Pearson’s Magazine/Testing His Courage - The Story of a Quaint Device

by Algernon Blackwood

The Story of a Quaint Device

Julia Mansfield went disconsolately to her ball that night. She was learning, bit by bit, to pay the price that inevitably must be paid by a great heiress, and in the process she was coming to the conclusion that a little money⁠—enough⁠—is better than a lot.

Already, though she was barely twenty-three, cynical lines had traced their bitter story round the corners of her mouth, and in her eyes there occasionally shone a shrewd light which was certainly not there when she first came out. The fact was she was passing through that most swiftly disillusioning of all life’s processes⁠—finding out the opposite sex.

Julia was not, strictly speaking, pretty. She possessed that intelligent sort of face which earnest men adore, but which bores the majority and alarms most of the rest. Hence, as we have said, she was going to the ball without the enthusiasm of the illusioned young girl. There was, however, one man she hoped to see there. Mark Lister had never paid her a compliment or shown the least desire to make love. She had always liked and respected him and, though he made no sign, her intuition persuaded her that it was a mutual liking, and that it was her money that made him keep aloof.

The ball commenced at ten, but it was considerably after midnight when Mark Lister entered the room.

He was an engineer; good-looking, big, strong, but with only his pay to live on. He was just leaving to take up a rather good appointment in India and he had come to confess his love.

He did not intend to ask her to marry him, but yet he wished her at the last to know his secret. It could not possibly hurt her, he argued, and in after life it would always be a source of pleasure to him to think that she knew.

Mark Lister’s mind was simple, direct, and without subtlety or guile, and the possible result of his rather selfish expedient did not cross his mind.

It did not take him long to find the girl he sought, and when, later, the time arrived to claim his dance he came at once to the point without hesitation.

“I have come to this ball simply and solely to see you,” he said. “I have something to say to you. No, do not be alarmed, there’s no question at the end of it. It’s a mere statement of fact. If you will sit out this dance, I’ll tell you.”

He led her to a secluded corner and began at once.

“I’m going to India in three days, but before I go I wanted to tell you⁠—if I may⁠—I⁠—that I’ve been in love with you ever since I saw you first at your coming-out ball in this very house three years ago. I tell you this because⁠—I don’t quite know why⁠—I fear my reason’s very selfish⁠—because it will always be such a pleasure to me to feel that you know. It can do you no harm. I wanted you to know it. There, that’s all⁠—and⁠—well, that’s the longest speech I ever made in my life!”

He half rose to go, as the music was beginning again, but she held out a hand and stopped him.

“Wait,” she said peremptorily, “I’ll give you this dance too. I am interested in your declaration. It is unusual. You put no question at the end of it⁠—that customary question I’m tired of hearing.”

“No; I think you are fitted for a better⁠—a bigger career than I could hope to give you. Besides, I love my profession, and could not allow myself to think further than this: that I love you, and I want you to know it.”

“Evidently, we are both unusual people,” she laughed, but in a tone that made his heart leap. “Now, suppose I put a question to you, will you answer it truly?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to marry me?”

“Yes.”

“Would you have asked me if I were poor?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause. He felt the girl drawing him with terrific force, but he made no sign. The fragrance of her hair and breath rose to his brain. Again he made a move, and again she stopped him with her hand.

“Mr. Lister,” she said⁠—and the personality of the girl robbed the words of any reproach and unmaidenliness⁠—“you have told me the truth without humiliating me. Now, I’ll tell you something, too. You have won my love. I love you, and have loved you for a long time.”

“You really mean that?” he cried.

“You want to marry me⁠—I want to marry you,” she continued quietly. “There’s only one thing I want you first to prove to me⁠—your courage. No, not your physical courage; that’s a mere matter of nerves and imagination. I mean your moral courage, which is matter of character.”

“How?”

“Go and ask my aunt for my hand in marriage. You know, she has the disposal of me. I am her ward.”

She watched his face, but he did not flinch. Her aunt had the reputation of being a veritable dragon, a woman to dread, a woman with a bitter and merciless tongue, a sayer of brutal things⁠—usually true!

“All right, I’ll go,” he said without hesitation. “Only, she’s never seen me, or heard of me.” ·

“That makes no difference. This is my test. Do you accept it?” He bowed his head.

“Then go tomorrow at four o’clock. I shall tell her another suitor is coming to ask for me. She hates the very name of ‘suitor’. It’s like a red rag to a bull.”

This was her parting shot. Mark Lister handed her over to Lord de Pennylesse to go down to supper, and left the ball room.

