The Magpies Nest

by Isabel Paterson

  The innocent hardihood of her eyes impressed him; she was at once so joyous, so lightsome, and so pathetic. He wished she were not quite so young. It smote him like a reproach. Abruptly he asked her age.

  "In a month," she said, "I'll be eighteen."

  He was more than twenty years her senior. And yet he felt a young man. But she was so very small. What was he doing there, anyway? He could not answer when she countered with:

  "What did you want to see me for?"

  "I thought I might help you," he repeated thoughtfully.

  "How?" For she felt tremendously capable herself, and he perceived that, but she was so very small -and the world looked suddenly terrifying to him. She was adrift in a little cockleshell on the ocean, and himself on the deck of a big liner, looking down. How could he throw her a line? Her frail craft would be swamped in the very wash of the big boat.

  "I don't know," he said. "But I have an idea. Let me think it over." He was beginning to have quite a clear idea, but he never spoke in haste; that was his strength. "Do you want to teach school?"

  "Not exactly." Her eyes grew dreamy. "No, I shall have to—but I want to go all around the world, and look at everything, and do everything, and meet everyone, and dance, and ride, and..." She broke off with a laugh. "Have you ever been around the world?"

  He had been abroad twice, and he told her rather clumsily about France and Egypt—the last because she questioned him eagerly. She was thinking of the tombs of the Pharaohs, and palm-trees, and the Nile, and Cleopatra's barge; and he was thinking of Shepheard's Hotel, of dust and fleas and tedious guides.

  "No, I can't say I want to go again. You can't get a decent beefsteak anywhere in the East."

  "Oh, oh," she said, almost sorrowfully, "did you go there to look for a beefsteak?"

  And she laughed and laughed. He could see the point well enough, and joined in; but he knew none the less that beefsteaks were very important. The divergence may not have been entirely spiritual. Hope could indeed have devoured a strawberry ice with enjoyment in the teeth of all the Pharaohs and their tombs. He encouraged her to talk, and the fact that she quoted from books he had never read impressed him extraordinarily, though it was not really strange, since he never read at all excepting the daily papers. When she shivered he wrapped her quite tenderly in his light overcoat and held her hands to warm them.

  She did not mind; there was an involuntary yearning toward her conveyed by his touch. She understood, also, dimly, that only her nearness gave her this power over him; through her he touched nature and to her he bent as the bearer of Nature's inexorable decree. So she could sway him, because there were vast forces, rooted a million centuries deep, behind her; she could have her moment's will of him, hurt him if she chose, and he would be helpless, because of his strength and his sanity. He might set in motion the machines of industry, which would crush a thousand like her, and have no compassion. That was the other side of him. But toward her as an individual he could be only what he was now.

  So soon had she taken possession of his imagination. That was her hold, and she had secured it in a moment. He had felt it suddenly when she stood at his elbow in the dining-room, at the most prosaic hour of the day, before he even saw her definitely; her small, light feet had crept up and caught him unaware, and her demure voice in his ear had announced, not that she was coming, but that she was there, close, inside his guard. Then she had sat down and watched him, from the window, with such an air of security.

  Decidedly she had taken him by surprise, perhaps on account of the environment, wherein one did not look for such delicate little sprites. If it had been heavy-footed Belle, he would at that moment have been playing billiards and smoking a cigarette very contentedly downstairs.

  Her assurance was absolute now. She might have had some timidity before him earlier, when he was a sort of personification of worldly wisdom and temporal success, but a man cannot carry such attributes with him to a stolen meeting with a snip of a girl; they are as impossible in the circumstances as fire-works. He had to stand before her as a middle-aged and good-natured man in a white waistcoat, somewhat vainly adorned with diamonds, which merely helped to reduce him to her level, or a little below—childish trinkets for such as are pleased with them, not tokens of achievement of a sort. She could not fear him, and he could not make her fear herself.

