Authors: Barbara Michaels
Sunlight glanced off the crystal surface of the ball without lighting it; it seemed opaque, perhaps because of the dirt that coated it. No object ever looked less like a source of occult mysteries. Yet the glancing spark of sunlight tended to hold one's gaze. The droning of the fly grew louder in my ears. . . .
"It comes now," said the old woman, in a tone so like the fly's buzz that it startled me. "It comes. I see. I see . . ."
Her voice faded. I stared intently at the crystal. For a moment I fancied I saw something stir, down in the fogged heart of it. But it was only suggestion. The ball remained a dusty cracked globe of crystal, nothing more. I leaned back in my chair.
"I see her," said Marian suddenly. Ada started. "I see her with her head of golden curls and her light quick step, coming across the floor. White she wears, and white flowers-flowers in her hands and on her hair. The pretty lady, dressed for her bridal . . . Her face smiles, her face shines with love for him. . . . His face will not come. I cannot . . . Tall he is-oh, very much the gentleman-a fine strong hand he holds out to take her hand. Fair hair, shining like a cap of gold on his head. His face-no, it is hidden, he turns toward her. Now the other gold comes, the golden, golden coins, they rain down, they fall in heaps, they cover her feet. Wealth, love, happiness ..."
The veined hands clenched. The old woman's body gave a convulsive jerk.
"Wealth, love, happiness," she said, in her normal voice. "It is gone now, the vision. Never does it last. . . . But I saw, I saw! Did you see, pretty lady? Did you see yourself in your bridal flowers, hand in hand with a tall, fair lover?"
Ada shook her head. Her mouth was slightly ajar with fascinated interest, but her hidden core of common sense had not quite deserted her.
"No, I didn't see," she said regretfully. "What a shame! Is it really true?"
From Julian, behind her, came a soft affectionate laugh, but Francis, leaning over the half door, made a more emphatic sound. The old woman grinned unpleasantly, first at one brother, then at the other.
"Ah, they're unbelievers," she said indulgently. "The one laughs, the other scoffs. But never mind, never mind. The future will come, for all of them."
"It was very exciting," Ada said. "Harriet, you must try. Please, Miss-Mrs. Marian, will you tell Harriet now?"
"Ah, the other lady." The dark glance flicked obliquely toward me. "To be sure, it's her turn now. Come, lady, and sit where she is sitting."
"Don't you want your palm crossed with silver once more?" Francis demanded harshly, as Ada and I exchanged seats.
"Oh, yes, oh, yes, the ball won't speak without the precious silver."
Julian threw a coin; it bounced, ringing, on the table till the withered brown fingers snatched it up.
I'll not repeat what she said; it was a formula and she delivered it in a bored voice. I presume she had exhausted her dramatic talents with Ada. What nonsense it all is! And yet it has its amusing aspects-partly, I suppose, because of the spice of adventure involved in visiting so strange a place. I would really feel rather nervous going there without an escort. That is nonsense, too, because these people would never molest anyone who is related to Mr. Wolfson. The old woman asked after him as we left, with the same touch of fear I had seen in the villagers. No doubt, as a qualified witch she respects his superior influence with Satan!
One other thing happened. After we had mounted and were ready to go, Julian addressed the old woman.
"Have you seen David yet?"
Then-then I saw the empress reveal herself. Old, ragged, poor, lame-for an instant I seemed to see her in a high, wide place with fire at her feet.
"No!"
"I'll convey your love," said Julian, laughing. "To your devoted grandson, eh?''
Ada glanced at me and I shrugged. David must be the child of the queen's daughter. I wonder what that makes him in the tribal hierarchy? Well, but we knew he was of gypsy blood and that he had repudiated his heritage. Now we know that his people resent him for denying them. But! what is that to us?
A tall dark man . . . such nonsense!
July 15
I have just left Ada. She is calm now, and sleeping. I wish I were.
