make
an exhibition of herself, however great the provocation, checked her
steps and went on at a less conspicuous and precipitate rate.
But still her vision was dark with tears of rage and mortification,
and still her bosom heaved convulsively. Now and again she stumbled.
Twice since nightfall the abominable accusation had been flung into
her face, the unthinkable thing imputed to her, and this last time out
of sheer, gratuitous spleen, the jealous spite of a mean-minded old
maid. For Miss Pride had no such excuse as Adele Standish had for
thinking Sally capable of infamy--unless indeed, Mrs. Standish had
proved false to her pledge and had told people. But no; she'd never do
that; not, at least, while the settlement of her insurance claim
remained in abeyance.
The brutality of it!
A strong hand closing unceremoniously on her wrist brought Sally to a
standstill within two paces of the low stone wall that guarded the
brink of the cliff.
"Look where you're going, Miss; Manwaring!" Trego's voice counselled
her quietly. Then, seeing that she yielded readily, he released her.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "but in another minute if I hadn't taken
the liberty of stopping you, you might have hurt yourself."
She managed to mutter an ungracious "Thank you."
"It's none of my business," Trego volunteered with some heat, "but I'd
like to know what that vicious old vixen found to say to upset you
this way."
"Oh, you were watching."
"No; I just happened to be sticking round when you flew out of that
fool sideshow of hers like you were possessed. And then I saw you
weren't paying much attention where you were going, and I was afraid.
Hope you don't mind my butting in."
"Not at all," she gulped. "I suppose I ought to be grateful."
"That's just as you feel about it," he allowed reasonably.
She made an effort to collect herself. "But I am grateful," she
asserted. "Please don't think I mean to be rude. Only," she
gulped again, overcome by the stinging memory of that woman's
insolence, "I'd almost as lief you hadn't stopped me--and that wall
wasn't there!"
"Now, now!" he reminded her. "It can't be as bad as all that, you
know."
"Well, but think how you would feel if you'd been twice accused of
stealing Mrs. Gosnold's jewels last night!"
"Once would be plenty," he said gravely. "I don't reckon anybody would
say that twice to my bare face."
"Yes--but you can resent insults like a man."
"That's right, too. But then it's the only way I know to resent
'em--with my fists. That's where you women put it all over us men; you
know a hundred different ways of sinking the poisoned barb subtly. I
wouldn't like to be that Pride critter when you get through with her."
There was unquestionably a certain amount of comfort to be gained by
viewing the case from this angle. Sally became calmer and brightened
perceptibly.
"Perhaps," she murmured in an enigmatic manner becoming in the
putative mistress of unutterable arts.
"It's just like that shrivelled old shrew. What you might expect. If I
had thought of it in time, I'd've been willing to make a book on
her laying it to you."
"But why?" Sally protested perplexedly.
"Sure, I don't have to tell you why," he said diplomatically. "You
know as well as I do she's plumb corroded with jealousy of you for
winning out with her dear Abigail just when she thought she had things
fixed. I don't suppose you know the inside story of how your
predecessor got the sack? The Pride person was responsible. Miss
Matring was in her way, and a good deal of her own disposition to
boot. It was a merry war, all right, while it lasted--scheming and
squabbling and backbiting and tattling and corrupting servants to
carry tales--all that sort of thing. To be honest about it, I don't
just know which was the worse of the two; they didn't either of them
stick at much of anything noticeable. But, of course, Miss Matring was
handicapped, not being blood-kin, and the upshot was she had to
go--and until you showed up the old maid was actually miserable for
want of somebody to hate. I noticed the light of battle in those beady
little eyes of hers the minute she laid 'em on you. I'd have warned
you, only ..."
He stumbled. She encouraged him: "Why didn't you?"
She didn't like Trego--that was understood--but sympathy was very
sweet to her just then, whatever its source, and she had no real
objection to disparagement of her slanderer, either.
"Well, it wasn't my fight. And I didn't know how you'd take
interference. You looked pretty well able to take care of yourself--in
fact, you are. And then--I don't reckon it's going to do me any good
to say this; but I might as well make a clean breast of it--I was just
selfish enough to have a sneaking sort of hope, deep down, that maybe
you'd find it so unpleasant you'd quit."
"Mr. Trego!" No more than that; he had taken her breath away.
