THE COUNTERPLOT
Mark sought a convenient opportunity to interview Tibby. He found the
girl one morning pacing slowly up and down the pathway leading to the
horses’ corral, her riding-whip in her hand and riding-skirt upon her
arm. She was smiling softly to herself and flipping the tops of the tall
balsam weeds with her whip as she passed them. She looked up, a
startled, challenging look in her large eyes as he approached her.
“Well, Miss Tibby, what new mischief are you hatching to-day?” Mark
asked as he joined her.
“None, I assure you. I was only thinking how I would like to see a
prairie on fire.”
“I trust the wish has not been father to the act. You haven’t set a
match to it?”
“O, no! I haven’t yet looked up a convenient hiding-place for myself.
And then I don’t believe I’m quite so bad as Nero. My desire to see a
burning Rome is not strong enough to make me set it on fire.”
“Indeed? You reassure me!”
“As if that were necessary.”
“You haven’t told me what you really think of us here, Miss Tibby.”
“I think it is lovely here; you have so much breathing space.”
“Is that all we are supposed to do—breathe?”
“There doesn’t seem to be a chance for much else. Now does that sound
impolite? I don’t mean it so.” Tibby flicked the toe of her boot with
her whip, and drew in one of the deep corners of her mouth as if she had
said something she ought not to.
“Not in the least impolite. It’s a fact. We may exist here, not much
else.”
“But I didn’t mean that. I like it here very much. But one is so free
from restraint, breathing seems the easiest and about the only necessary
thing to do.”
“You were country born?”
“Yes, and I remember it seemed there as if I was repressed and confined
and I looked yearningly out into the greater liberty of the world. Think
of it! From the freedom of country I longed for liberty.”
“And now?” Mark questioned.
“And now I am not tired of the other life. O, no. I enjoy it truly, only
I think part of the people one meets in society life are often very
silly and flat, as—as—” she hesitated for a comparison, then gave the
familiar one of her childhood,—“as dishwater.”
“Isn’t that the trouble with a part of the people everywhere? After all,
it’s a great thing to be to the manner born,” said Mark, setting his
large hat farther back upon his head, and looking the bright sun in the
face.
“Ain’t it? There is an ease, a consciousness of power, a—a something
which the very rich have which one may covet. Perhaps it is the
consciousness of always being well-dressed. I think that was what I used
to covet. As to birth, I had nothing to envy in any of them. My mother
was a Devereaux, my great uncle an earl.” Tibby lifted her chin with
conscious pride. Mark saw that the girl was still smarting from affronts
received when she was only Mrs. Wylie’s servant.
“Even in this democratic America we still are proud of what we please to
call blue blood, are we? Well, it may be foolish, but I reckon it won’t
hurt us,” said Mark. “I hope many of us are better men than our
ancestors of feudal times, however. Our women are certainly more
intelligent, if we may believe history.”
“Yes?” Tibby was looking out into the expanse dreamily, her eyes
narrowed and yellow in the sunlight.
“What do you call the restraints of society life?” questioned Mark
suddenly.
“The necessity of putting on war paint and feathers. The necessity of
hiding behind a mask of conventionality and pleasant phrases, of fine
clothes and fine speeches. I enjoy it immensely—immensely.” Tibby shut
her lips tightly to emphasize her words. “But after all, it is
artificial, and the only fun is seeing through it all. It’s really more
fun to be a spectator than an actor in a comedy. The actors see all the
tinsel and making up.”
“But you have been an actor?”
“Yes, in the minor roles.”
“Tibby, Mrs. Wylie tells me you sometimes see people you do not like and
have a way of punishing them.”
“Yes,” said Tibby meekly; “sometimes.”
“Miss Tibby, haven’t we walked about enough? Let us sit down upon this
roller. I want to talk to you. You conquered Tempest very easily. I
believe you have uncommon power,” he continued, as Tibby sat down and
began to fan her face with her riding-hat.
“Do you think so?” Tibby’s voice was mockingly suggestive.
“Yes, I am convinced of it. And I have been waiting for an opportunity
to ask how long you have known and used this power.”
Tibby looked keenly at Mark.
“I am not sure I understand you. To what power do you refer?”
“The power to make every person or beast yield to your will. You are a
hypnotist, Miss Waring, and an uncommonly powerful one.”
The girl looked up eagerly.
“Do you really think so, Mr. Cramer? I have wondered myself if that
might not be the case. I know—have known for a long time—that if I
really willed any one to do a thing, he was quite apt to do it. When I
was a little girl I used to sit in church and make people turn and look
at me—it was the only way I could amuse myself through those long
sermons which my stepmother made me listen to every Sunday; and
sometimes I have made people stumble, or even fall, just for fun or to
punish them. I know it wasn’t a praiseworthy amusement, but—” Tibby
hesitated.
“You can put Robbie to sleep.”
She nodded. “How did you know?”
“I have been watching you.”
“You don’t think there is any harm in it?” she questioned in a troubled
voice.
“Perhaps not, yet I do not think I would exercise my power in that way.
It might weaken the lad’s will. I am sure you would not willingly do him
harm.”
