Zona Gale

“ Maverick nodded, delighting in her delight.
"The Magic Adventures," he explained, "are the adventures that lie close to everyday adventures—just as all magic lies close to everyday affairs. For example, it is not necessarily the man who climbs a mountain or shoots a tiger or gets lost in a jungle who has an adventure. It is the man who does those things, thinking meanwhile not so much about mountain-climbing and the habits of tigers and the vegetation of the jungles as of the magic of all three."
"Oh, I know, I know!" said Lady Sibyl. ”

“ He looked up quietly now.
"I know," he said to Lady Sibyl.
"You know?" she repeated incredulously. "What I dreamed about when I was eighteen?"
"Headly has made everything a study," said Pamela. "He prescribes for Rex and recommends sunshades to me with the same unfailing instinct."
"You see," explained Mr. Madder imperturbably, "you constantly want something incongruous. Women love to breathe the atmosphere of another age. That's what makes them love romance—for romance is only an echo of King Arthur and mythology; in other words, a survival of what never was." ”

“ To her delight his face was one substantial wreath of smiles, not derisive nor abashed, as a boy's smiles are wont to be, but plainly sympathetic. As for the little old lady, she nodded as simply as if Lady Sibyl had announced herself to be upon an expedition to purchase late pippins.
"Aye," she said comprehendingly, "but they're hard to find—the dreams we used to have." ”

“ And it isn't motoring that delights them—it is the spectacle of a big red car that Nero or Justinian might have ridden in, buzzing through crowds of lesser folk who are concerned with commonplace pursuits. Women of imagination are creatures of all time, Lady Sibyl, and, being fallen by accident upon the evil days of the twentieth century, their chief concern is to get away. So they spend life in pretending, and they dream or motor or lecture as their temperament demands. ”

“ She left them waving farewells.
"Oh," she thought, "the world is all alike. Mad or sane, office-boy or Saint Syrol's prophet, or Englishwoman at large in America—we are all looking for dreams to come true, and longing to run away to find them. Perhaps that is why they don't come to us."
The shadows were lengthening and growing indistinct, and the sun hung low and red above the poplars at the edge of the far field. For the first time, as she looked, Lady Sibyl felt alarm, for the lowering sun takes confidence with him, a hostage. Then the spirit of the day danced back to her face. ”

“ Maverick smiled appreciatively. "Today is the good old man's birthday," said he, "and it is called Saint Syrol's day, though few celebrate it. But it falls out that on this day the hearts of all true believers, whether they know about the saint or not, are wonderfully stirred. And they are seized with a desire to go out and find magic."
Lady Sibyl looked away in the dim silver of the woods at her right, and though she would have spoken she fell silent, with the wonder of it all. ”

“ One advantage in being the daughter of a hundred earls is that one is natively able to meet them all, walking ghostly with their coffin shoes in their hands, and betray no great surprise. Perhaps, too, it was that the wine of the morning was running in Lady Sibyl's veins so that, as it always is with a happy few, nothing delightful seemed unreal. ”

“ She was like one of the lesser angels when she asked for advice.
"I don't know," he confessed ruefully, "but if I were a woman, I'd find a way."
"You disappoint me," pouted Lady Sibyl; "women are always being decorated with generalizations instead of fed with suggestions. Why don't you tell me to go and put bubbles in my hair and dance in the south wood all night? You aren't practical."
Queenborough rose. "Pamela," he said, with mock severity, "who is this Lady Sibyl whom you are passing as your sister?—for anyone less like the accepted British maid I have never seen." ”

“ She looked away to the open space where the white cloth glimmered ready for the feast, and she saw the little old lady, her shawl thrown aside, her bonnet slipped back, standing close to a great tree and looking up, up to the distracting depths of pure blue, the wind fanning her white curls, a half-eaten cake in her ungloved hand, a little smile on her lips. ”

“ Oh, I haven't the courage to go after my dreams, that's all!" wailed "Lady Imogen" suddenly.
Lady Sibyl sprang to the ground and caught "Lady Imogen's" hands, cold and trembling, in her own.
"Good-bye," she said, her eyes filling with swift tears. "But perhaps, if we just stay at home, the dreams will come to us!" ”

“ Harvey Queenborough looked in duty bound to take offense.
"Don't bandy words," begged Lady Sibyl in her rich voice, half contralto, half accent; "I could have found it in my heart to die daily to find liberty. The only place that an unmarried Englishwoman can occupy without a chaperon is the grave. But here I find a premature independence in America. ”

“ And I remembered every day the way the woods smelled, and when it came bonfire time I wonder I didn't go crazy. And at last, this morning, when I found the mallowberries ripe, I took some cakes and went through the orchard. I want to be lost. It is never a real holiday until you're lost. Do you travel far?"
"We don't know," answered Lady Sibyl truthfully. "Some distance, probably. The truth is," she added mischievously, "we're looking for a dream—the sort of dream we used to have."
Lady Sibyl glanced merrily at Tibby. ”

