The Magpies Nest

by Isabel Paterson

  "Are you comfortable?" he asked.

  "Not very," she answered, squirming slightly "I've got a crick in my neck."

  "Don't you like to sit on my knee?"

  "No."

  "Why? Don't you like me?"

  "Oh, yes—sure I do. But I don't much like being touched."

  "Nor kissed?"

  "No one ever kissed me but you."

  "No schoolboy sweethearts?"

  But he believed her when she said: "Never had any."

  "Don't you like that?" He kissed her.

  At his first kiss, no long time before, she had thought the earth slipping from beneath her feet. In some strange way it had reached her imaginative spirit and left her blood unquickened; there was all romance and nothing of passion in it. Her temperament was still too closely sheathed in its northern ice to wake to one kiss. But when she thought of it still it had power to arrest her mind and hold her, dreamy-eyed, with caught breath, her white teeth denting her lower lip, remembering it and the hours she had spent afterward in her room alone, with her face hidden in a pillow, still conscious of the soft pressure of his mouth on hers. What was still more strange, now his caresses left her cool and a trifle petulant; she endured them only for liking's sake. Evan did not want to trouble her, only to understand. So he asked:

  "Are you afraid of me?"

  "No." There was very little that Hope was afraid of.

  "What, then?"

  "I want to know," she burst out, with plaintive despair, "why you like to kiss me!" And indeed, she did. "It—it bores me, rather. You seem to like it. Why?"

  "Good Lord!" He stared, a picture of amazement.

  "Bores you... Why do you come here?" But that he said very gently, for he had always known that women were not mere automatons, responding only to one emotion, and at the will of a man. It was fascinating to see her struggle to express herself.

  "I told you," she said impatiently, unembarrassed. "I like you; and you asked me. Where else can I see you? I want someone to—to play with."

  So he had guessed.

  "You said you'd tell me," she reminded him, sighing against his shoulder.

  "W ell," he said at last, "you are—sweet, you know "

  "But," she got to her point laboriously, "you like to kiss girls?"

  This was the difficult point; she felt cheated. Prince Charming woke the Sleeping Beauty with a kiss, and by that she knew him for the true Prince. It was the countersign of love, no less. But Evan did not love her! She did not especially want him to, but it was disconcerting to find the sign false! As for the romantic alternative—that he must be a villain … She smiled, her delightful secretive smile, which so seldom accorded with any outward occasion. And he did misunderstand that for a moment. Very firmly and gently he held her and kissed her again and again, soft kisses, but with fire beneath them, until she could feel her cold mouth grow warm to them, and the blood beating in her throat. His heart fluttered, too, close against hers.

  "Does that bore you?" he asked in a queer, tense voice.

  She put her hands to his breast and thrust him away, crimson, confused, shaken.

  "Oh," she said, "I—don't like you to do that." There were tears in her eyes.

  "Why, you baby child," he set her down hastily and crossed to the window, looking out into the windy, dusty dark. "Don't cry, dear; I won't." He looked disproportionately ashamed and sorry. "Have some chocolates." He turned to find them.

  Laughter welled up in her at his propitiatory offering, and he spun about and looked at her again.

  "You're a bit of a devil, too," he said, his teeth flashing. "But I'll be good!"

  "Do you like to kiss any girl?" She held to it, with the frightful persistency of youth.

  "O Lord," he said again, almost prayerfully. "No, not just any girl. What a reputation! Nice ones— yes, I do like to kiss 'em."

  "Can you remember them all?" she pursued.

  "All the girls I've kissed? My word, what a funny child you are! No, I don't suppose I can. They were nice girls, anyway."

  "How many?" Hope yearned for something definite, in this welter of things as they ought to be and things as they were.

  "Tell you I don't know. Millions!" He was laughingly desperate.

  "Well, but—why?" That was it, and she wanted to pin him down to it.

  "Because... Oh, if you will be a little tease, I'll kiss you again!"