"I guess that does sound funny," he admitted, evading her indignant
eye. "You can't trust me, ever. I always say things the wrong way;
that's the best thing I do."
"If it's possible for you to explain . . ."
"It's possible, all right, but it's anything but easy. What I meant
was . . . Well, any fool could see that as long as you were so strong
for this society racket I didn't stand much show."
"Show?"
"Of making good with you. Oh, look here, what's the use of beating
about the bush? I'm a rude, two-fisted animal, and that's all against
me. I never could flummux up my meaning successfully with a lot of
words like--well, name no names. All the same, it's pretty hard for a
fellow who knows the girl he's sweet on isn't crazy about him to
come out in plain talk and say he loves her."
She was dumb. She stared incredulously at his heavy, sincere,
embarrassed face, as if it were something abnormal, almost
supernatural, a hallucination.
"Meaning" he faltered, "I mean to say--of course--I love you,
Sar--er--ah--Miss Manwaring--and I think I can make you happy--"
He was making heavy weather of his simple declaration, labouring like
an old-fashioned square-rigger in a beam sea.
"If you'll marry me, that is," he concluded in a breath, with obvious
relief if with a countenance oddly shadowed in the staring moonlight
by the heat of his distress.
She tried, she meant to give him his answer without delay; it were
kinder. But she found it impossible; the negative stuck stubbornly in
her throat. She knew it would stab him deep. He wasn't the man to take
love lightly; his emotions were anything but on the surface; their
wounds would be slow to heal.
And in spite of the positive animus she had all along entertained
toward him, she didn't want to hurt him now; perhaps not strangely,
remembering that this proposal of marriage was a direct, down-right
protestation of implicit faith in her, uttered squarely on top of a
most damnable indictment--remembering, too, that it was barely
two hours since Sally herself had been ready, almost eager, to believe
him capable of committing the very crime of implication in which he
exonerated her without an instant's hesitation.
True, she had been quick to exonerate him in her thoughts as soon as
the suspicion was engendered in them, but she had done so almost
reluctantly, ungenerously, not because she wanted to believe him
innocent, but because the burden of the evidence, together with the
counsel of instinct, had been too strong in his favour to permit more
than a moment's doubt. And she had repented; but that, it appeared,
was not enough; she must be punished in this unique way, have her own
unworthiness demonstrated by this artless manifestation of his worth.
And however much she might long to make amends to him, she couldn't.
The pain and the pity of it! He was a far better man than she a woman,
and he honoured her with his love--and she couldn't requite him, she
couldn't love him; he was still too far from the mirage of her ideal.
"Oh!" she sighed. "Why?"
He misconstrued. "I've told you heaps of times--because you're a
woman, not a manikin. Marriage would mean something more to you than
clothes, Europe, idleness, and flirting with other women's
husbands, just as it would have to mean more to me than hiring a woman
to live with me and entertain my friends."
"How do you know? How can you tell? What do you know about me?" she
protested almost passionately, and answered herself. "You don't know;
you can't tell; you know nothing about me. You assert things--I only
wish they were true--"
"Oh, they're true enough," he interrupted unceremoniously. "It's no
use trying to run yourself down to me. I couldn't feel the way I do
about you if you were not at heart as sound as an apple, no matter
what nonsense you may have been guilty of at one time or another, as
every human being's got to be."
"Has nobody told you anything about me? Mrs. Gosnold--?"
"Mrs. Gosnold 'tends to her own knitting. And nobody has told me
anything--except yourself. More than that, I don't go by other folks'
opinions when I make up my mind about a matter as vital to me as
marrying a wife."
"Then I must tell you--"
"Not until you give me some legitimate title to your confidence.
You've got no right to confide in me unless you mean to marry me--and
you haven't said you would yet."
"I can't--I couldn't without telling you--please let me speak!"
She drew a long breath of desperation and grasped the nettle firmly.
"I stole the clothes I came here in. My name isn't Manwaring--it's
Sally Manvers. I was a shop-girl--"
"Half a minute. Mrs. Gosnold knows all this, doesn't she?"
"Yes--"
"You told her everything, and still she stood for you?"