“Oh, no, indeed! I never mean to do any one any harm. I have sometimes
played jokes on the dudes at the hotels, or occasionally punished some
one, as Mrs. Wylie told you.”
“There is a person whom I wish you would punish, if it be in your
power.”
“And that is—?”
“Professor Russell. You know who he is, and what he has done. If he
comes here again, use all the power you possess to get control of that
man.”
“What shall do with him if I can hypnotize him?”
“Anything. Show him up for what he is. And above everything, break his
power or influence over others.”
“You may be sure I will. Mrs. Wylie has been telling me of him, and that
he is responsible for Mrs. Cramer’s nervous condition.”
“Yes, and for a hundred other offenses, large and small. Lissa Bartram
is nearly insane over his accursed delusions. By the way, can you not
suggest a different train of thought for her? She sits brooding over her
sorrow, and trying to recall the spirit of her child. You know the
hypnotist can get control of the mind and govern the current of thought
by suggestion. Can you not turn her morbid fancies into dreams of hope
and brightness? Ah, Miss Tibby, if you can bring relief to that darkened
spirit you will be an angel of light!”
“Mr. Cramer, I will try. I wish I understood better just how to use the
power I have. I know I have it—but sometimes I forget and fail to make
people do as I wish. But I am interested in Mrs. Bartram, and will do
what I can.”
“Come, let us walk over there now,” said Mark. “The others are occupied
with themselves.”
“All right. I’ll leave my riding accoutrements here, and we will go. I
wonder, Mr. Cramer, if this power comes from a strong will.”
“Are you strong-willed?”
“Ah, you answer my question in the Yankee fashion. I suppose I am. My
stepmother used to call me ‘that self-willed, headstrong girl,’ because
I could coax papa to let me have my own way sometimes. And when I was
right, why should I not have it?” The uptilted chin rose higher.
“It is usually woman’s way,” Mark replied.
“The right way is. I agree with you.”
Tibby walked forward with the free, upspringing step of perfect health
and high spirits.
“Mr. Cramer, you have not answered my question. What is this power of
hypnotic control?”
“You should know better than I, Miss Waring. So far as I understand it,
it is the controlling of one person’s will and senses by another, the
subject passively submitting to it. I cannot imagine your hypnotizing
me, for I am naturally very positive myself. You might do so if I were
off my guard. Neither have I your power over others. Why, is not clear
to me.”
“I made you ask a question for me a couple of days ago,” Tibby
confessed, laughing.
“When?” Mark looked surprised.
“It was when you and Mrs. McCleary were talking together, and I wanted
to hear her tell about the planchette. So I told you to ask her—that is,
_willed_ you to. And immediately you turned around and said, ‘Well, how
does Mr. McCleary get on with his planchette?’”
Mark laughed.
“I remember I was sorry for starting her off upon her hobby, and was
provoked at myself for asking afterwards,” he said. “But here we are at
Nathan’s. I’ll take you in and then I’ll leave you to entertain Lissa in
your own way.”
They found her sitting listlessly by her low window, her hands folded in
her lap, her sad, dark-rimmed eyes full of unshed tears.
“I have brought Miss Waring over to keep you company for a while,” Mark
said brightly. “I think you’ll get along well together without me, so
I’ll run back to Alice. How are you feeling? Better?”
Lissa arose and came forward to meet them with extended hands, then her
eyes followed Tibby’s about the disordered room. A flush of color came
faintly into her cheeks.
“I—am about as usual, thank you,” she said to Mark, then apologetically
to Tibby: “Neoka has neglected the work to-day. She wanted a holiday and
I let her off, and have not attended to it myself.”
“Are you not well, Mrs. Bartram?” asked Tibby.
“No—that is, I am better than I was,” she stammered, looking at Tibby in
an embarrassed way.
“You ought to be out in this lovely sunshine. Don’t you think so, Mr.
Cramer?”
“Yes, indeed. There’s life and health in every gleam, thanksgiving to
the sun,” misquoted Mark, and he touched his hat and turned away.
“I have a headache,” began Lissa.
“Which I can rid you of in short order,” cried Tibby. “Did Mrs. Wylie
never tell you what a good doctor I am? I can always cure her headaches
in a moment. May I try upon you?”
Mrs. Bartram signified her assent, and Tibby stepped to her side and
began to rub her head, talking the while in her low, rich tones.
“You are to stop thinking about anything and let your head rest easily
against the back of the chair. I will take the pain here and carry it
away on the ends of my fingers—so. Ah, you are beginning to feel better
already. The pain is going, now almost gone—now it is gone. Isn’t it? I
do not think it will trouble you any more.”
Lissa smiled. “It has gone,” she murmured.
“Ah, that is lovely. Now we will go and walk. It will complete my cure.
Shall we go down by the river and gather plums?”
Lissa assented, and Tibby noticed the brighter look that already
animated her face.
When, three hours later, the twain came back to the house, their arms
filled with wild flowers and plants, Lissa’s dark eyes were shining with
a new interest, and the dawn of a brighter life had shone upon the
darkened, despairing soul of Nathan’s wife.