A Quicksilver Cassandra copy

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A quick silver Cassandra by John Kendrick Banks.

It was altogether queer, and Jingleberry to this day does not entirely understand it.

He had examined his heart as carefully as he knew how, and had arrived at the entirely

reasonable conclusion that he was in love.

He had every symptom of that melody.

When Miss Marion Chapman was within range of his vision, there was no room for anyone

else there.

He suffered from that peculiar optical condition, which enabled him to see but one thing at

a time when she was present.

And she was that one thing, which is probably the reason why in his mind's eye she was

the only woman in the world.

For Marion was ever present before Jingleberry's mental optic.

He had also examined, as thoroughly as he could, in hypothesis, the heart of this, only

woman, and he had, or thought he had, which amounts to the same thing, reasoned to believe

that she reciprocated his affection.

She certainly seemed glad always when he was about.

She called him by his first name, and sometimes quarreled with him as she quarreled with no

one else.

And if that wasn't a sign of love in women, then Jingleberry had studied the sex all his

years, and they were thirty-two, for nothing.

In short, Marion behaved so like a sister to him that Jingleberry, knowing how dreams

and women go by contrarious, was absolutely sure that a sister was just the reverse from

that relationship which in her heart of hearts she was willing to assume toward him.

And he was happy in consequence.

Believing this, it was not at all strange that he should make up his mind to propose marriage

to her.

Though, like many other men, he was somewhat chickenhearted in coming to the point.

Four times had he called upon Marion for the sole purpose of asking her to become his wife,

and four times had he led up to the point, and then talked about something else.

That quality is it in a man that makes a coward of him, in the presence of one he considers

his dearest friend, his not within the province of this narrative to determine.

But Jingleberry had it in its most virulent form.

He had often got so far along in his proposal as, Marion, will you, will you, and there he

had often stopped, contenting himself with such commonplace conclusions as, go to the

matinee with me tomorrow, or ask your father for me if he thinks the stock market is likely

to straighten soon, and other amazing substitutes for the words he so ardently desired, yet feared

to utter.

But this afternoon, though one upon which the extraordinary events about to be narrated

took place, Jingleberry had called, resolved not to be balked in his determination to learn

his fate.

He had come to purpose, and the purpose he would, Ruette Colum.

His confidence in a successful termination to his suit had been reinforced that very

morning, by the receipt of a note from Miss Chapman, asking him to dine with her parents

and herself that evening, and to accompany them after dinner to the opera.

Surely that met a great deal, and Jingleberry conceived that the time was ripe for a blushing

yes to his long deferred question.

So he was there, in the Chapman parlor, waiting for the young lady to come down and become

the recipient of the interesting interrogatory, as it is called in some sections of Massachusetts.

I'll ask her the first thing, said Jingleberry, butting his prince Albert, as though to impart

a possible needed stiffening to his backbone.

She will say yes, and then I shall enjoy the dinner, and the opera so much more.

Hmm, I wonder if I am pale, I feel sort of, uh, there's a mirror, that will tell.

Jingleberry walked to the mirror, and oval guilt framed mirror, such as was very much

invoked fifty years ago, for which reason alone, no doubt, it was now admitted to the gold

and white parlor of the house of Chapman.

Blessed things these mirrors, said Jingleberry, gazing at the reflection of his face.

So reassuring, I'm not at all pale, quite the contrary, I'm red as sunset.

Good omen that, the sun is setting on my bachelor days, and my scarf is crooked.

Ah, the ejaculation was one of pleasure, for pictured in the mirror Jingleberry saw the

form of Marion, entering the room through the portiers.

How do you do, Marion, bit admiring myself in the glass?

He said, turning to greet her.

I, uh, then he stopped, as well he might, for he addressed no one.

Miss Chapman was nowhere to be seen.

Dear me, said Jingleberry, rubbing his eyes in astonishment?

How extraordinary!

