The Magpies Nest

by Isabel Paterson

  They had seated themselves on a fallen log, just beyond the path, to avoid belated strollers. A long, harsh whistle pierced the night; Hope sprang to her feet.

  "The East train!" she cried. "We forgot it; it's gone."

  "Then marry me to-night," Ned said.

  Now she looked over the edge of the unknown and drew back a step.

  "No. Why, two hours ago... To-morrow you will think differently. Tell me to-morrow, if you do. I must go to the hotel and get a room. I tell you, I know we're insane."

  "To-morrow I shall think the same," he said, and urged her again with wilder protestations, with the sheer strength of his own feelings.

  He was intoxicated, beyond mere earthiness. He, too, had found romance. If Hope had been better able to draw an analogy, she would have made the woods echo with satiric mirth.

  CHAPTER XVI

  IF Mary had expected repose of mind after her embassy extraordinary to Edgerton, she was disappointed. She wanted Hope in plain sight, as a guarantee against any further outbreak of insanity, as she mildly termed it; and she did not even know where Hope was. She had nearly a week in which to exhaust her vocabulary of friendly abuse on nothing more tangible than a vague note from Hope posted at Banff and saying she needed a few days' rest and for Mary to notify the school of her intended absence.

  During the week, between her anxious hours, the memory of that interview recurred to her. Edgerton had taken it as she might have known he would, had she paused beforehand to conjecture. His first look of alarm at sight of her, visible to her searching eye, despite his forced immobility of countenance; the expectancy that looked beyond her—for what, she did not have to guess—and the way he had squared his shoulders and hardened his face to the blow when she blurted out her errand; all this she could have foreseen. She might also have expected anger at her meddling, a disposition to brush her aside and take what had been in his grasp, or more weakly to plead his cause. He had done neither.

  "Was she afraid of me after all?" he asked finally, with a touch of mingled shame and shyness.

  "No," said Mary. "She wanted to come." He rose to his feet; Mary shook her head quickly. "Not now. You'll have to blame me; she won't come now. Think for yourself; was it fair?" She turned the other edge of the same argument on him.

  "No," he muttered, "I knew it wasn't. And I wanted to help her." He did not say that he had justified himself with the belief that she was now no longer a child, nor perhaps even a maid. He did think that. The sense of futility he had felt before overcame him. "Oh, well—Miss Dark, will you be her friend? I—I guess I can't. And if there is anything I can do, let me know."

  "I am her friend," said Mary, and knew it was time to go. "By the way, perhaps I'd better—resign?"

  "Hell, no!" He turned on her. "Excuse me. But I guess I need you, too. Stay, if you don't mind. If you won't leave me anything else, you might at least stick around." He laughed.

  "Thank you," said Mary, and went, to find that matters were not, after all, closed, and to wait in much disquiet for whatever else might chance.

  But she was at work when Hope returned, and there had been no further message. Mrs. Hamilton was out, also. Hope let herself in. Only Bobby came running to welcome her with gurglings and unintelligible words of joy. She dropped her suit-case and caught him up in her arms, throwing back her veil and looking about as one returned after long wandering looks at half-forgotten places. Her face was subdued, and more than usually pale. Bobby was heavy, but she clasped both arms about him and sat down, holding him tight. He pulled at her necklet.

  "Booful," he commented gravely.

  "Yes, dear," she said inattentively, her glance still ranging about the room.

  Everything was the same! To Mary it had all been different; and they were equally surprised. She sat waiting, until the door-bell rang. Then she rose with an air of meeting something expected. Yet, when Lisbeth Patten stood revealed on her threshold, it was plain she had thought to see someone else.

  "Lisbeth," she cried. "But I am glad to see you! Come in. Were you looking for Mary? She's not home yet!"

  "No, I was looking for you," said Lisbeth. She was breathing a little quickly. "Did you just get back from Banff?"

  "From Banff? I was—oh, yes, I just got in. Do you know, it seems a long time since I've seen you? Weeks, isn't it? You look well, Lisbeth."

  "Do I?" Lisbeth was strangely restless; she walked across the room and back, sat, and rose again, to choose another chair. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

  Hope flushed unaccountably.

