The Strange Experiences of Tina Malone. Ethel C. M. Paige

I stood apart, and one day found myself by Tony's side.

      I began to talk of Carpenter and the "Drama of Love and Death." In no time I was entranced. Here was enthusiasm. He was at home with every book I mentioned.

      We soon became good chums, for when we talked of books we forgot everything else; so that while Sybil was waiting to have the aura of the Great One showered over her we were talking so hard that we used to wander off and walk home together, before we noticed that she had not followed.

      This made Sybil furious—Anyone might have thought it was jealousy because Tony was her friend and she did not like to share him—but it was not that; she felt I was her property—it was rivalry she felt with Tony—I was her proselyte and she was furious with him for intervening.

      She began to talk about me to the others—I felt she was doing it. Tony used to look on and say nothing and try to save me from her. I used to see his eyes glaring, as he stood with folded arms, just as he had stood when first I met him. He did not appear to watch her, but I knew he was conscious of her all the time, and disapproving.

      The Occult School was made up of Classes. What they did in the higher classes which Sybil attended I don't know. ​They were very mysterious about it and were not supposed to answer questions. What they did in the class I attended I can't quite say. They seemed to talk for ever about atmospheres and auras and former lives and life after death and mentality till I longed to turn the subject to books and pictures and art and the world I was accustomed to.

      They never really accepted me, and I never really accepted them.

      No one ever thought of bowing to anyone. If you were introduced one day, they turned away from you the next just as you were going to bow. They tried to be your friend; but their idea of friendship was to put an arm across your waist and try to do you good. That you might be doing them good, too, by coming into contact with them, never seemed to enter their minds. If you had not been there to practice on, life would have lost half its savour.

      Sybil was up to some mischief with me, I knew it. She was doing me good with a vengeance; and Tony, with dark eyes full of meaning, always fixed on her, was always coming to my rescue.

      "This is Miss Malone," she said, introducing me one day to one of the teachers, "I am just telling her she must not be so emotional."

      Up came Tony, and just as I was bowing to the man introduced, thrust a picture of Christ in front of me where it was seen by all of us.

      "This is what I found to-day," he said.

      I felt, and perhaps Sybil knew too, that he had purposely interrupted.

      What it was they were up to I did not in the least understand then. It was later that I knew.

      Naomi

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      CHAPTER II.

      NAOMI.

      NAOMI had been out all day. I had stayed at home to attend to various little household duties.

      There was a glorious view from my front window. Across the harbour the sky was still flooded with the reflection of the sunset—the aftermath—in delicate colours of mauve and pink with little clouds all tipped with golden light; the ferry boats' lights, already lit, made them like fairy boats as they glided silently past one another, far away, while the lights of the city twinkled through a mist.

      She called up to me from the flat below—evidently she knew I was standing at the window—perhaps she stood below, to look for a moment at the wonder of the world-picture I was watching.

      "Are you there?" she called.

      "Yes," I answered.

      "If I come up in about half an hour's time will you be at home?"

      Her voice was low and melodious, with rising amid falling inflections that somehow were unlike other people's.

      "Yes," I said, "Come."

      I hurried to put things a little straight. We were both Bohemians in the matter of furniture, using kerosene cases for cupboards and sofas, and sundry other little make-shifts. It was furniture that would move easily and serve as packing-cases in time of need. Books and papers scattered about were a thing we neither of us bothered about much, for they were daily necessaries to us both, and we left them lying where they were, or gathered them into a careless heap. So I left them strewn about, knowing that such confusion would be accepted by her as a matter of course.

      I had had a hurried tea when she came up.

      Her eyes were shining and bright and her cheeks and lips were full of colour.

      "Here you are," she said.

      I started a little. There was something in her voice and walk to-night that was peculiar—a little as if she were vague and uncertain.

      I was always happy when I was with her and we chatted and I showed her some sketches I had made long years ago.

      ​She had always rather a flattering way of talking, and as usual when she got up to go, said she had not seen half enough of my work, and wanted me to take them down to show her again some time.

      It was during the week that followed, I think, that, as I was coming home, I saw her coming towards me from the opposite direction. I had been thinking of past troubles. I had been to see an old friend of my mother's and the thought of my lost home was still with me.

      She came towards me with a peculiar smile on her face—why it was peculiar I can scarcely tell, but it jarred just then. I was in no mood for silly sentiment.

      "I've just been doing my shopping," she said, "come down after tea. By the way, your groceries came and I took them in—here they are."

      As she handed them to me, she looked long and steadily into my eyes, and as I took the parcel from her, she drew her fingers lingeringly along my hand.

      I noticed, without appearing to notice, but only thought of it as something strange.

      It became a custom with me to go down to her flat every evening, and chat about the things that had happened. We had many tastes in common, and often, during the day, I would consciously save up any little thing that happened, with the thought of our evening chat together.

      One night, as she sat holding a fan before her face, to shade it from the glare of the lamp before her, I thought what a beautiful picture she would make. She was sad—I could see it behind the mask she wore. Her eyes deepened into their bluest, and her voice, always even and sweetly modulated, showed no sign of what she was feeling.

      She said she had felt tired while in town and had sat in St. Mary's Cathedral.

      She seemed thoughtful, and presently, just in a few suggestions, she gave me the story of her life.

      There was no self-pity, just the reminiscences of the girlhood of a woman who loved to skirt danger—half rebel, half witch.

      As I said good-night, I kissed her for the first time.

      "You dear," she said, placing her hands on my arms and giving them a squeeze, and she kissed me on the other cheek.

      I was always romantic, and from that time she became a story-book woman to me.

      We were good comrades, and if she did not call up to me, I called down to her, to share joys and troubles.

      One day, as I sat with her in her rooms, the doorbell rang and I, being nearest, jumped up to answer it.

      A man stood there and asked for her by name, saying he wished to talk to her on business.

      ​I ran away but she called me back.

      "Silly child," she said, "it was only from Morton Daly's for some time-payment things I had bought. I won't buy more on time-payment."

      Her