The Ghost Girl Part 29

She had seen the past, she had heard the guns of the war.

She went back into the room and took her seat on the couch and held her head between her hands. She recalled the terror that told her that everything she loved was in danger. When the man had cried out that young Pinckney was killed, it was the thought of the death of Richard Pinckney that struck her into unconsciousness. Yet she knew that what she had seen was the day of the death of Rupert Pinckney, that one of those figures carried on the stretchers was his figure, that her grief was for him.

Had she then experienced what Juliet once experienced, seen what she saw, suffered what she suffered?

Was she Juliet?

The thought had approached her vaguely before this, so vaguely and so stealthily that she had not really perceived it. It stood before her now frankly in the full light of her mind.

Was she Juliet, and was Richard Rupert Pinckney? She recalled that evening in Ireland when she had heard his voice for the first time, and the thrill of recognition that had pa.s.sed through her, how, at the Druids' Altar that night she had heard her name called by his voice, the feeling in Dublin that something was drawing her towards America. Her feelings when she had first entered Meeting Street and the garden of Vernons, Miss Pinckney's surprise at her likeness to Juliet. Prue's recognition of her, the finding of those letters, the finding of the little arbour--any one of these things meant little in itself, taken all together they meant a great deal--and then this last experience.

Her mind like a bird caught in a trap made frantic efforts to escape from the bars placed around it by conclusion; the idea seemed hateful, monstrous, viewed as reality. Fateful too, for that feeling of terror in the vision had all the significance of a warning.

Then as she sat fighting against the unnatural, her imaginative and superst.i.tious mind trembling at that which seemed beyond imagination, a miracle happened.

The thought of danger to Richard Pinckney brought it about. All at once fear vanished, the fantastic clouds surrounding her broke, faded, pa.s.sing, showing the blue sky, and Truth stood before her in the form of Love.

It was as though the vision had brought it to her wrapped up in that terror she had felt for him. In a moment the fantasy of Juliet became as nothing beside the reality. If it were a thousand times true that she had once been Juliet what did it matter? She had loved Richard Pinckney always, so it seemed to her, and nothing at all mattered beside the recognition of that fact.

Perfect love casteth out fear, even fear of the supernatural, even fear of Fate.

"Richard," said Miss Pinckney that night, finding herself alone with him, "that Silas Grangerson is in town and I want you to beware of him."

"Silas," said he, "why I saw him at the club, he's gone back home by this, I expect, at least he said he was going back to-night. Why should I beware of him?"

"He's such an irresponsible creature," she replied. "I'm going to tell you something, and mind, what I'm going to tell you is a secret you mustn't breathe to any one: he's in love with Phyl."

"Silas?"

"Yes. I knew it wouldn't be long before some one was after her. She's the prettiest girl in Charleston, and she's different from the others somehow."

The cunning of the woman held her from praise of Phyl's goodness and mental qualities, or any over praise of the goods she was bringing to his attention.

"Has he spoken to her about it?" asked he.

"I'm sure to goodness I don't know what I'm about telling you a thing that was told to me in confidence," said the other. "Well, you promise never to say a word to Phyl or to any one else if I tell you."

"I promise."

"Well, he's--he's kissed her."

Richard Pinckney leaned forward in his chair. He seemed very much disturbed in his mind.

"Does she care for him?"

"I don't believe she does--yet. They always begin like that; girls don't know their minds till all of a sudden they find some man who does."

"Well, let's hope she never cares for Silas Grangerson," said he rising from his chair. "You know what he is."

He left the room and went out on the piazza where the girl was sitting. He sat down beside her and they fell into talk.

Richard Pinckney's mind was disturbed.

Only the day before he had proposed to Frances Rhett and had been accepted. No one knew anything of the engagement; they had decided to say nothing about it for a while, but just keep it to themselves. The trouble with Pinckney was that Frances had, so to say, put the words of the proposal into his mouth. Frances had flirted with every man in Charleston; out of them all she had chosen Pinckney as a permanent attache, not because she was in love with him but because he pleased her best. She matched him against the others, as a woman matches silk.

Pinckney had allowed himself to be led along; there is nothing easier than to be led along by a pretty woman. When the trap had closed on him he recognised the fact without resenting it. He was no longer a free man.

Phyl had told him this without speaking. For some time past he had been admiring her, and yesterday on returning in chains from Calhoun Street, Phyl picking roses in the garden seemed to him the prettiest picture he had seen for a long time, but it did not give him pleasure; it stirred the first vague uneasy recognition that his chains had wrought. He had no right to look at any girl but Frances--and he had been looking at her for a year without the picture stirring any wild enthusiasm in his mind.

Miss Pinckney's revelation as to Silas had come to him as a blow. He could not tell what had hit him or exactly where he had been hit. What did it matter to him if a dozen men were in love with Phyl? What right had he to feel injured? None, yet he felt injured all the same.

As he sat by her now in the lamp-lit piazza, the thought that would not leave his mind was the thought that Silas had kissed her.

Behind the thought was the feeling of the boy who sees the other boy going off with the ripest and rosiest apple.

And Phyl was charming to-night. Something seemed to have happened to her, increasing the power of her personality, her voice seemed ever so slightly changed, her manner was different.

This was a woman, distinct from the girl of yesterday, as the full blown from the half blown flower.

They talked of trifles for a while, and then he remembered something that he ought to have mentioned before. The Rhetts were giving a dance and they had sent an invitation to Phyl as well as Miss Pinckney.

"It will be here by the morning post, I expect," said he. "You'd like to go, wouldn't you?"

Phyl hesitated for a moment. "Is that--I mean is that young lady Miss Frances Rhett--the one who called here?"

"Yes," cut in Pinckney, "those are the people. You'll come, won't you?"

"Is Miss Pinckney going?"

"She--of course she's going, she goes to everything, and old Mrs. Rhett is anxious to meet you."

"It is very kind of them," said Phyl. "Yes, I'll come." But she spoke without enthusiasm, and it seemed to him that a chill had come over her.

Did she know of his entanglement with Frances Rhett? And could it be--

He put the question aside. He had no right to indulge in any fancies at all about Phyl as regarded himself.

Then Miss Pinckney came out on the piazza and Phyl rose to go into the house.

CHAPTER IX

When Silas Grangerson left the cemetery of St. Michael's he walked for half a mile without knowing or caring in what direction he was going.