CHAPTER XIVTHE FORE-HONEYMOONOutward, across the narrow, mile-long mole, the Oakland Local, a train of twelve coaches, swept on from block to block, beckoned by semaphores, till it threw itself with a roar into the great train-shed upon the Oakland pier. The locomotive stopped, throbbing and panting rhythmically, spouting a cloud of steam that eddied among the iron trusses of the roof. The air-brakes settled back with a long, relieved hiss. The cars emptied streams of passengers; the ferry-station became as populous and busy as a disturbed ant-hill. Up the broad stairs and into the huge waiting-room the commuters poured, there to await the boat.It was half-past nine in the morning. The earlier trains, laden with clerks and stenographers and the masses of early workers, had already relieved the traffic across the bay. The present contingent consisted chiefly of the more well-to-do business men, ladies bent on shopping in the city, and a scattering of sorts. Some clustered in a dense group by the door of the gangway, the better to rush on board and capture the favorite seats; the rest took to the settees and unfolded their morning papers, conversed, or watched the gathering throng.The Overland from Chicago was already in, two hours late, and it had contributed to the assembly its delegation of dusty, tired tourists, laden with baggage, commercial travelers, curious and bold, with a few emigrants in outlandish costumes, prolific in children and impedimenta. Another roar, and the Alameda Local thundered into the shed and emptied its lesser load. The Berkeley train had arrived also, and the waiting-room was now well filled.Through the glazed front of the hall the steamerPiedmontcame into view, entering the slip. It slid in quietly and was deftly tied up. The gang-plank was lowered and its passengers disembarked, filing through a passageway separated from the waiting throng by a fence. Then the heavy door slipped upward, the crowd made for the entrance and passed on board the boat. As each party stepped off the gang-plank some one would say, "Do you want to sit outside or inside?" The continual repetition of this question kept the after part of the deck echoing with the murmur.Clytie Payson, finding all the best outside seats occupied, went into the great open cabin and sat down. The saloon soon filled. In a moment there was the creaking of the gang-plank drawbridge, a deep, hoarse whistle overhead, the jangle of a bell in the engine room, and the boat started, gathered way, and shot out into the bay. An Italian band started playing.It was not long before her eyes, roving from one to another passenger, rested upon a couple across the way. Both looked jaded and distrait. They talked but little. The lady was crisp and fresh and glossy, in her blue serge suit and smart hat; her form was molded almost sumptuously—but there were soft, violet circles beneath her roaming eyes. She leaned back in her seat; her attitude had lost, in its California tendency to abandon, an imperceptible something of that erect, well-held poise that such corset-modeled, white-gloved creatures of fashion usually maintain. Clytie recognized her; it was Mrs. Page.The young man Clytie did not know. He was a dapper, immaculate, pink-cheeked person, who leaned slightly nearer his companion than custom sanctions when he spoke an occasional playful word to her. In his gestures he often touched her arm, where, for a second his gloved hand seemed to linger affectionately. Mrs. Page gave him in return a flashing, ardent smile, then her eyes wandered listlessly.Before Mrs. Page had a chance to notice her, Clytie arose and walked forward. Just outside the door she stopped upon the wind-swept deck for a moment to look about her. Above Goat Island, melting into the perfect bow of its profile, lay the crest of Tamalpais. The mountains surrounding the bay of San Francisco were wild and terrible, with naked brown slopes void of trees or grass. To the northwest they came down to the very edge of the water, tumbling precipitately, seamed with gulleys, forming the wall of the Golden Gate. Southward was smoke and haze; forward the peninsula loomed through murk. The whole aspect of the harbor was barren, chill, desolate. One felt that one was thousands of miles from civilization—in a land unique, grim, isolate, sufficient unto itself, shut off by sea and mountain from the great world. Yet it had its own strange beauty, and that charm which, once felt, endures for ever, the immortal lure of bigness, wideness, freedom of air and sky and water.Clytie stood, holding her hat against the nimble breeze for a while, gazing at a flock of gulls that sailed alongside the boat, circling and screaming, then she turned and moved to the right and walked aft.There was a young woman sitting in an angle of the seats, by the paddle-box. Her arm was resting on the rail and she was gazing down at the swirling rush of water. From her chic shepherd's plaid frock, so cunningly trimmed with red, so perfectly moulding her svelte form, it should have been Fancy Gray, Queen of Piedra Pinta. But it was a poor, tired Majesty, whose face was filled with infinite longing, whose traitor mouth was lax, whose head, bent sidewise, seemed too heavy to be held in its whilom spirited pose. She was off her guard; she had dropped the mask she was learning so painfully to bear.