  "Oh, yes, I suppose so." She was suddenly constrained. "Shall we have some tea? I need—something."

  Mrs. Patten seemed uncertain, said "no" and "yes," and finally sat still tensely, while Hope went to the kitchen for the kettle. Bobby stared at her solemnly a moment, until she bent a sudden glance on him, whereat he fled kitchenwards also. Hope came back alone.

  "I met Ned a few minutes ago," said Mrs. Patten at last.

  "Did you?" asked Hope, and even while she spoke wondered why her words had been so non-committal.

  "Yes." There was a long pause. "He was in Banff, too, wasn't he?"

  "Why, yes." Now Hope was really surprised; she had never seen Lisbeth like this. She looked like one who goes to meet a shock; her face was deadly calm, and her eyes feverish. Her long, beautiful hands occupied themselves mechanically with the teacup; her straight brows, drawn together a trifle, gave her regular features a little the look of a Greek tragedy mask She was biting her full red underlip nervously. Lisbeth had the mouth of the "Autrichienne," a lovely, impractical, passionately impulsive mouth, that gave the lie direct to her thoughtful forehead. "He must have told you."

  "He wrote me," said Mrs. Patten. "But I didn't think he meant... He's always having romantic fancies, and he's always told me..." She paused, catching her breath.

  "Told you—what? What is it, Lisbeth? Say it!" Hope spoke with unconscious imperativeness.

  "Hope, you don't care for him," said Lisbeth desperately. "Show him you don't. Of course, you were always friends; I care for you, too. You didn't think of him that way! You've been unhappy, too; you know what it's like—I'm a fool, I know it—but don't take him from me." Her hands were trembling now: the cup and saucer clinked musically. "You could never give him what I could—what I have... Send him away!"

  "Why—why?" said Hope, in a kind of fearful whisper. "Does it really make any difference?"

  "It's true, then?" said Lisbeth. She put down the cup and put her hands to her eyes. "You mean to marry him! But why do you want to? You couldn't love him so soon. I didn't believe him; I came to see you. You did promise?"

  "Promise—what?" repeated Hope uncertainly, and again: "Does it make so much difference to you?'

  "All the difference," said Lisbeth. "He—I—we... "

  She uncovered her face, and let the rest go unspoken "You see, that's why I can come and ask you—to send him away."

  "How can I?" asked Hope. "We—were married— five days ago."

  Mrs. Patten rose, looked about her blindly, and dropped back in a swoon.

  The pressing need of the moment, to see Lisbeth open her eyes again, to bring back the colour to her pale lips and know she had not all unwittingly actually killed the woman she truly cared for, automatically shut Hope off from consideration of her own plight. She was like a man injured in a railway wreck, who does not notice the pain because there are others in still greater distress. She ran for water and dabbled it on Lisbeth's forehead, spoke to her distractedly, holding the pretty helpless head against her bosom. When Lisbeth sighed and her lids fluttered, Hope clasped her closer, and a tear, of which she was unconscious, fell on Lisbeth's cheek. Lisbeth put up her hand to it, and said almost pettishly:

  "That's enough, dear; I'm all right." Then she looked up and said, "Oh!"

  She sat upright, and they sat staring at each other dumbly, their glances imploring pardon, each for what she had done. If either of them had known, before it was to
o late; before they had acted or spoken! They were dismayed at the irrevocableness of deeds and words. How was it possible that two people who had never had any but the gentlest thoughts of each other could so devastate each other's lives? Why, it was silly! That was what Lisbeth meant, though her words were:

  "I—I think I must go. Is my hair..." Her mouth began to tremble; she stopped, then went on, "It's wet; have you a handkerchief or something?"

  Hope gave her a handkerchief and said:

  "Can't you forgive me—ever?" Her words sounded strange and irrelevant in the face of Lisbeth's obvious determination to withdraw herself definitely, to turn back the page.

  "I don't need to. I—am fond of you—just as much. Sometime..." She dabbed her eyes again, choking at the thought of that intervening, empty space between "now" and "sometime." "I should like to talk to you again," she said wistfully. "Not now—it's better—not." She looked about, as if for a way of escape, not from the room, but from the net of life.