There is no reason for my distress, I know. I can't imagine why I was so upset.
Francis has proposed to her.
I expected it. I knew it was bound to happen. Did I not write, in these very pages, that a marriage between Ada and one of her cousins would be of all things the most suitable? And the gypsy spoke of a tall, fair man. . . .
I didn't think it would be Francis.
But he is the elder son. That, too, is just as the real, fashionable world would have arranged the matter. She is so desirable-"such a fine match"-that they must both want her. Then the firstborn should have the first chance to win her.
I happened to be in Ada's room tidying her toilet table-she is such an untidy little thing and I don't like to have the maids touching her trinkets and toys-when she came bursting into my own chamber in search of me. Not finding me there she came at once through the connecting door. She was not crying then, but her cheeks were unnaturally flushed-not a delicate pink but a bright crimson. As soon as she saw me, her blue eyes overflowed.
"What is the matter, Ada?" I demanded. But I wasn't much concerned; Ada can weep over a wounded puppy or a trampled flower.
The tears increased from a trickle to a flood; in a series of gasps and sobs she poured forth the tale of the proposal.
"What did you say to him?" I demanded.
"Why-" Ada peered up at me from between her fingers. "Why, I said No, of course. That is, I said, 'I am deeply honored, Cousin Francis, by your expression of affection, but at the present time . . .' "
She learned that speech from a book of etiquette. I never thought, when we practiced it together amid gales of laughter, that I would hear it repeated under such circumstances.
"Very well," I said, folding her in my arms. "Don't cry, Ada. Was he angry? Is that why you are distressed?"
Ada sniffed.
"No," she said after a moment. "He wasn't angry. He just tweaked my nose-"
"Your nose?"
"Yes. He wasn't disrespectful, Harriet, truly. He was very nice about it. He was laughing when I ran away."
"Why did you run away? If he wasn't angry, why are you crying?"
Ada thought. The tears continued to flow, as casually as rain sliding down a windowpane.
"I don't know," she said at last, and subsided, wailing, into my embrace.
"Oh, Ada, do hush! Was he unhappy?"
"No, I said he was laughing." Ada sat up and fumbled distractedly at her skirts. I supplied her with my handkerchief-she can never find hers-and continued to pry.
"Are you sorry that you refused him?"
"Of course not! Harriet, how can you question me like a-like a nasty governess when I am so upset?"
"I am trying," I said patiently, "to ascertain why you are upset. He was not angry; he was not sad; you are not unhappy at refusing him. You are not weeping from sympathy or fright or regret. Why on earth are you weeping?"
It was silly of me; hard enough to make sense out of Ada when she is composed, impossible when she is distracted. I still don't know why she was crying. Just because she is Ada, I suppose.
By the time I left her she was feeling fairly cheerful again. I had her sitting up in bed, looking less like an invalid than any damsel I ever beheld and holding one of Miss Austen's charming tales, which she will not read. That was all I could do for her.
I wonder if, after all, she is regretting her hasty refusal. Julian would be a much better husband-kind, gentle, courteous-but what if she is drawn to Francis' vigorous strength without knowing it? She may yet reconsider.
I hope she does not. Julian is much more suitable. I do not trust Francis. A man who behaves as he does would be capable of anything. He might even beat her. Men who drink to excess often beat their wives, I believe.
Later
Francis is impossible!
I wonder how often I have written those words? And how many more times will I be driven to write them? The man surpasses himself; each time he commits some enormity, I think, "He cannot possibly do anything worse," and then-he does.
I went in to look at Ada a short time ago and found her asleep, looking as placid as a wax doll, with Pride and Prejudice lying flat across her lap, still opened at the first page. I decided to take a turn in the rose garden. The house was stuffy and warm; I needed fresh air.
Francis was in the rose garden.
