The Magpies Nest

by Isabel Paterson

  Deep down she was in a turmoil of wild yearnings for things impossible and nebulous, for the edge of the skyline, and space, and action. Sometimes her heart grew big in her with longing, even to the verge of pain. She fed it with French irregular verbs, to please Mrs. Patten; and to please herself was no longer visible to her weedy collection of half-baked admirers. It came to her like a revelation that they had always bored her. She felt growing pains.

  Then, on an evening of drifty, drizzling dusk, she galloped down the river road and came upon Allen Kirby, or, more properly, Allen Kirby's feet projecting from beneath the huge black and brassy-bright automobile, while a large man in a sheep-lined duck coat held a headlight for his convenience. The man in the duck coat looked up at the sound of hoofbeats; her half-broken horse shied and danced at the alarming spectacle.

  It was no kind of weather to be riding, which was one reason why Hope had gone. It suited her to ride in the dark, in the rain, in any kind of weather or at any time of day—if it suited her. She wore a divided skirt and a hideous red peaked cap, and her mount stood sixteen hands and weighed fourteen hundred and fifty. When he promptly stood on his hind legs she leaned forward until she could have kissed him between the ears, but she did not. She merely jerked on the Spanish bit, downward, until he grunted, looked around under his neck, and asked impertinently:

  "Want a tow?"

  "No, thanks, not yet," said the big man, his teeth dashing in his plump pink face.

  And Hope said:

  "Good heavens!" for no apparent reason, and stared blankly as he lifted his cap. And then, "How do you do, Mr. Edgerton?"

  He stepped forward, with a mechanical "Good evening," and turned the light on her face. It was hardly necessary, being not yet the hour when all cats are grey, but it helped, for when she blinked, by a sudden shift of memory he saw her again, nodding sleepily over a small table on a veranda that looked out to a dusty square set round with sudden pin points of lighted windows.

  "You!" he remarked redundantly. "Well, I'll be damned! Tell me about it. Why didn't you answer my letter?"

  CHAPTER VI

  "BUT where is Mr. Edgerton?" asked Hope, stepping lightly to the seat beside Allen Kirby.

  "We'll pick him up at the Club corner," said Allen, and without a change of expression added, "You'd better get in the tonneau; I'm only chuffing this trip."

  "Oh, splash!" said Hope, and scrambled over the back of the seat. "But I want to ask you things."

  She stood up and leaned over his shoulder and proceeded to do so. It had not been possible to hold an extended conversation with Edgerton on that rain-driven road, and as for Allen, he had merely given her one impenetrable glance out of the corners of his Murillo-cherub eyes which had constrained her insensibly to a brief nod of recognition. Edgerton might or might not have noticed it; Hope would have greeted the chauffeur heartily but for his own curious reserve. But Edgerton had insisted he must see her again, hear something of how the world went with her. When she told him very cheerfully that she had nowhere to receive anyone—the tedious sprigs who squired her were obliged to find an excuse of skating rink or ice cream orgy for the pleasure of her company—he had suggested the motor and the first fine evening. And Allen had grinned on one side of his face only, the side presented to Hope, when Edgerton told him to remember her address.

  It was fine now, after the cold spring rain; the earth gave out vernal odours, grown green over night; the West wind was gentle and bland. Coral banded the sunset edge of the world and a low star shone like a jewel, although the crystalline air still seemed to hold the light of day in magical solution.

  Hope asked fifteen or twenty questions while they drove eight blocks, and received, for lack of time, less than half as many replies. Edgerton had lately acquired large interests, in land and mining properties, in Alberta; he meant to spend some considerable intervals of time there in the near future. He had organised the Golden West Development Company; Hope cried out at that, for it was with them Mary was engaged. Allen had been Edgerton's second chauffeur in Chicago, and Edgerton had sent him up, two weeks before, with the car. He did not know how long he might stay. Edgerton had four cars, and would not be without one.

  "His wife uses the other three," said Allen drily.

  "What's she like?" questioned Hope with the liveliest and most impersonal curiosity.

  "A hell-cat," Allen informed her briefly.