[image]It was a poor tired MajestyClytie stepped in front of her. Fancy suddenly looked up. There was a moment when her face was like that of a child awakened from sleep, then, in a flash Fancy was alive again. First, confusion, then a look of pain, lastly an expectant, almost a suspicious expression passed over her face."Why, Miss Payson!" Fancy sat erect, and, by her tone, was immediately upon the defensive, waiting to find out what her welcome might be. "Won't you sit down?""Good morning, Miss Gray!" Clytie's voice was low and sympathetic.Fancy took the proffered hand, grasped it for a brief moment and let it drop. Then she waited for Clytie to give her her cue. The eyes of the two women, having met, lingered without conflict. The serenity in Clytie's face melted Fancy's into a smile. A faint glow of pink began to creep up Clytie's neck and mantle her cheek. She took a seat."I'm so glad I found you," she began. "I had a queer feeling that I should meet some one pleasant, though I didn't know who it would be."What was it that reassured Fancy? No man could have told. But that whatever fears she had entertained were dispelled was evident by the way her face softened, by the way her dimples came, by the way a saucy, amiable sprite looked from her eyes."I'm sorry I'm just out of blushes," she said, rallying swiftly, "but I'm as delighted as if I had as pretty a one as yours. Did you really want to see me?""I've been wanting to see you for some time.""Why?""I've been thinking about you.""Think of your wasting your time on me! Why, any one with your brains could think me to a finish in five minutes.""I wanted to tell you something.""Ihopeit's something sacred," said Fancy with a twinkle in her eyes. "I love to have people tell me their most sacred thoughts." She smiled like a spoiled child.This was too much for Clytie, who laughed aloud. But she persisted. "I hope you won't think I'm trying to patronize you—""You look awfully pretty when you're patronizing; I don't mind it a bit.""I'm afraid it's no use, you're incorrigible.""That's a dandy word. I never thought of that. May I use it?""Willyou be serious?""You mustn't mind me," Fancy said. "I never could do that running throb in my voice. I've lost lots of things by not being able to cry to order. But I'll listen. What is it?""I know you've left Mr. Granthope's office.""Oh, yes. I got tired of the routine there. It's awful to sit and watch women who come to hear themselves talked about. It got on my nerves. So I told Frank I'd have to quit or tell them the straight truth about themselves."Clytie looked at her curiously for a moment. Fancy turned away from her glance. Clytie went on: "I wanted to see if I couldn't get you a position—perhaps with my father.""Thank you, but I guess not." Fancy cast her eyes down. "I don't care to go to work just yet—I'm going to drift a while—it's awfully kind of you, though.""Can't you come and stay with me a while? I thought I might teach you bookbinding and we could work together." Clytie herself was getting somewhat embarrassed.Fancy shook her head. "Sometime I'll come and see you—but not now.""Well, since Mr. Granthope has given up his business—"Fancy changed in an instant; her frivolous manner fell off. She stared at Clytie in surprise."Oh! I didn't know that.Hashe?""Yes, he stopped last week."Fancy's gaze drifted off to seaward. She was fighting something mentally. She turned her head away also. Finally she said, "I think I understand.""I think not, quite," Clytie answered softly.Fancy's eyes flashed back at her, brimming. "He gave it up on account ofyou, Miss Payson, I'm sure.""He did, in a way, but it was not altogether my doing.""I know!" Fancy leaned her head on her hand wearily. "You did for him what I never could do.""I'm glad you wanted it." Clytie touched Fancy's hand, as it lay limp in her lap.Instead of taking it, Fancy moved hers gently away. Then she roused herself. "Oh, Iamglad! I'msoglad, Miss Payson. He was too good for that—I always told him so. But you are the only woman who could have done that for him!""Indeed, you mustn't think that I did it. He did it for himself."Fancy smiled wistfully. "I know Frank Granthope. And I know the sort of women he knew. I was one of them. And I could do nothing—nothing to help him!""Ah, I don't believe it! Youhavehelped him, I'm sure. I know by the way you speak now.""Oh, I know what you think!" Fancy retorted impetuously. "You think that I am—that I was—in love with him. That's not true, Miss Payson, really it isn't. I never was. We were good friends, that's all. I'm not suffering from a broken heart or pining away, or anything like that. No secret sorrow for mine! But what's the use of trying to explain! It never does any good. I'm glad he's found a woman who's square and who's a thoroughbred like you! Why, Miss Payson, you canmakehim! I saw that long ago!"She spoke in a hurried frenzy of denial. She seemed to feel the inadequacy of it in Clytie's eyes, however, and nerved herself again."You don't believe it, Miss Payson, but it's true! I give you my word that he's perfectly free. Of course, there was a sort of flirtation at first, there always is, you know, but I wasn't in earnest at all! I'm too afraid of Frank—I'm