  No doubt, he reflected, someone would put the key of the Bluebeard's chamber in her hands, and soon, but it was not for him. There was nothing morbid nor unhealthy about him, none of the blasé spirit which delights in wanton destruction. He was exceedingly glad she had not understood a little earlier. He drew a long breath of relief that the moment had gone past. She was watching him wistfully.

  "I knew you wouldn't tell me..."

  He caught her up suddenly, smothering her words against his shoulder.

  "Hush—sh!"

  Someone rapped sharply on the door. He carried her across the room, and when he drew the door half-open she was behind it, breathless, rather elated and amused, holding her skirts again, lest a ruffle should peep out. Almost against her ear a masculine voice spoke:

  "Coming down for a game of pool before we turn in, Hardy?"

  "In five minutes or so," said Evan agreeably, but casually barring the way. "Pick up Jim Sanderson; I'll be there."

  "Oh, Sanderson?"

  There was an accent of doubt in the voice, and something more, a familiar ring—who? where? when? Hope had heard it before, but none of these questions could she answer.

  "Oh, I owe him a drink," said Evan, half apologetic.

  "All right," said the invisible one, and Hope heard quick, even footsteps retreating down the hall.

  Evan shut the door and looked at her, his eyes tv. inkling despite himself.

  "Close call, young lady," he said. "And, anyway, time little girls were in bed. You know you mustn't stay after ten."

  "Who was that?" she demanded, ignoring his re minder of his own rule—a quite extraordinary rule, but one which it had suited him to make.

  "Conroy Edgerton, the big land man," said Evan "Curious one, why do you want to know?"

  "I knew it," she nodded solemnly, not heeding him "What's he doing here?"

  "Rigging up some deal. He's starting a big company North, you know; got concessions from the Sleepy R. I met him in Winnipeg last year. Anything else?"

  "Good night," she said, and began edging past him.

  "Having pumped me dry, the young lady has no further use for me," he complained. "Come here, you Mighty Atom!" He had her fast. "Now, you give me one. You've never kissed me yet."

  Millions of girls—millions of kisses! But she had done with the subject for the moment, her mind being on the weighty matter of a box of chocolates. So she said "Yes," stood on tiptoe to frame his obediently bent head with her palms, and kissed him on the mouth.

  "You are a baby," he said. "With your mouth shut —like that! Never mind, you're a dear. Good night, child."

  She slid out, squeezing through the partly opened door like a mouse through a crack, and vanished down the hall, a moving blue shadow, past the housekeeper's room, safe in her own tiny cubicle, after a momentary pause at Agnes's door. The transom was dark; Agnes was either asleep or philandering. Hope did not care for the other one, Belle, who was fat and loud-voiced. She went to bed, suppressing her desire for a feminine conference. And, since she must rise at six, she slept the sleep of the unjust within five minutes after her head touched the pillow.

  CHAPTER III

  BELLE, the fat waitress, lay abed with acute tri-digestion, groaning, and below Hope took her place. She stood behind the screen which sheltered the kitchen door, yawning delicately, for it was not yet seven o'clock, and watching for the early comers to the dining-room. They, too, yawned and rubbed their eyes, and looked disconsolate and lonely in the big room, seated before desert-like expanses of more or less white linen. Agnes swayed to and fro along the cocoa-mat
ting lane between the two rows of tables, moving with the grace of a Greek girl bearing an amphora upon her shoulder instead of a lacquered tin tray. Agnes was slender and black-eyed, with cheek bones of a betraying prominence; she had a certain graciousness of manner that disarmed even the hardiest commercial traveler; and the early ones sought her tables. Hope drew her behind the screen a moment.

  "If a big man, in a grey suit and a white waistcoat, comes in, will you please let me take his order?" she asked confidentially.

  Agnes was in haste, and nodded a "yes," not stopping to reason why.

  Immediately the big man came in, pink faced and fresh and yawnless, and sat at one of Hope's own tables, in a retired corner near one of the long windows. His waistcoast shamed the linen desert, and the early sunlight glittered on a diamond in his tie.