“ Far down a white avenue she saw Tibby, rapt, and, he thought, unobserved, stealing about from curly trunk to trunk, chewing strange spicy compounds whose properties did not concern him, his ink-stained hands filled with sweet-smelling stems, and she saw him suddenly lie at full length on the springing sod, kicking up his shabby heels luxuriously, hat off, head pressed deep in the rustling colored leaves. ”

“ I can't go so far. A body can't even get lost nowadays without money to travel."
"Oh," cried Lady Sibyl, brightening, "we'll take you. Will you come with us? We'll take you to the grove, if you like."
The old lady looked doubtfully at the car.
"I don't know but I might as well," she said musingly. "The Lord'll probably come in a bigger, noisier chariot than that. Our Lady knows I live to be prepared."
Lady Sibyl and Tibby helped the little creature to rise, settled her comfortably in the tonneau, and the journey was resumed. At once their passenger gave a brief account of herself. ”

“ And at last, when the edge of the Park was reached, Lady Sibyl relinquished her seat, and Tibby ran the machine down the Avenue and on to the ferry without a second to spare. It was but a few minutes after six o'clock when they passed Queenborough Lodge.
"What about you?" asked Lady Sibyl suddenly of Tibby. "Won't they be anxious about you at home?"
"Who?" asked Tibby, staring. "Not me? Why, me, I don't live anywheres to speak of. No, ma'am. I ain't expected."
A moment afterward Tibby, taking the car to the stables, crushed ecstatically in his hand something that she had given him. ”

“ She never leaves an obligation to a bore unpaid."
"That is the kind," opined Mr. Madder shrewdly, "in whose hearts you'll find the biggest revolt going on. The women who concede the most to society are the ones who most long to 'get away.'"
"Then they are only rag-doll rebels," said Lady Sibyl, "or some time they would—'get away.'"
A little while later Queenborough, with an air of restrained triumph, walked into the drawing-room where they were assembled.
"The new car has come," he announced.
"Really, Harvey?" cried Pamela delightedly. "Are the cushions the right shade?" ”

“ He turned to her radiantly, compelling her eyes.
"It is the Magic Adventure," he said softly.
She laid her hand on his arm, and they went down the stairs. The soft speech and laughter of the others flowed about them as they took their places. Mr. Madder was telling how someone had come a nasty cropper at an old stile in the hunt that day, and the Marquis of Winnesdale was drawling musically through an incident of himself and the ferry ticket-taker.
"This," said Maverick happily, "is strange company for two spirits of Saint Syrol's day!" ”

“ Lady Sibyl hesitated. The road was empty, the road was long and lay white in the mild heat of high noon. She was very hungry. To lunch from strange hampers in the Grove of the Lady Birches by Lady Birch spring! It sounded very alluring. Besides, the little old lady was bound for the same grove, and it was, in a measure, necessary to see her through her adventure. ”

“ I've been up in the woods of your Westchester County, and I've found out what England and most of America do not know—that the twentieth-century woods have all the dead centuries in them, waiting to be re-lived."
Mr. Madder shrugged his shoulders. "Women of imagination—" he began to repeat.
"What an interestin' fancy, Lady Sibyl!" said the Marquis of Winnesdale.
When the last guest arrived, Lady Sibyl was looking over some music. Mrs. Queenborough, presenting him to her with a grave, modulated word or two to the effect that he was to take her sister down, went off on the arm of the marquis. ”

“ It is not my name," she added truthfully, "but I have always thought it a very pretty name, and I don't know any better time to adopt it."
"One should certainly have a new name and a new age when one goes in the woods," assented Lady Sibyl. "And this is Tibby," she added.
Maverick gave Tibby a tablecloth.
"Quite right," he said. "'Lady Imogen,'" he begged, "will you kindly select the spot where this is to be laid?"
"Lady Imogen" found an open, grassy place at a little distance, and there she spread the cloth and laid the serviettes while Lady Sibyl and Maverick unpacked the hampers. ”

“ Queenborough was twenty-two, and she deliciously embodied the superiority of all young wifehood, in proof of which she had developed a fascinating line between her eyes.
Lady Sibyl shook her head. "No," she said, "something—I don't know—something I 've never had. There must be something in the world for women—our kind of women—that we never get. We all want it—it's the thing we dreamed about when we were eighteen. I can't remember what it was, and you can't. What was it?"
There was one guest at Queenborough Place that evening ”

“ After luncheon the hampers were briskly repacked, and "Lady Imogen," laboring in the belief that she was vastly helpful, hurried about like a girl, scattering crumbs for the birds over every available rock.
"For runaway birds, you know," she explained mysteriously. "I'm sure they don't like taking medicine at home, either." ”