while it was descriptive of her, never by any chance would it apply to me.
All that was good and holy she was, and I, filled with the seeds of all that was bad—unsprouted, then, it is true; but soon, all too soon, to crack open and rear a writhing crop of clinging hell-weeds that eventually well-nigh strangled my immortal soul.
One loved her, and she adored him as only a pure and good girl can adore the man of her choice. And I adored him too, or thought I did, from the first moment I set my eyes on him. I had been prepared to ignore "her Edwin." She had enthused too much about him. "What a good man" until I was nauseated at sound of his name. Once, in a tantrum, I snapped:
"The sooner you two fools are married, the better for all concerned! After the honeymoon, when full acquaintance is established, perhaps we'll get a vacation from 'Edwin' and his multifarious perfections. He's just plain man like all the rest; and if you want my candid opinion, he's very much a 'he-sissy'!"
Even yet I can see the hurt look she bestowed upon me. But all she said was: "Wait, sister, until you've seen him. You'll love him, too."
I did—but not in the way she, in her innocence, meant!
There came a time when, during an interview which I deliberately schemed to bring about, I sought to turn his allegiance from her shrine to myself. And in terse, scathing phrases, he let me see, plainly, what a really honorable man thought of me and my attempt!
Humiliation, followed by a cold, deadly rage, suffused my entire being. Without further words I walked away from him. Nobody, observing us as we met at breakfast next morning, would have suspected that aught untoward had ever passed between us. Only he and I knew, and I knew, too, that very soon only I would ever know. . .
I'd heard the servant maids talking. There was an old gipsy woman, too old to travel longer with the caravans. Her sons had purchased for her a tiny plot of ground and a small cottage near where Lost River enters Deadman's Swamp. The maids had whispered of love-philters, charms, spells. . . One said: "She will only see those who love when the moon shines . . . those who hate when the dark o’ the moon prevails."
That old gipsy was a disappointment to me. She heard me out, patiently. But she shook her head. Nor could a proffered bribe of a thousand dollars move her to change her determination.
"You do not belong in my circle," she said. "Nor does any that touches mine touch yours. I may not, dare not help you. Yours is a strange fate. You must work out your own magic wickedness or leave it alone. Yet if you desist from your purposes you will die from the hate-poisons in your blood. You had best go home and pray, then lie down and die. Otherwise, great evil will you wreak, although never on earth shall you be punished therefor."
In disgust, I left her presence, wordlessly.
But all that night one sentence ran through my mind, excluding all else:
"You must work your own magic wickedness or leave it alone."
An ignorant, illiterate, uncivil old gipsy! There must be a higher, stronger magic. I wrote to dealers in antique books. They mailed me lists such as they compile for collectors. So, I gained insight into ancient arts; such lore as it were well for all the world had it never been known!
Two photographs I took to a sculptor of my acquaintance. In exchange for a smile and a few low-spoken words, meaning less than nothing to me, but which went to his
