REFLECTIONS—MIRRORED AND OTHERWISE
Miss Maggie was still sitting in the big chair with her face in her
hands when the door opened and Mr. Smith came in. He was very white.
Miss Maggie, dropping her hands and starting up at his entrance, caught
a glimpse of his face in the mirror in front of her. With a furtive,
angry dab of her fingers at her wet eyes, she fell to rearranging the
vases and photographs on the mantel.
“Oh, back again, Mr. Smith?” she greeted him, with studied unconcern.
Mr. Smith shut the door and advanced determinedly.
“Miss Maggie, I’ve got to face this thing out, of course. Even if I
had—made a botch of things at the very start, it didn’t help any to—to
run away, as I did. And I was a coward to do it. It was only because
I—I—But never mind that. I’m coming now straight to the point. Miss
Maggie, will you—marry me?”
The photograph in Miss Maggie’s hand fell face down on the shelf. Miss
Maggie’s fingers caught the edge of the mantel in a convulsive grip. A
swift glance in the mirror before her disclosed Mr. Smith’s face just
over her shoulder, earnest, pleading, and still very white. She dropped
her gaze, and turned half away. She did not want to meet Mr. Smith’s
eyes just then. She tried to speak, but only a half-choking little
breath came.
Then Mr. Smith spoke again.
“Miss Maggie, please don’t say no—yet. Let me—explain—about how I
came here, and all that. But first, before I do that, let me tell
you how—how I love you—how I have loved you all these long months. I
_think_ I loved you from the first time I saw you. Whatever comes,
I want you to know that. And if you could care for me a little—just
a little, I’m sure I could make it more—in time, so you would marry
me. And we would be so happy! Don’t you believe I’d try to make you
happy—dear?”
“Yes, oh, yes,” murmured Miss Maggie, still with her head turned away.
“Good! Then all you’ve got to say is that you’ll let me try. And we
will be happy, dear! Why, until I came here to this little house, I
didn’t know what living, real living, was. And I _have_ been, just
as you said, a selfish old thing.”
Miss Maggie, with a start of surprise, faced the image in the mirror;
but Mr. Smith was looking at her, not at her reflection, so she did not
meet his ayes.
“Why, I never—” she stammered.
“Yes, you did, a minute ago. Don’t you remember? Oh, of course you
didn’t realize—everything, and perhaps you wouldn’t have said it if
you’d known. But you said it—and you meant it, and I’m glad you said
it. And, dear little woman, don’t you see? That’s only another reason
why you should say yes. You can show me how not to be selfish.”
“But, Mr. Smith, I—I—” stammered Miss Maggie, still with puzzled eyes.
“Yes, you can. You can show me how to make life really worth while, for
me, and for—for lots of others. And _now_ I have some one to care
for. And, oh, little woman, I—I care so much, it can’t be that you—you
don’t care—any!”
Miss Maggie caught her breath and turned away again.
“Don’t you care—a little?”
The red crept up Miss Maggie’s neck to her forehead but still she was
silent.
“If I could only see your eyes,” pleaded the man. Then, suddenly, he
saw Miss Maggie’s face in the mirror. The next moment Miss Maggie
herself turned a little, and in the mirror their eyes met—and
in the mirror Mr. Smith found his answer. “You _do_ care—a
_little_!” he breathed, as he took her in his arms.
“But I don’t!” Miss Maggie shook her head vigorously against his
coat-collar.
“What?” Mr. Smith’s clasp loosened a little.
“I care—a _great deal_,” whispered Miss Maggie to the coat-collar,
with shameless emphasis.
“You—darling!” triumphed the man, bestowing a rapturous kiss on the tip
of a small pink ear—the nearest point to Miss Maggie’s lips that was
available, until, with tender determination, he turned her face to his.
A moment later, blushing rosily, Miss Maggie drew herself away.
“There, we’ve been quite silly enough—old folks like us.”
“We’re not silly. Love is never silly—not real love like ours.
Besides, we’re only as old as we feel. Do you feel old? I don’t. I’ve
lost—_years_ since this morning. And you know I’m just beginning
to live—really live, anyway! I feel—twenty-one.”
“I’m afraid you act it,” said Miss Maggie, with mock severity.
“_You_ would—if you’d been through what _I_ have,” retorted Mr. Smith,
drawing a long breath. “And when I think what a botch I made of it, to
begin with—You see, I didn’t mean to start off with that, first thing;
and I was so afraid that—that even if you did care for John Smith, you
wouldn’t for me—just at first. But you do, dear!” At arms’ length he
held her off, his hands on her shoulders. His happy eyes searching her
face saw the dawn of the dazed, question.
“Wouldn’t care for _you_ if I did for John Smith! Why, you
_are_ John Smith. What do you mean?” she demanded, her eyes slowly
sweeping him from head to foot and back again. “What _do_ you
mean?”
“_Miss Maggie!_” Instinctively his tongue went back to the old
manner of address, but his hands still held her shoulders. “You
don’t mean—you can’t mean that—that you didn’t understand—that you
_don’t_ understand that I am—Oh, good Heavens! Well, I have
made a mess of it this time,” he groaned. Releasing his hold on her
shoulders, he turned and began to tramp up and down the room. “Nice
little John-Alden-Miles-Standish affair this is now, upon my word! Miss
Maggie, have I got to—to propose to you all over again for—for another
man, now?”