Next day at the appointed hour he presented himself at the door of the great mansion in Grosvenor Square, but before going up to the dragon’s den he asked to see Miss Mansfield alone.

“Miss Mansfield is out, sir, and will not return till evening,” was the footman’s reply to his question, and with rather a sinking heart he then sent up his card to the aunt, Lady Hester. In due course he was shown into a severe little upstairs drawing-room where, at once as he entered the room, he saw the figure of the much-dreaded old lady seated in an armchair by the fire. She looked very prim and severe, and the high fashion of wearing her hair, and the dark spectacles, certainly did not tend to soften the general aspect of severity with which she acidly welcomed him. Her attitude at once seemed to put him in the wrong. She motioned him to a chair, and without delay, in a thin, bored voice, plunged into her subject. Evidently her intention was to conclude the interview as soon as possible and get back to her novel. She sat up stiffly, facing him, yet never once actually taking the trouble to look at him; her back was to the light.

“I believe you wish to marry my niece, Mr.⁠—er⁠—”

“Lister,” he supplied. Her voice was like the cracking of an icicle just before it drops.

“Mr. Lister,” she went on. “Well, sir, as she is also my ward, it is, of course, my duty to ask you if you are in a position to support her⁠—”

“I am an engineer, with a salary of £400 and excellent prospects.”

“Please don’t interrupt,” she went on testily. “I was about to say, if you can support her in the way she has been accustomed to?”

“No; I certainly cannot at present give her the luxury she has been accustomed to,” he answered frankly, “but she can supply all that unnecessary sort of thing with her own money.”

“Her own money, my dear sir! Are you aware that she has no money, practically speaking, of her own? Her fortune is entirely at my disposal, and if she marries a man of whom I disapprove she won’t have a penny.”

“This is news to me, and very good news,” he answered quite calmly, “for if she loves me really she will not mind what⁠—”

“Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks!” ejaculated the old lady, kicking her footstool viciously. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, young man. Are you selfish enough to tempt the girl to lose her fortune? Don’t you know that money is one’s only real friend in this world and that⁠—”

Mark Lister had a good deal of self-control, but he interrupted here.

“Lady Hester,” he said, quietly but firmly, “I have come here to make a formal demand for your ward’s hand. If you disapprove of me as her husband, and will kindly tell me so plainly, I shall then feel free ask her if she will have me without your consent. If she prefers her fortune I shall know how to value her love. But not for one minute do I believe that she loves her wretched money better than me.

“That’s delightfully plain talk, Mr. Lister,” snapped the old lady, “and I’ll meet you on equal terms. I refuse my consent. There! Now you can write and tell her so. If she marries you she shan’t have a penny except the £100 a year she has in her own right.”

“I’m delighted with your decision,” he said with some heat. “If she won’t marry me on what I’ve got, I don’t want her.”

“You’ll find a table with writing paper behind you,” wheezed the old lady, burying herself in her book without even looking up to see what he was doing.

Mark Lister turned to the table and began a letter. He did not hesitate for a minute. He believed the girl loved him. The decision was for her to make.

It was not that he valued himself so highly, but that he felt the right thing for him to do was to give her the chance. He would play the game. At least it would prove that he wanted herself, not her money.

He was halfway through his epistle when he suddenly felt a hand clapped over both his eyes. Good heavens! What was the old cat up to now? He struggled an instant to free himself, but the fingers only tightened their grasp. Then he seized the wrist to force it away, and half rose in his chair as he did so. Surely that tender little hand he felt so soft and yielding beneath his own was not that of the severe, prim, bony old maid he had been just arguing with! It seemed incredible. He wrenched himself free, and turned upon his blindfolder.

Julia Mansfield stood before him, her face crimson with blushes, her eyes sparkling with happiness. Upon the floor at her feet lay a bundle of false hair, a pair of blue spectacles, a shawl, and other paraphernalia. Lady Hester’s armchair was empty; her book lay upon the floor. The disguise had been perfect and complete.

“Mark!” she cried. “Then you do love me for myself. Oh, if you knew the number of men that have failed to pass that test! I never really doubted you, but it was sweet to hear it from your own lips⁠—and in such a temper, too! Of course, my fortune is my own, and, what’s more to the point, you are, too!

“You⁠—little⁠—minx⁠—you!” he cried, kissing her between each word. “You don’t deserve to have a husband at all.”

“Am I forgiven?”

For reply he kissed her again.

“What about your aunt?” he asked presently.

“I am my aunt,” replied Julia, “and a very convenient relative I have always found myself. But this is the last of her. I must at once announce that Lady Hester is travelling on the Continent for an indefinite period.”