  Hope merely said "Oh," and did not like to press the query. It seemed unfriendly to pry thus into the intimate unhappiness of one who had tried to be kind to her. Hope had strange reserves and delicacies, inherited from a prouder generation than this, an age when private laundries were used for family linen and broken hearts were not served up bleeding at a penny apiece on the front pages of the dailies.

  "But he has a daughter," mused Hope. "Isn't she pretty?"

  "I guess so," said Allen; "any millionaire's daughter is " He was not without worldly wisdom. But he added in honesty, "She's not so bad; a good deal like the old man. Not much side; she talks to me friendly enough."

  "Are you going to elope with her? It's being done," Hope teased him.

  He answered, half seriously:

  "I wouldn't marry any rich girl; they can't help it, but they're too used to thinking the world was made especially for 'em to walk on." His slow, soft, drawling voice, without an inflection, lent a certain humour to most of his utterances; Hope found herself laughing at him constantly, and he told her once: "I like you because you seem so happy. You're always laughing." But now he went on, "Young fellows brought up to spend money are the same. They don't see things like we do; they don't know what's real."

  "I suppose not," said Hope thoughtfully.

  She reflected that there was a certain pleasure in that knowledge of reality, however hard one found it. The soil was good underfoot, even though the motor was soft and swift. A little of both would be agreeable—if one could have both. Even while she thought, she had Allen explaining that he had not come to take her for the promised ride because Edgerton had arrived a day or two earlier than the programme called for.

  "You won't want to go with me now," he drawled.

  "Oh, won't I?" remarked Hope. "Don't be an idjit. I will if you'll ask me—unless you'd be fired for taking me."

  "He'll never know," said Allen.

  Leaning against his shoulder, she felt him shake with suppressed mirth. She could see no real occasion for it. Why should she not go, if she chose? The ethics of "railroading" the car she left Allen to settle with his own conscience; as for her going or not going, she had tentatively decided that she was under no obligation to refrain. Why not?

  "You're a funny girl," drawled Allen.

  He stopped for Edgerton, who stood on the pavement lighting a cigarette from a gold-mounted case. Everything about his appearance was in keeping with that costly trinket; his linen, his shoes, his spotless light grey suit and fawn overcoat, his too youthful hat, shouted of money, almost drowning out the feebler piping of good taste. His diamonds were more numerous than ever; his rather ruddy face shaved to a nicety. And he looked positively super-clean. As he climbed in beside her, smiling and shaking her small hand vigorously in his own grey suède gloved one, Hope smelt fine soap and toilet waters and heard the silk lining of his overcoat rustle. It gave her a wish to pat him on the back, smooth his white piqué waistcoat approvingly, and tell him that he looked very nice indeed. The thought crinkled the corners of her mouth and brought out a dimple, and they beamed at each other, each quite unaware of the other's motive for mirth. As the car started a tallish young man, just turning the corner to go to the club, started slightly and raised his hat, but neither saw him. He was quite a personable young man, and appeared to be interested in what he saw. The big car purred away.

  "Take the best road and go ahead. I suppose you've learned your way about," said Edgerton, addressing Allen's inexpressive back, with a note of good-natured banter. Allen nodded without turning. "They all railroad the car
s out," he added resignedly to Hope, who bit her tongue on a too hasty word of confirmation. She had a positively fatal gift of candour, which served her ill, for when she had told the worst and the most, less ingenuous minds invariably drew the conclusion that it was merely a prelude and concealment for further misdoings. "And now," said Edgerton, "I want to know."

  "But this is all there is to know," said Hope, and threw out her hands. "May we go fast?"

  "That's you!" He spoke to the chauffeur.

  The purring deepened; the river sped by like a ribbon of quicksilver. A light came into Hope's eyes, but her body relaxed in a sort of ecstasy.

  And Edgerton's heart melted in him again, and he knew himself once more a fool. That gay, unconscious courage of hers. It was plain she thought of life as a glorified "joy-ride," and he knew it for a treadmill, where the gayest might weary quickest, stumble, lose heart and go down. No, she would not go down, but she would lose heart none the less, and that spark in her eyes would die out.

  "What do you want to do with yourself?" he asked abruptly.

  "Everything," she answered, smiling radiantly out of the fulness of the moment.