“For—_another man!_ I—I don’t think I understand you.” Miss Maggie
had grown a little white.
“Then you don’t know—you didn’t understand a few minutes ago, when I—I
spoke first, when I asked you about—about those twenty millions—”
She lifted her hand quickly, pleadingly.
“Mr. Smith, please, don’t let’s bring money into it at all. I don’t
care—I don’t care a bit if you haven’t got any money.”
Mr. Smith’s jaw dropped.
“If I _haven’t_ got any money!” he ejaculated stupidly.
“No! Oh, yes, I know, I said I loved money.” The rich red came back
to her face in a flood. “But I didn’t mean—And it’s just as much of
a test and an opportunity when you _don’t_ have money—more so,
if anything. I didn’t mean it—that way. I never thought of—of how you
might take it—as if I _wanted_ it. I don’t. Indeed, I don’t! Oh,
can’t you—understand?”
“Understand! Good Heavens!” Mr. Smith threw up both his hands. “And I
thought I’d given myself away! Miss Maggie.” He came to her and stood
close, but he did not offer to touch her. “I thought, after I’d said
what I did about—about those twenty millions that you understood—that
you knew I was—Stanley Fulton himself.”
“That you were—who?” Miss Maggie stood motionless, her eyes looking
straight into his, amazed incredulous.
“Stanley Fulton. I am Stanley Fulton. My God! Maggie, don’t look at me
like that. I thought—I had told you. Indeed, I did!”
She was backing away now, slowly, step by step. Anger, almost loathing,
had taken the place of the amazement and incredulity in her eyes.
“And _you_ are Mr. Fulton?”
“Yes, yes! But—”
“And you’ve been here all these months—yes, years—under a false name,
pretending to be what you weren’t—talking to us, eating at our tables,
winning our confidence, letting us talk to you about yourself, even
pretending that—Oh, how could you?” Her voice broke.
“Maggie, dearest,” he begged, springing toward her, “if you’ll only let
me—”
But she stopped him peremptorily, drawing herself to her full height.
“I am _not_ your dearest,” she flamed angrily. “I did not give my
love—to _you_.”
“Maggie!” he implored.
But she drew back still farther.
“No! I gave it to John Smith—gentleman, I supposed. A man—poor,
yes, I believed him poor; but a man who at least had a right to his
_name_! I didn’t give it to Mr. Stanley G. Fulton, spy, trickster,
who makes life itself a masquerade for _sport_! I do not know Mr.
Stanley G. Fulton, and—I do not wish to.” The words ended in a sound
very like a sob; but Miss Maggie, with her head still high, turned her
back and walked to the window.
The man, apparently stunned for a moment, stood watching her, his eyes
grieved, dismayed, hopeless. Then, white-faced, he turned and walked
toward the door. With his hand almost on the knob he slowly wheeled
about and faced the woman again. He hesitated visibly, then in a dull,
lifeless voice he began to speak.
“Miss Maggie, before John Smith steps entirely out of your life, he
would like to say just this, please, not on justification, but on
explanation of——of Stanley G. Fulton. Fulton did not intend to be a
spy, or a trickster, or to make life a masquerade for—sport. He was
a lonely old man—he felt old. He had no wife or child. True, he had
no one to care for, but—he had no one to care for _him_, either.
Remember that, please. He did have a great deal of money—more than
he knew what to do with. Oh, he tried—various ways of spending it.
Never mind what they were. They are not worth speaking of here. They
resulted, chiefly, in showing him that he wasn’t—as wise as he might be
in that line, perhaps.”
The man paused and wet his lips. At the window Miss Maggie still stood,
with her back turned as before.
“The time came, finally,” resumed the man, “when Fulton began to wonder
what would become of his millions when he was done with them. He had a
feeling that he would like to will a good share of them to some of his
own kin; but he had no nearer relatives than some cousins back East,
in—Hillerton.”
Miss Maggie at the window drew in her breath, and held it suspended,
letting it out slowly.
“He didn’t know anything about these cousins,” went on the man dully,
wearily, “and he got to wondering what they would do with the money. I
think he felt, as you said to-day that you feel, that one must know how
to spend five dollars if one would get the best out of five thousand.
So Fulton felt that, before he gave a man fifteen or twenty millions,
he would like to know—what he would probably do with them. He had seen
so many cases where sudden great wealth had brought—great sorrow.
“And so then he fixed up a little scheme; he would give each one of
these three cousins of his a hundred thousand dollars apiece, and then,
unknown to them, he would get acquainted with them, and see which of
them would be likely to make the best use of those twenty millions.
It was a silly scheme, of course,—a silly, absurd foolishness from
beginning to end. It—”
He did not finish his sentence. There was a rush of swift feet, a swish
of skirts, then full upon him there fell a whirlwind of sobs, clinging
arms, and incoherent ejaculations.