  "Beefsteak—pork chops—hamaneggs—teaorcoffee?" Hope murmured timidly over his shoulder.

  There were other words on her tongue, but she waited to see if any gleam of recognition lighted his eye. It did not. She retreated, and returned with such viands as he designated. The other early ones were leaving; there was always a lull between the very early and the chronically late. Hope sat in the window and watched him attack his beefsteak, drawing the white muslin curtains about her, and looking out from between them like a little nun from her white coif. He was quite aware of it, and waited until the door had closed on the last of the other breakfasters. Then, seeing him about to speak, she forestalled him.

  "Thank you for the chocolates," she murmured gently.

  "The what?" he remarked, slightly overcome, and giving the beefsteak a moment's truce.

  "The chocolates." Hope spoke very firmly, despite her unconquerable blushes. She still blushed and stuttered when she most wished to preserve a calm and matter-of-fact demeanour. "1 got them. I wanted to write, but there was no address. It's five years ago, but I remember it distinctly."

  "Five years ago?" He looked properly apologetic.

  "You stopped at our house, on Whitewater Creek, with two other men. I wasn't very big then."

  "I should say," remarked Edgerton, resuscitating the memory with difficulty, "that you aren't very big now You—why, yes, I do remember you. And what are you doing here?"

  "I brought your breakfast," she reminded him.

  "You did." He looked at it in confirmation. "But tell me all about it."

  "I'm working here. Usually I'm upstairs. The other waitress is sick this morning. I have to work, you know." "Do you?" He seemed genuinely interested. "Do you like it here?"

  "It isn't so bad. Of course I'm not going to stay for ever."

  "Where are you going from here?"

  Hope was quite ready to chatter when she had so good an audience.

  "To Normal School. I had to earn the money to go. I want to teach drawing. I finished High School last year; I stayed with my sister Nell. But there isn't any Normal School there, so I had to earn money to pay my board."

  "Where are your parents?" He was thinking of his own daughter. "Are they still at Whitewater?"

  "Yes. But I wanted to do this. I have four sisters and only one brother. That is too many girls."

  "That's right. You're a plucky kid. Do you like chocolates yet?"

  "M-mm," she nodded.

  "Where can I see you? I'd like to talk thing? over a little."

  She reflected. Where could she see anyone, except here in the public dining-room? Evan was an exception. He was "only Evan." So Agnes said, and Agnes was always right. Agnes was twenty-two and had much understanding of men. Hope meant to extract that fund of information some time, but hitherto embarrassment had overcome her on approaching the topic. She could only ask guidance on specific occasions.

  "Do you want to see me? Why?"

  She became a living interrogation mark, her eyes pointing it.

  He laughed, the laugh she remembered.

  "Heavens, child, I won't hurt you. Maybe I can help you. You don't look suited to this." His glance comprehended the dining-room, passed through its walls, encompassed the hotel, included the town contemptuously.

  "Well"—she considered—"there's a little balcony, upstairs—the third floor, off the hall. No one goes there. No one could see me, after dinner. If you like..."

  "All right. At eight o'clock?"

  "Eight-thirty," she offered. "We have to wash the silver and glass after c inner." She made a moue at the task.

  "Just as you say." He drew out a thin gold watch and consulted it. "I guess my car will be waiting. I must go. Good heavens, I forget your name1"

  "Hope Fielding."

  "Do you mind..."

  "I'll spell it," she laughed, and did so. She was used to comments on her name.

  "To-night, then, Miss Fielding," he said courteously.

  She reflected that most of the men who came to the hotel would have instantly and unceremoniously used her first name. He went out, his face stiffening into a mask at the last moment, as Agnes re-entered. The significance of it was lost on her. With him it was not quite instinctive, but second nature, for he had a genial soul. He had gained large possessions, and, instead of them bringing him ease withal, he must be perpetually on the defensive to keep them. It was indiscreet, he knew, to have made the appointment at all, for he feared women possibly more than men, but he had made his money as much by his understanding of human nature as by his foresight in the matter of practical opportunities. In a country where any man might become rich, and yet not all might, it had been necessary for him to know whom he could trust. And he knew there is a splendid recklessness about the young which makes them worthy of confidence. They have not learned to weigh advantages against good faith. No, he was quite sure of Hope, even though he did not quite know why he had asked to see her.