  Therefore his offer of help did not present itself to her seriously. The man of affairs was not present, to her; how, then, could he help her? But the man himself—yes, she liked him. He was accepted, so far, on his merits. It flattered him, in the depths of his unconscious soul, beyond words. Thereafter he was hers; at least in as much as he was his own.

  Despite the dark, he could see her eyes grow heavy at last; their faces were close over the small round table. She blinked, and her head drooped, but when she would open her eyes again resolutely they glimmered fitfully, like a cat's. He felt almost afraid, they were so eerie, until she laughed, and the gleam scattered.

  "I am sleepy," she murmured. "Six o'clock..."

  "To-morrow, again?" he asked. "I'll tell you then what I've been thinking. I'll give you my address, too, so you can always reach me."

  "All right." She drew herself up, stretching. The soft rustling of her clothing, as her young body tautened and relaxed beneath it, sounded to him like the strange, provocative whispers that run through spring foliage at dusk. Feeling an utter fool, he still surrendered himself to his folly, and while she was saying, "Here, at the same time?" he bent over quickly and awkwardly and kissed both her hands.

  She giggled, put her handkerchief to her mouth, and ran away. Edgerton went down and bought himself a drink, though he was an extremely temperate man. Then, instead of mooning about, as he might have a score of years before, he sat down and very resolutely absorbed himself in the details of a new company organisation.

  CHAPTER IV

  IN the heat of her vexation and wounded pride Hope would not have imagined it possible that she should go to sleep while waiting for Evan, though he delayed till dawn. But she did. She walked into his room very coolly, with the aid of a pass-key, but prudence forbade her to turn on the light. The Morris chair, luxurious with both pillows from the bed, gently soothed her from waking speculation as to the whereabouts of Edgerton into fantastic dreams in which he did not figure at all. He had broken his appointment. She had watched for him three-quarters of an hour in vain. Under no circumstances would she ever speak to him again, of course, but curiosity clamoured for the reason of his nonappearance. Evan might know. It was very simple, therefore, to find and ask him.

  Had he guessed her to be there, there is no doubt Evan would have come immediately. She diverted him enormously, beyond anything else the town had to offer. It was like having a pet kitten. It happened he was not in love at the time. But in answer to a query if she would come, she had given him a cool "No," and a game of poker was the next best thing. She drifted off into the charming sleep of her age about the time Jim Sanderson, finding the cards running against him with maddening persistency, threw down his hand and yielded the moment to ill-luck. Evan and the others chose to stay. Sanderson asked Evan for a book someone had mentioned; Evan tossed him his key and bade him go get it for himself. Then he called for two cards, and forgot about Sanderson, who bored him rather.

  It was the pink ribbon on Hope's braid caught Sanderson's eye first. The sudden flood of yellow light released by the electric button under his finger seemed to leap at it. He stood still, smiling unpleasantly Hope lifted heavy lids to blink at the glare, murmuring, before she looked:

  "'Lo, Evan. I wanted..." Then she sat up, rubbed her eyes, and gave him a stare of instinctive antagonism. She was annoyed, not embarrassed.

  "Good evening," he said, and turned the key in the lock behind him.

  She did not answer.

  "Won't I do as well as Hardy?" he asked.

  "Not for me," replied Hope, with a mixture of impudence and disdain. She meant exactly what she said—n
o more. "I'm going, anyway."

  "Stay and talk to me a few minutes."

  "It's late. Please excuse me."

  But she could not get to the door; he stood covering it. And as he advanced toward her he managed to guard it still.

  "Got you now," he smiled.

  She regarded him doubtfully, taking his measure, the repulsion she always felt for him growing upon her. An involuntary step backward placed a chair between them. If only Evan would come! But he would not; she had only herself to rely on. That was enough, of course. But it was degrading to have to parley with him at all; her impulse was to turn directly from him and quit his presence without again looking at him. What he was saying was not quite clear to her; she was going behind his words, reading his intent, which was not at all clear, either, but yet disgusted her. Or it was his eyes which disgusted; or his bald, shiny head. Though he was a young man.