I surely thought I saw her, why, I did see her, that is, I saw her reflection in the

glah, ha ha ha, she caught me gazing at myself there and has hidden.

He walked to the door and drew the portierre side, and looked into the hall.

There was no one there.

He searched every corner of the hall, and the dining room at its end, and then returned

to the parlor, but it was still empty.

And then occurred the most strangely unaccountable event in his life.

As he looked about the parlor, he for the second time found himself before the mirror.

But the reflection therein, though it was of himself, was of himself with his back

turn to his real self.

As he stood gazing amazingly into the glass, and besides this, although Jingleberry was

alone in the real parlor, the reflection of the dainty room showed that there he was

not so, forceded in her accustomed graceful attitude in the reflected armchair, was nothing

less than the counterfeit presentation of Marion Chapman herself.

It was a wonder Jingleberry's eyes did not fall out of his head, he stared so.

Not a situation it was, to be sure, to stand there, and see in the glass a scene which,

as far as he could observe, had no basis in reality, and how interesting it was for Jingleberry

to watch himself going through the form of chatting pleasantly there in the mirror's

depths, with the woman he loved.

He had almost made him jealous, though, the reflected Jingleberry was so entirely independent

of the real Jingleberry.

The jealousy soon gave way to consternation, for, to the wandering suitor, the independent

reflection was beginning to do that for which he himself had come.

In other words, there was a proposal going on there in the glass, and Jingleberry enjoyed

the novel sensation of seeing how he himself would look when passing through a similar

ordeal.

Although together, however, it was not as pleasing as most novelties are, for there were

distinct signs in the face of the mirrored Marion that the mirrored Jingleberry's words

were distasteful to her, and that the proposition he was making was not one she would entertain

under any circumstances.

She kept shaking her head, and the more she shook it, the more the glaze Jingleberry seemed

to implore her to be his.

Finally, Jingleberry saw his quick silver counterpart fall upon his knees before Marion

of the glass, and hold out his arms and hands toward her in an attitude of prayerful despair.

Whereupon the girl sprang to her feet, stamped her left foot furiously upon the floor, and

pointed the unwelcome lover to the door.

Jingleberry was fairly staggered.

What could be the meaning of so extraordinary a freak of nature?

Surely it must be prophetic.

Fate was kind enough to warn him in advance, no doubt.

Otherwise it was a trick.

And why should she stoop to play so paltry a trick as that upon him?

Surely, fate would not be so petty.

No, it was a warning.

The mirror had been so affected by some supernatural agency that it divined and reflected, that

which was to be, instead of confining itself, to what Jingleberry called similar to Neity.

It led instead of following or acting coincidentally with the reality, and it was the part of wisdom,

he thought, for him to yield to its suggestion and retreat.

And as he thought this, he heard the sweet soft voice behind him.

I hope you haven't got tired of waiting, Tom, it said, and turning.

Jingleberry saw the unquestionable real Marion standing in the doorway.

No, he answered shortly.

I have had a pleasant, a very entertaining ten minutes, but I, I must hurry along, Marion,

he added.

I only came to tell you that I have a frightful headache, and I can't very well manage to

come to dinner or go to the opera with you tonight.

Why, Tom, powdered Marion, I am awfully disappointed.

I had counted on you, and now my whole evening will be spoiled.

Don't you think you could rest a little while and then come?

Well, I, I want to, Marion, said Jingleberry, but to tell the truth, I, I really am afraid I am going to be ill.

I've had such a strange experience this afternoon.

I tell me what it was, suggested Marion sympathetically, and Jingleberry did tell her what it was.

He told her the whole story from beginning to end.

What he had come for, how he happened to look in the mirror, and what he saw there.

And Marion listened attentively to every word he said.

She laughed once or twice, and when he had done she reminded him that mirrors have the habit

of reversing everything, and somehow or other, Jingleberry's headache went away.

And, and, well, everything went.

The end of, A Quick Silver Cassandra, by John Kendrick Bangs.