  Nor did Agnes, when Hope told her, during the afternoon, when they should have been resting, 01 sewing buttons, or darning stockings, or anything except retailing confidences—naively veiled and hesitant confidences, punctuated by the occasional blushes of Hope and gropings after the desired, not too revealing word, by Agnes. Agnes was quite four years the elder, but in ordinary conversation the difference did not make itself felt; the younger girl's quick-flashing mind and habit of thought overleaped the gap. But now she sat at Agnes's feet and imbibed wisdom.

  "Maybe he's all right," said Agnes dubiously. With her it was not the situation but the man who made it "all right" or otherwise. Experience had taught her how much "nice customs courtesy to great kings,"' and her ruler was necessity. "If you used to know him. of course. But where are you going to see him? Oh, the little balcony, that's different! Tell me what he's like. He never came here before, but he left a dollar under his plate last night. He didn't ask you to go to his room, did he?"

  "No."

  "Then he's all right. Look out for the others."

  "That Sanderson did—the pig! He waited for me in the hall; I know that was all he was waiting for."

  "I hope you snubbed him properly." Hope nodded. "He's a rotter," added Agnes, with conviction.

  "I don't like him," Hope agreed. "But..."

  "Yes?"

  "Why mustn't we—I..." She floundered hopelessly, and Agnes did not help her. "I don't like him; I never want to see him. But he—no one could hurt me, could they? It's all the same to me; isn't it to you? I mean, anywhere, any time. Why can't we go where we please? Why can't they leave us alone?"

  "Men are different," said Agnes shortly. "Don't you know?"

  "No."

  "I guess they're crazy," Agnes pursued, with a judicial air. "Didn't you ever see one go off his head?" She spoke in the detached manner of an entomologist discussing the habits of some rare and curious insect at first, but Hope noticed a little shudder run over her as she finished, and her lip curled back in distaste.

  Agnes was a Catholic, and devout, if human. Perhaps that explained, in part. The rest her surroundings accounted for; and her point of view was absolutely correct, allowing for the angle.

  "No," said
Hope again, rather breathless and embarrassed. Once before Agnes had been as frank as this. "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, well—they're horrible. And then they say you had no right to—to tempt them. You've got to be careful; you've got to be sure before you believe a man. Even then, of course, they're silly, but the decent ones—they're decent, of course," she ended ambiguously.

  "I don't want to tempt anyone," said Hope, blushing furiously. "I just want to talk to someone—sometimes."

  "Men can't understand that," said Agnes calmly, shrugging her shoulders. "They act like fools, and then blame us."

  "If I don't try to tempt anyone, it's not fair," said Hope. "They can tempt me, till they're blue in the face; I don't mind. They ought to take their chances, too."

  "What chances?" asked Agnes, with latent humour.

  "That we won't like them," replied Hope decidedly.

  There was something in that, Agnes thought, but she had not time to examine the proposition critically, having to dress for dinner. Afterward, Hope was quite naturally absent.

  From the little balcony one could see a great deal without being seen. The town square lay before them an expanse of thin, discouraged grass bordered with poplars, obscured now in dusk, with little black figures moving here and there across it. Around it lights appeared one by one in the windows of the houses. Voices floated up from the street below. There were several stiff uncomfortable chairs and a small table, which they drew into a corner, so they might sit facing each other over it. Hope put her feet upon the chair rungs and rested her chin on her hands. Her whole mind was bent on the man opposite, as if she would draw out his innermost secret thoughts. Young femininity possesses a fund of inquisitorial cruelty which positively yearns to dissect a man's very soul and would leave it bare and bleeding before high Heaven and, for sheer ignorance, feel not even a twinge of conscience afterwards.