Quill's Window

by George Barr McCutcheon

"Because you would not have asked the question if you hadn't been—well, wondering a little yourself, Alix."

"Oh,—I don't want to think it," cried Alix miserably. "I don't want to think of it!"

"No more do I want to think it. Listen to me, Alix. I confess that I do not like this man. I have no way of explaining my feeling toward him. He has always been polite and agreeable to me. He has never done a thing that I can call to mind that would set me against him. Maybe it's because he is not of my world, because he comes from a big city, because deep in his heart he probably looks down on us Hoosiers. I will go farther, Alix, and say that I do not trust him. That is a nasty thing to say. It is none of my business, but I—I wish you did not like him so well, Alix."

"It would appear that my friends are taking more than an ordinary interest in my welfare," said Alix slowly, and with some bitterness. "Is it possible that you all believe me incapable of taking care of myself?"

"Smarter women than you, Alix Crown, have been fooled by men," said the other sententiously. "Oh, I don't mean the way you think, my child,—so don't glare at me like that. I know you can take care of yourself THAT way,—but how about falling in love? And getting married? And finding out afterward that roses don't grow on cactus plants? That's how women are fooled,—and you're no different from the rest of us."

"I think,—I am quite sure that he is in love with me, Aunt Nancy," said Alix, somewhat irrelevantly. There was no sign of gladness, however, nor of triumph, in her dark, brooding eyes.

"That's easy to understand. The point is, Alix,—are you in love with him?"

Alix did not answer at once. The little frown in her eyes deepened.

"I don't think so, Aunt Nancy," she said at last. "I don't believe it is love. That is what troubles me so. It is something I cannot understand. I don't know what has come over me. I will be honest with you,—and with myself. I do not really trust him. I don't believe he is all that he claims to be. And yet,—and yet, Aunt Nancy, I,—I—"

"Don't try to tell me," broke in the older woman gently. "My only sister thought she was in love with Terry Moore, a fellow who had been in the penitentiary once for stealing, and was a drunkard, a gambler, and a bad man with women, and all that. She was crazy about him. She ran off with him and got married. She never was in love with him, Alix. She hated him after a few weeks. He just cast some kind of a spell over her—not a mental spell, you may be sure. It was something physical. He was slick and smart and good looking, and he just made up his mind to get her. A man can be awful nice when he has once set his heart on getting a girl,—and that's what fools 'em, great and small. All the mistakes are not made by ignorant, scatter-brained girls, my dear. My father used to say that the more sense a woman has, the more likely she is to do something foolish. Now, Alix dear, I know just how it is with you. Courtney Thane has cast a spell over you. I believe in spells, same as the old New Englander used to believe in witchcraft. You don't love him, you don't actually believe in him. You—you are sort of like a bird that is being charmed by a snake. It knows it ought to fly away and yet it can't, because it's so interested in what the snake is going to do next. Thane is attractive. He is, far as I know, a gentleman. At any rate, he would pass for one, and that's about all you can expect in these days. The thought has entered both our minds that he put Sergeant out of the way. Well, my dear, I don't believe either of us would ever dream of connecting him with it if there wasn't something back in our minds that has been asking questions of us ever since he came here. You say you were afraid to read Mr. Blythe's letter again. Does that mean you are afraid everything he says is true?"