  "If I make it possible," he forestalled her immediate objection, "would you like to go abroad and study art, or go to college?"

  "Why should you?"

  Somehow he had not anticipated that.

  "Because I'd like to," he answered very simply, drawing the rug up over her knees.

  "Oh." She pondered, turned to him, and her eyes accepted his word. "But I must think." She thought, visibly, puckering her fair wide brows. "Not abroad; not art," she said at last. "I'd be a fraud. I have no genius. Only a trifling talent, a trick. I teach—the A B C's. Anyone could, if she couldn't draw a crooked line. Read it out of a book. It would be a waste of money, of time, of effort. But you're awfully good. I wish I was a genius; it would be so nice to say yes, and be a wonderful credit to you. Oh, I've often thought of it. But it isn't there. Genius must simplify things for the possessor of it." He could not catch all she was saying, now that she mused to herself. "They know what they've to live for, and they can take hold. Now me, I've only life to live for, just like everyone else. And it's wonderful, but I can't seem to take hold of it. It gets away from me. Lots of people—most people—never do capture it. Their whole lives escape them. I wonder, does it always escape them? Or is there somewhere, after all this weedy barrenness is ended, where they—oh, excuse me; I'm such a scatter-brained animal."

  He looked puzzled.

  "But college?" he asked finally.

  "Were you thinking of that, three years ago?"

  "Yes," he nodded. "You might have been started by now. I've thought of you often since then. When I went back there, I asked for you. But you seemed to have disappeared. Still, I thought I'd find you again, before now. It's pretty hard to miss anyone out here." That was quite true. There were but three towns—not cities—of any size in all Alberta then, and to walk down Main Street in any of the three was to be seen of all men. Two people, town dwellers, both living in the Province, could not fail of crossing each other ultimately.

  "Oh," she said, surprised, "I had no friends there. How nice of you to remember. To think of you caring!" It gave her a warm, quick emotion.

  "Yes," he returned, "I do care." She was oblivious, hugging her knees; he flushed darkly, unobserved. "Will you go?"

  "Mary's been to college," she said, with seeming irrelevance. And Mary, like herself, was stranded here, high out of the tide rise of the world's real activities. Naturally, the connecting chain of ideas was lost to him. He only stared at her anxiously.

  "Let me think awhile," she begged him once again.

  "I'll be here six weeks," he said. "Take your time Tell me when you've decided."

  They turned homeward presently. She talked less, feeling slightly overwhelmed by his generosity, and shy. He, too, was guarding himself. A betrayal of his curiously mixed feelings would have seemed grossly unfair to her.

  No, with all his clear and naturally kindly mind he desired to set her rather in a straight path, though it led her, gay and elusive, always away from him. In that wish half his heart concurred. The other half struggled to voice wilder impulses, to catch at the skirts of her youth and hold her. She represented lost and impossible things to him, things too sweet and strange to be ever quite forgotten, desires fed on husks and still hungering.

  At her own gate he dismounted with her and followed her into the screened porch. Then the spark of rebellion in his heart flamed up. But he was as awkward as a boy.

  "Oh," she said, crossly, "don't be..."

  "Ridiculous," was the word that died on her tongue. The sight of his abashment made her feel too keen an edge on it for utterance.

  "All right," he muttered. It reminded her of Allen Kirby, waiting no more than twenty feet away in the car, and she choked on a giggle. "I'm sorry." He took her hand, and the pressure of his pained her. "Good night. Do you think you might come again?"

  "Why not?" she said carelessly. "Good night." And as he turned away, she put her hand on his sleeve She was sorry she had laughed at him—twice, now "Thank you," she said gravely, and held up her cheek.

  He touched it with his lips, hastily, clumsily, feeling his very ears burn. The door closed on her decisively.

  Allen nodded assent, his smooth face positively sleepy with immobility, at the brusque direction. The car moved away. Edgerton sat and studied his chauffeur's back gloomily—and envied him.

  CHAPTER VII

  HOPE was dressing for the Tennis dance, fresh-faced and sleepy-eyed. She had been out half the night before, and had taken cat-naps through dinner time to atone for it. Now she brushed her hair, drinking a glass of milk and reading, all at the same time. Her ears did not burn, though they should have. They were only delicately pink.