"Yes, but--"
"That's enough for me. I don't want to hear anything more until you're
my wife. After that you'll have to tell me--and if there's any trouble
remaining to be straightened out then, why, it'll be my natural job as
a husband to fix it up for you. Till then I won't listen to any more
of your confidences that have nothing whatever to do with the fact
that I love you and believe in you and want to make you happy."
"But don't you understand that a girl who would steal and lie in order
to get into society--"
"Oh, everybody's got to be foolish about something or other. You'll
get over this social craze. The more you see of it the more sure your
cure. Now don't mistake me; I'm not for an instant implying that some
of the finest people that ever walked God's green earth don't figure
in what we call Society; and there are more of them on this little
island, perhaps, than anywhere else in America; and I'd be the
last to cry them down or pretend I'm not glad and proud of their
acquaintance and friendship. The trouble is, they can't in the nature
of things keep up their social order without attracting a cloud of
parasites, snobs, and toadies--and that's what makes me sick of the
whole social game as practised to-day."
"And you can't understand that I am precisely what you've described--a
parasite!"
"You couldn't be if you wanted to. Maybe you think you could, but
you're wrong; you haven't got it in you."
Against such infatuation candour was powerless. She retreated to the
last ditch. "But you told me your father's heart was set on your
marrying a society woman!"
"Well, what of that? You don't suppose I think any of them have got
anything on you, do you? Besides, dad isn't altogether an old idiot,
and if the kind of society woman he wants me to marry wouldn't look at
me, and if my happiness is at stake . . . Well, even if he did want to
ruin my life by hitching me up in double harness to a clothes-horse,
I wouldn't let him!"
"But if I want--"
"There isn't anything you want that I can't get you. If you like this
sort of thing, you shall have it. And don't run away with the
idea that I'm not strong for society myself--the right sort."
Her gesture was hopeless. "What can I say to you?"
He suggested quietly, not without humour: "If you don't mind, say
yes."
"You don't know what you're doing, making me such an offer. Suppose I
married you for your money . . ."
"You won't do that. You can't."
"What do you mean?"
"You've got to love me first. And you're too fine and honest to
pretend that for the sake of my money."
Of a sudden his tone changed. "Oh, forgive me!" he pleaded. "I was a
fool to ask. I might have known--I did know you didn't care for me.
Only, I hoped, and I guess a man in love can't help letting his hopes
make him foolish, especially when he sees the girl in trouble of some
sort, needing what he can give her, love and protection--and when it's
moonlight and there's music in the air!"
He checked himself with a lifted hand and stood for a moment, half
smiling, as if made suddenly conscious of the pulsing rapture of those
remote violins.
"_That's_ what's made all the mischief," he complained: "that,
and the way you look. It isn't a fair combination to work on a fellow,
you know. Please don't say anything; you've said enough. I know very
well what you mean, but I'd rather not hear it in one word of two
letters--not to-night. I'm just foolish enough to prefer to go on
hoping for a while, believing there was a bare chance I had
misunderstood you."
He laughed half-heartedly, said "Good night" with an admirable air of
accepting his dismissal as a matter of course, and marched off as
abruptly as if reminded of an overdue appointment.
No other manoeuvre could have been more shrewdly calculated to advance
his cause; nothing makes so compelling an appeal to feminine
sympathies as a rejected suitor taking his punishment like a man; the
emotional affinity of pity has been established ever since the
invention of love.
Sally sank down mechanically upon a little marble seat near the spot
where they had stood talking and stared without conscious vision out
over the silvered sea.
Her thoughts were vastly unconcerned with the mysterious behaviour of
Mrs. Standish and her brother, the inexplicable insolence of Mercedes
Pride, the shattered bubble of her affair with Donald Lyttleton, the
kindness of Mrs. Gosnold, or the riddle of the vanished jewelry.
Now and again people passed her and gave her curious glances. She paid
them no heed. The fact that they went in pairs, male and female after
their kind, failed to re-excite envy in her bosom.
There is deep satisfaction to be distilled from consciousness of the
love of even an unwelcome lover.
She thought no longer unkindly but rather pitifully of poor, tactless,
rough-shod Mr. Trego.
When at length she stirred and rose it was with a regretful sigh that,
matters being as they were with her, she was unable to reward his
devotion with something warmer than friendship only.
Friendship, of course, she could no more deny the poor man. . . .