  "May I have some powder?" she said at last.

  After putting it on with great care, she walked to the door, holding her chin up, and paused with her hand on the knob. The bell rang sharply, cutting off something she would have said. Hope started and paled; for the first and last time, Lisbeth saw her look frightened. She understood instantly, before the ring ceased.

  "No," she said, "don't do anything. Don't you see? We've got to go through with it. Don't let him know. You mustn't. Not for me; for both of you. Dear, I hope you'll be happy." She smiled, but even while she smiled, her chin went higher, stiffly, as if something in her throat hurt her. Then she turned the knob, and was face to face with Ned.

  He had not her preparation; if it had been less than impossible, he would have fled. Everything that Hope already knew was written in his face, which set like that of one guarding against a blow.

  "Hello, Ned," said Lisbeth, her voice light and cool and faintly mocking. "I was just going; sorry. Some other time, perhaps? Good-bye, Hope." Suddenly she went back, leaving Ned gaping, stooped and kissed Hope on the cheek. "Good-bye," she repeated, and went out.

  Instantly Hope was aware that, of the two who but now had been before her, the one she loved most was gone! And what should she say to Ned? All she knew was that there was one thing she must not say.

  Lisbeth's wishes, aside from any other consideration, prevented.

  "I didn't think you could get through so soon," she said finally.

  Ned drew a long breath, perhaps of relief. That was not what he had expected.

  He had been to the bank to report. "They thought I needn't go back till to-morrow," he said.

  Hope reflected, watching him, that he looked absurdly young, so that it did not seem possible to hate him. It is hard to hate any young thing; one can only feel annoyed, and possibly aghast at its capacity for mischief. She did not know how shockingly young she looked herself. Ned had been to his rooms, evidently; he was brushed and shining, shaven, wearing a fresh suit and immaculate linen; his rather handsome eyes looked anxiously at her, like those of a puppy convicted of chewing up a slipper, but his mouth was sulky, and he fidgeted with his hat. Hope never knew, then or afterwards, in just what light he appeared to himself. But at the bottom of his heart he knew he had done an unforgivable thing, and yet he felt it wrong that any poor weak mortal should be able to do just such a thing.

  There ought, it seemed to him, to be no unforgivable thing possible. It was like having the punishment of a god, without the prerogatives. There must be forgiveness for him, somehow. Had he not performed a man's duty—married? It was, to say the least, demoralising to be damned for a thing so commendable! He was staggered at the vast gulf yawning between the requirements of a man's own soul and of society; he had never known before that such a discrepancy was possible. And Hope stood before him as the embodiment of both his soul and society, since she was the woman he loved and the woman he had married.

  The incongruous part of it was that he had not been thinking of society when he had married; he had done that for the satisfaction of his soul; and now his soul accused him, and society was satisfied.

  Lisbeth had shown him that; she had left him to settle her account in his own heart.

  Of course he had not time to think of these things at the moment; but he knew them, nevertheless, lie merely went on to say:

  "I have to go back up town, though; my trunk seems to be lost. Shall I come back and get you for dinner?"

  "Yes, if you wish," said Hope. What else was there to say?

  She had hardly moved when Mary came a little later and her eyes were dry. She merely looked perplexed and languid. Without prelude, she flung the fact of her marriage at Mary, in a manner almost indifferent.

  "Gott!" remarked Mary, and sat down on Hope's hat.

  Hope observed the incident, and said casually:

  "Be careful of the hatpin."

  "Lisbeth was here awhile ago," she added, looking at Mary closely.

  Beyond the need of words, Mary's expression was saying: "You unspeakable idiot! You poor child!" At mention of Lisbeth, her face grew inscrutable.

  "Did you tell her? What did she say?" she asked.

  "What do you suppose?" said Hope, and Mary knew. "After all, I wonder if..."