  Mary Dark and Mrs. Patten were discussing her. Rather, Mrs. Patten talked and Mary listened, her sorrowful grey eyes veiled, her mouth curled at the corner.

  "You ought to have some influence with her," mourned Mrs. Patten. "She's getting herself talked about."

  "Yes, we're proving that," remarked Mary, in a detached manner. "What do you want me to do?"

  "Give her a hint," said Mrs. Patten, distinctly irritated. "Eleanor Travers asked me about it only today. She was seen in Mr. Edgerton's automobile last week."

  "She shouldn't have been seen," agreed Mary gravely. "I'll tell her so."

  Mrs. Patten opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, and a tide of painful colour flowed into her face. Mary saw it, through her eyelashes, and dropped them lower.

  "I will, really, try to," said Mary, her tones subtly altered. "Of course she's a little fool. That's why we like her."

  "Oh, yes, I know," said Mrs. Patten thoughtfully, for she was not a fool, though she might act like one on occasion. "You mean she's herself; she's different. But one has to pretend." She flushed again. "Of course I told Eleanor it was all a mistake."

  "She's known Edgerton since she was a baby, almost," said Mary, twisting the truth to the comforting effect of a lie.

  "Yes, we understand," said Mrs. Patten.

  "Perfectly," said Mary, who did.

  "It would be such a pity," said Mrs. Patten. "People would like her, if she'd give them a chance. But she can't afford to do that sort of thing."

  "That's it," agreed Mary again, with unperceived irony.

  "Mr. Edgerton is so conspicuous. What is he like? Mrs Shane told me..."

  "He snubbed Cora Shane. She tried to add him to her collection. I can fancy what she told you. He's not bad. An overgrown boy. Shrewd. Kind. Selfish. Simple. Very simple. He doesn't like women who swear, and tell smoking-room stories. So Cora----"

  "Of course," said Mrs. Patten, with an inflection of malice. "Is it true that he doesn't live with his wife?"

  "Not quite yet," said Mary, allowing that to be interpreted as it might chance. The possible, though remote, significance of the remark in that context did not escape her. She la
ughed quietly. "Oh, yes, it might happen. In that case Hope could afford to."

  Mrs. Patten was silent, thoughtful.

  "But," added Mary meanly, "it's really the chauffeur Hope is flirting with," again making a half-truth serve.

  It served. Mrs. Patten almost turned pale.

  "Oh, that's impossible," she gasped.

  "Or the car," said Mary dreamily. "Getting down to essentials. Hope is rather direct, you know."

  "It was Ned mentioned it to me," said Mrs. Patten, truly distressed. "He wouldn't believe it, of course."

  "She must have snubbed Ned," said Mary profoundly, forgetting her audience.

  Mrs. Patten winced. They sat awhile in silence. Mary was thinking of the curious friendship between Hope and Edgerton.

  It had all been under her eyes; she watched it with a certain pity, but no desire to interfere. She knew the uselessness of attempting to deflect from any course such a secretive, yet straightforward nature as had Hope. She would go through or under or over an obstacle, softly and silently and as if unaware of opposition. There was nothing meanly obstinate about her, but in certain ways there was no approach to her either. She would do no harm, probably; but certainly, having been born, not under a star that danced but under a little faint wandering comet, she would never fall in tune with the world to the extent of establishing a fixed orbit. One must take or leave her. Which of these the world would do depended, Mary justly reflected, largely on her luck.

  Mary had come to know Edgerton well. To him she was only a quizzical smile, a clever brain, deft hands. He trusted her. Sometimes he sent word to Hope through her. Little notes, punctiliously unsealed. She had been unwilling at first; but he could easily reach Hope, and it was better this way than through another, less her friend. Mary, sitting at her desk in his own office, fancied she could tell when he was thinking of Hope, and at such times, when he caught her eyes on him, he would redden slightly and pore over his letters and estimates again. Squared up to his big mahogany desk, which failed to dwarf his solid proportions, absorbed in files and legal papers, he would look the very embodiment of common sense and well-rewarded shrewdness. And presently he would give her a small white envelope, addressed to Hope, and, putting on his hat, go out suddenly, without looking at her.