“It wasn’t silly—it wasn’t silly. It was perfectly splendid!
I see it all now. I see it all! I understand. Oh, I think it
was—_wonderful_! And I—I’m so _ashamed_!”
Later—very much later, when something like lucid coherence had become
an attribute of their conversation, as they sat together upon the old
sofa, the man drew a long breath and said:—
“Then I’m quite forgiven?”
“There is nothing to forgive.”
“And you consider yourself engaged to _both_ John Smith and
Stanley G. Fulton?”
“It sounds pretty bad, but—yes,” blushed Miss Maggie.
“And you must love Stanley G. Fulton just exactly as well—no, a little
better, than you did John Smith.”
“I’ll—try to—if he’s as lovable.” Miss Maggie’s head was at a saucy
tilt.
“He’ll try to be; but—it won’t be all play, you know, for you. You’ve
got to tell him what to do with those twenty millions. By the way, what
_will_ you do with them?” he demanded interestedly.
Miss Maggie looked up, plainly startled.
“Why, yes, that’s so. You—you—if you’re Mr. Fulton, you _have_
got—And I forgot all about—those twenty millions. And they’re
_yours_, Mr. Smith!”
“No, they’re not Mr. Smith’s,” objected the man. “They belong
to Fulton, if you please. Furthermore, _can’t_ you call me
anything but that abominable ‘Mr. Smith’? My name is Stanley. You
might—er—abbreviate it to—er—‘Stan,’ now.”
“Perhaps so—but I shan’t,” laughed Miss Maggie,—“not yet. You may be
thankful I have wits enough left to call you anything—after becoming
engaged to two men all at once.”
“And with having the responsibility of spending twenty millions, too.”
“Oh, yes, the money!” Her eyes began to shine. She drew another long
breath. “Oh, we can do so much with that money! Why, only think what is
needed right _here_—better milk for the babies, and a community
house, and the streets cleaner, and a new carpet for the church, and a
new hospital with—”
“But, see here, aren’t you going to spend some of that money on
yourself?” he demanded. “Isn’t there something _you_ want?”
She gave him a merry glance.
“Myself? Dear me, I guess I am! I’m going to Egypt, and China, and
Japan—with you, of course; and books—oh, you never saw such a lot of
books as I shall buy. And—oh, I’ll spend heaps on just my selfish
self—you see if I don’t! But, first,—oh, there are so many things that
I’ve so wanted to do, and it’s just come over me this minute that
_now_ I can do them! And you _know_ how Hillerton needs a new
hospital.” Her eyes grew luminous and earnest again. “And I want to
build a store and run it so the girls can _live_, and a factory,
too, and decent homes for the workmen, and a big market, where they can
get their food at cost; and there’s the playground for the children,
and—”
But Mr. Smith was laughing, and lifting both hands in mock despair.
“Look here,” he challenged, “I _thought_ you were marrying
_me_, but—_are_ you marrying me or that confounded money?”
Miss Maggie laughed merrily.
“Yes, I know; but you see—” She stopped short. An odd expression came
to her eyes.
Suddenly she laughed again, and threw into his eyes a look so merry, so
whimsical, so altogether challenging, that he demanded:—
“Well, what is it now?”
“Oh, it’s so good, I have—half a mind to tell you.”
“Of course you’ll tell me. Where are you going?” he asked
discontentedly.
Miss Maggie had left the sofa, and was standing, as if half-poised for
flight, midway to the door.
“I think—yes, I will tell you,” she nodded, her cheeks very pink; “but
I wanted to be—over here to tell it.”
“’Way over there?”
“Yes, ’way over here. Do you remember those letters I got awhile ago,
and the call from the Boston; lawyer, that I—I wouldn’t tell you about?”
“I should say I did!”
“Well; you know you—you thought they—they had something to do with—my
money; that I—I’d lost some.”
“I did, dear.”
“Well, they—they did have something to do—with money.”
“I knew they did!” triumphed the man. “Oh, why wouldn’t you tell me
then—and let me help you some way?”
She shook her head nervously and backed nearer the door. He had half
started from his seat.
“No, stay there. If you don’t—I won’t tell you.”
He fell back, but with obvious reluctance.
“Well, as I said, it did have something to do—with my money; but just
now, when you asked me if I—I was marrying you or your money—”
“But I was in fun—you know I was in fun!” defended the man hotly.
“Oh, yes, I knew that,” nodded Miss Maggie. “But it—it made me laugh
and remember—the letters. You see, they weren’t as you thought. They
didn’t tell me of—of money lost. They told me of money—gained.”
“Gained?”
“Yes. That father’s Cousin George in Alaska had died and left me—fifty
thousand dollars.”
“But, my dear woman, why in Heaven’s name wouldn’t you tell me that?”
“Because.” Miss Maggie took a step nearer the door. “You see, I thought
you were poor—very poor, and I—I wouldn’t even own up to it myself, but
I knew, in my heart, that I was afraid, if you heard I had this money,
you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t—ask me to—to—”
She was blushing so adorably now that the man understood and leaped to
his feet.
“Maggie, you—darling!”
But the door had shut—Miss Maggie had fled.