  No, it was his eyes. That was certain the moment he touched her, put his hand on her shoulder. Impulse moved her instantly; if Jim Sanderson had been a psychologist it might have interested him to know that the impact of her hand on his cheek was purely the result of a reflex action. But all he knew was that for the size of her, she was well muscled, and that the blood which flew to his face seemed to colour his vision. The sting of the blow put a sudden edge on what else he felt.

  He lifted her off her feet, almost, in his grasp, and said, not loudly, "You shouldn't have done that." And his teeth showed.

  It was the culmination of a pursuit lasting three months; a pursuit of which she had been for the most part oblivious. It had not been very hard to avoid, ignore him; the housekeeper, a dragon at times, was sometimes seen more in the light whereby Persephone might have viewed Cerberus on her "not at home" days. But he had been conscious all this while. That was the curse of so small a place; one was, in fact, conscious of every other inhabitant in it. There were not a thousand red herrings a day for every individual trail, as in a great city. He could not help seeing her, always vanishing down a corridor, or looking from a window, or walking on the opposite side of the street. And here he had caught her up, had her fast.

  He could make her listen to him. He could... But very naturally he was not reasoning.

  And she was. His own words gave her the cue She should not have done that! No, her blow was not heavy enough. One had to be either stronger, or fleeter; quite so! She was still, with the quiescence of determined enmity, until he, devouring her hot face with his abominable eyes, felt too secure and the flexure of his arm told her this was her opportunity So she went out of his clutch with the instinctive downward wriggling motion of an obstinate baby. The table was between them before he knew what had happened, and he held a little strip of her muslin blouse in his fingers. Dishevelled, flushed, furious, but inwardly glacial, she backed cautiously against the dresser.

  "Please go away," she said. Her hands were behind her. There was something of Evan's in the dresser drawer; she was fumbling for it blindly, not daring to take her eyes from him.

  And again, if he had been a psychologist, he would have gone away. But he did not.

  This time his hand did not reach her shoulder.

  He made a great deal of noise falling; it sounded to Hope as if the roof had come down. Her fingers, gripping the barrel of Evan's neat .38 revolver, tingled from the force with which she had struck. Calculation had prompted her to club her gun; she knew guns, and was not inclined to use it more messily; anyway, she was not sure it was loaded. If he had guessed her purpose, of course its accomplishment had been impossible; he could have fended the attack easily, but he did not guess. On the whole, he was obtuse, as well as disgusting. She stood still a moment, a bit shaken, but seeing him no whit less disgusting lying on the floor at her feet, with an unpleasant red mark on his temple, than he had been standing before her. Perhaps he was dead?

  Well, if he were... But first, she must get out of there. She did, turning off the light as she stood at the door.

  If he were, he was properly served. In the very bottom of her heart she felt that. Much the same sensation as one had after stepping on a noxious insect.

  In her room she scrubbed her face furiously with soap and water. It afforded a temporary relief. She took off her torn blouse and threw it viciously in a corner, holding it by the tips of her fingers, poking it with her toe. An ineffaceable soilure seemed to be visible on it. She could have lacerated, bitten herself. A faint nausea crept over her. After a while she grew calmer and sat on the edge of her narrow bed, thinking, trying not to think. A vague curiosity stirred her. Was he dead? And then her mind began to work freely again, and she remembered that he had been breathing heavily all the while he lay there. Of course he w as not dead! Certainly, she was ridiculous. I low had it happened she could have thought him dead, while he was visibly breathing? Perhaps because he should have been dead. Her mind annihilated him, refused to admit him to the company of living thing. That was it. It was the protest of her own exquisitely healthy and normal psychology against the monstrousness of his kind.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, his voice came to her distantly. Her window was open; it looked out on the courtyard at the back of the building. His words were not clear, but the voice was unmistakable. Someone was chaffing him. She had been sitting there for over half an hour.