  "If I wouldn't have done better to mind my own business at first?" supplied Mary acutely. "Well—we don't really know." She thought of Emily, of Edgerton, of Yorke, even, whose destinies she had managed to control through at least one crucial moment, and looked at Hope, for whose sake she had done it all, and who had brought it all to naught. "I did everything beautifully—except the one thing I set out to do," she said at last. "By the way, where have you been all the time?"

  "We went down to Foster's ranch—I didn't know them; they live down below Canmore. Ned's been there before, fishing. It's very pretty."

  It was a relief to both of them to drop the dangerous subject, but they could not quit; keep away from it.

  "And what are you going to do now? I mean, where shall you live—and all that?"

  "Quien sabe?" Hope looked around the light, cheerful room, and felt a sudden anticipatory home-sickness for it. "Oh, Mary, what shall I do?"

  But Mary confessed frankly that in the rôle of Providence she had come to the end of her resources.

  "But for this," she asked only, "could you have been happy with him? Were you?"

  Hope flushed violently.

  "I thought we should get on all right," she said simply.

  "Maybe you will," said Mary more cheerfully. "Remember, time is a great solvent, if one can wait for it."

  "I will try," said Hope. "I understand you. It is my business now to bring this out right. If only he hadn't come in and found Lisbeth here!"

  There, in truth, was the difficulty. What had passed between the two women Ned did not know, and for many reasons he dared not ask. As she went to the door, Lisbeth had walked between them and drawn an invisible line, left a shadow, and Hope could not and Ned would not overstep it. So they remained apart, watchful, brooding, as they sat that night at dinner on either side the table. Four days of it they had, and all the time the distance grew and grew This, thought Hope, was an impossible situation—but would it be the better if one or other of them dragged the truth to light? Could he ever forgive her for forgiving him such a thing? If she had never known, or if he had never guessed she knew, he might in time have put it away from him, locked his mind on it all, and been made a man by the power of that "pity and terror" of the ancients. There are some things none will risk twice after facing once. And sometimes punishment fails of its effect by being too thorough; it leaves nothing to be redeemed. The subtle Chinese call this "losing face," than which death is better.

  "Isn't it time you made the announcement of your marriage?" asked Mary, after those days had passed. "And what have you decided to do?"

  "Nothing," said Hope. "Ask Ned. I can't. Do you know where he is now?" Mary did not. "He is seeing Lisbeth somewhere."

 
"For what?"

  "She wanted to. I learned by accident—he lies so badly. And I know her handwriting. I think I understand; she doesn't know what she wants, but she feels as if she's got to see him—to convince herself. I felt that way about Tony; that's why I wanted to do something else, quickly, not to humiliate myself. Ned went because he's afraid. Please don't tell anyone yet." Hope was still with Mary in their old apartment Whatever rumour might be abroad of her, there was no certitude. "Wait till this evening," she said finally. "Perhaps I can tell you then."

  She did come to a decision, and Mary, after a momentary casting about for some argument in rebuttal, acquiesced.

  "I shall have to go away," she said, "end it before it's really begun. I've tried—but haven't we broken the contract already? We said we would be 'not afraid with any amazement,' and we are—we are! But the real reason is that he won't help. I tried him out; I told him I was thinking of going home for a short visit, and would he mind? Mary, he looked glad! Well, it's too much for me, that's all. Do you know," she added thoughtfully, "I don't think he got what he expected out of it, either."

  "I should think not," said Mary dryly.

  Poor Ned, he had grasped his bubble, had waded through the uttermost depths of dishonour to reach it, and it had broken in his hand.

  He knew she was going forever. She did not tell him; it was not needed. They could see each other with terrible distinctness. They could not reach each other. He went to the station with her, for what reason they did not quite know; perhaps because it did not seem to matter. At the last moment they clasped hands quickly and fell apart again, looking at each other with a kind of desperation, a silent confession of inability to grapple with the problem each presented to the other. She did not look out of the window as the train drew out.

  Mary had asked her as she packed:

  "Do you never cry, Hope?"

  "I can't," said Hope, as if that, too, were beyond her strength. "But I know I shall—after a while."

  She thought she would go and look at the sea. It was so powerful, so old, so always new, so beautiful and without pity. She did not want pity.