I hadn't thought to ask Ada where and under what circumstances her first proposal of marriage had occurred. I didn't ask if it were romantic, gracefully phrased. Knowing Francis, I knew it would not be. But as soon as I saw him, I sensed that he must have spoken to her there, among the roses. It suggests more sensibility than I gave him credit for.
He was sitting astride one of the marble benches, his arms folded along its back and his chin resting on his wrist. I turned as soon as I saw him, prepared for headlong flight, but he was too quick for me.
"Cousin Harriet!" (I am learning to hate my name, as he pronounces it.) He unwound his long legs from under the bench and rose, coming toward me with one hand outstretched.
"Cousin Harriet, will you marry me?"
The emphasis on the "you" was unmistakable. I am always, I fear, too ready to prefer combat to retreat. I turned on him in a fury.
"Francis, you boor! What have you done to Ada?"
"Done?" His eyebrows went soaring up.
"She is up there in her room sobbing her heart out," I said indignantly-suppressing my memory of Ada's peaceful face as she slept. "You must have said something-done something-"
"Ada cries when she doesn't know what else to do," said Francis coolly. I stood stock-still in surprise. He was right. I had never thought of it.
"You don't believe me," he went on sadly. "No, wait. I must clear myself. I can't let such unjust suspicions cloud my impeccable reputation. Here, sit down. I'll run through the entire performance, and you shall judge whether or not I did it nicely."
The wretch took me by the shoulders and sat me down on the bench with a thud that jarred my teeth together. His hands went rapidly down my arms to my hands and captured them. At the same time he dropped heavily to one knee.
"Dearest Cousin Ada-I beg your pardon, Harriet-it cannot have escaped your attention that my warm regard for you has of late deepened into an emotion sweeter, warmer, than cousinly affection. Forgive me, in your modesty, if I offend-but I cannot control my heart any longer. Ada-Harriet-I love you! Will you make me the happiest man on earth by consenting to be my bride?"
He knelt staring up at me with wide eyes. I pulled my hands from his.
"Francis, don't be an idiot," I said irritably. "You didn't really say that."
"I did." He sat down beside me on the bench, his arm along its back, behind me. "Nothing in that that you could take exception to, was there? It doesn't seem to have been very effective, though. Perhaps I should have proceeded further."
He took me quite by surprise, but even if I had known what he was going to do, I doubt that I could have stopped him. One arm was already in position. It wrapped around my shoulders like a rope, his other arm encircled my waist, and before I realized what was happening, I was being thoroughly and efficiently kissed.
It was the first time, except for that boy at Mrs. Palmer's musicale in the conservatory. And he only kissed my cheek.
I can't possibly describe that kiss. I'm not sure I want to.
I liked it.
Liked it! Good heavens, what an inadequate phrase!
Grandmother was right. I must be a true child of my deplorable mother. I don't love Francis; I don't even approve of him! I must be-like that-about men in general, or I could never have responded so shamelessly to an impertinent embrace from a thoroughly despicable man who had just been refused by my cousin not an hour before!
It was that thought that brought me out of the glory. I couldn't breathe, but breathing seemed quite superfluous. My ribs were being crushed and the buttons on his coat were embedding themselves in my skin, but I didn't notice. Then I remembered Ada-and my ribs hurt, and I panted for breath, and I pulled myself away and sprang to my feet.
Francis came up with me, as if propelled by a spring. Even in my confusion I saw that he looked just as wildly startled as I felt, and a mean joy added itself to the other uncivilized emotions that raged within me. I took my time about what I did next. And he just stood glaring down at me, while I lifted my arm and drew it back, stepped carefully backward one step in order to get the proper force, and slapped him as hard as I could across the face.
The sound echoed through the peaceful garden like a pistol shot-and my hand dropped, numbed, to my mouth. It was like striking a rock. Francis wasn't even jarred. His mouth opened a bit, and his expression changed to one of intense concentration. He reached out for me.
For once in my life, common sense prevailed. I turned neatly out of the closing circle of his arms and walked away. He did not follow me.