  She shuddered again. Slipping on a wisp of a dressing jacket, she went in search of Agnes, who represented things sane and clean.

  Agnes sat at her mirror, making herself dainty, aiding Nature a trifle in the matter of carmine. Hope only wanted to sit with her awhile. They exchanged casual, friendly words. The atmosphere was soothing;

  Agnes was so calm, so delicate and unruffled. Agnes knew all about these things, and refused to let (hem come near her. She walked daintily, but surely, avoiding them. She was not clever at all, but she was herself. She refused to take colour from her surroundings. That was what one must do. But—what else One could not always, always live in a dull routine of work, never looking to the right nor to the left, going to one tiny room at evening. Hope had never read Dostoievski; she did not know he had put her difficulty into words: "Do you know that a man's mind becomes paralyzed in small, poky rooms?" Nevertheless, she felt it.

  Her mind rebelled constantly, vigorously. One had to leave the small, poky room sometimes—even at the risk of such an encounter as this. She remembered her own dictum. They ought to take their chances. She was not sorry. Not at all. She had done quite right. Oh, they should indeed take their chances! All the evasions she had been compelled to these months past crowded on her suddenly, invaded her memory. At the time they had not troubled her. The memory of Jim Sanderson's eyes was what made them intolerable. Why should she, Agnes, any gill, be hunted like that? They harmed no one; they earned their bread. Those lurking, whispering, ogling creatures needed what he had got. And she would go where she pleased, and always be careful to even the chances. After having the half a principality to run over at large when a child, she would not let maturity bar her into one little room.

  But then, she knew she did not want to go anywhere again, for a long, long time at least. T:me to forget. .She could study, to fill it. In a month more she was to leave, too.

  "Oh," said Agnes suddenly, "I forgot..." She fumbled in her belt. "Your big man gave me this at dinner. For you."

  It was a note. He had had to catch the seven o'clock train. He had not known where to find her. In six weeks or so he was coming back. Would she not write?

  He signed his name, also. But that, of course, did not impress her.

  No, she would not write. She did not feel inclined to write. What was there to say? Really, she had never been inclined to talk to him; it had only interested her to hear him talk. And now her disgust was a wall between her and masculinity, making communication difficult.

  There were flowers from him next day. She meant to write, to be polite. But she put it off. She never wrote. The flowers were delightful; they perfumed his memory, in a way, purified it
with their innocent incense. But even so, writing struck her as too difficult—more, too profitless. But, as they were roses, she kept the petals and put them in a little muslin bag. The sweetness remained in them.

  And in a month she did go away. There was no Normal School here; only one town in Alberta was large enough for that.

  It was sorrowful to leave Agnes. Everyone seemed to regret her exit. The dry, thin spinster housekeeper, even, gave her a linen handkerchief for a parting gift. The rotund bartender brought glasses of claret lemonade for all the girls upstairs—Agnes, Belle, Hope and the housekeeper. She kissed Agnes affectionately at the last, a smooth, powdery, perfumed kiss. She never saw her again.

  Evan had been reproachful. Why would she never come to see him again? So she did come, and sat and stared at him with meditative, solemn, round eyes.

  And at the last she decided that he was really just what he had always seemed, and absolved him from a great many things of which he had never dreamed. And he laughed at her again, and she put her arms about his neck, standing on tiptoe, and kissed him shyly for farewell.

  "Heaven be good to you," he said. "Look here, child, what did I ever do to you? Was it because I wasn't here the last time? You told me you wouldn't come."

  She started.

  "How did you know I was here?"

  His reminder brought it all back so vividly, v ih the familiar room to aid memory. He saw her I ) curl back from her small teeth, and looked at her shrewdly.

  "I found your pink ribbon. Look." He drew it out of his pocket, all soiled and crumpled. "What frightened you away?"

  "Nothing." But she changed colour too palpably.

  "Jim Sanderson came up that evening," he said slowly. "Were you here then?"

  "He didn't tell you?"