not in his class. And I know he's in love with you—I saw it from the first.""Howcouldhe ever help loving such a frank, courageous, irresistible girl as you!" Clytie wondered."Miss Payson," Fancy said, avoiding her eyes, "there's a man I'm simply crazy about—I wish I could tell you more, but I can't explain. I never explain. But you can be sure that there's nothing doing with Frank, at any rate. I didn't intend to breathe it to a soul, but I know I can trust you—I'm really—" she drew a quick breath and her eyelids fluttered—"I'm—engaged, Miss Payson!"Clytie was wearing, that day, a little gold chain from which hung a tiny swastika. As she listened, she unfastened it and took it off and threw it about Fancy's neck. Fancy stopped in surprise."Won't you let me give you this?" Clytie said eagerly. "Don't ask me why—I want you to have it and keep it for my sake. You know I have more jewelry than I can wear, but I have always been very fond of this little chain. It belonged to my mother."Fancy's eyes filled suddenly and her lips parted. Her hand flew up to caress the chain affectionately. Then she cast down her eyes and a timid smile trembled on her lips."I accept!" said Fancy Gray.As she looked off at the water she lifted the chain softly to her lips and kissed it. Then, loosening the collar of her waist, she allowed the chain to drop inside to hang touching her warm pink breast.Then slowly she turned her head and showed Clytie a new expression, childlike, demure, embarrassed. Her eyes, fluttering, went from Clytie's eyes to Clytie's hair, to her slender, gracile hands. Then, with a wistful emphasis, she said:"Miss Payson, do you think I'm pretty?"There was no need, this time, for her to define the adjective."Do you want me to tell you exactly?" Clytie answered. "I never saw a woman yet to whom I couldn't tell her best points better than she could herself."Fancy nestled a little nearer, warming herself at Clytie's smile. "I guess I can stand it. I'll try to be brave," she said.Clytie looked her over critically."First, I'd say that your ears are the most deliciously shaped, cream-white, and the lobes are pure pink with a dab of carmine laid on as if with a brush. The hair behind them has curls like little claws clutching at your neck—and I don't blame them! Your cheeks look as if a rose-leaf had just been pressed against them.""I believe I'm going to get the truth at last," Fancy murmured. "Oh, it takes a woman, don't it!" In spite of this jaunty speech the pink had grown to scarlet in her cheeks, and she turned her eyes away in a delighted, flattered embarrassment."Then, your mouth has a charming little dent at each corner, and your lips curve in a perfect bow, and the nick above is just deep and strong enough for a baby to want to put his little finger into. Your nose is fine and straight and delicate—I can see the light through the bridge of it, the skin is so transparent—like mother-o'-pearl. Your eyes are clear and child-like and the rarest, deepest, pellucid brown. There's a moist purple shadow above them, and a warmer brown tone below. Your lids crinkle and narrow your eyes like a kitten's. Your hands are as dewy-delicate as flowers—white above, faint rose in the palm, deepening almost to strawberry in the finger-tips."Fancy had laid her head on her arm, upon the railing. When she at last lifted her eyes the tears trickled comically down her cheeks. "That's the first time a woman ever feazed me!" she said, snuffing, and feeling for her handkerchief. "I'll have to appoint you Court Flatterer!" She explained the sovereignty that she enjoyed amongst the Pintos. Clytie, amused, accepted the distinction conferred upon her.Their talk ran on till the boat passed under the lee of Goat Island. It rose, a bare, bleak slope of hillside on the starboard side. Fancy watched the waters curdling below."Ugh!" she exclaimed. "It looks cold, don't it! I'd hate to be down there; it's so wet. Isn't it funny that suicides always jump overboard right opposite Goat Island? There seems to be some fascination about this place. And the bodies are never found. I suppose they drift out through the Gate. The tide runs awfully strong here, they say."She removed her gaze with an effort, adding, "I hate to think of it! Let's come forward."They rose and went to the space of deck below the pilot-house and stood by the rail. Already the tourists and emigrants were there, eager for a first glimpse of the city. San Francisco stretched before them, a long, pearl-gray peninsula, its profile undulating in a continuous series of hills. Along the water front was a mêlée of shipping; behind, the houses rose to the heaving, irregular sky-line where the blue was deep and cloudless. The streets showed as gashes, blocking the town off into parallel divisions. A few tall towers broke the monotony of the huddled, colorless buildings. They passed a ferry-boat bound for Oakland, and a foreign man-of-war lying at anchor, nosed by busy launches. ThePiedmontrang down to half-speed, then the vibrations of the paddle wheels stopped as she shot into the slip. There was a surge of back-water, a rattling of chains and ratchets, the cables were fastened and the apron lowered. The crowd surged forward and poured off the boat. At the front of the Ferry Building Fancy stopped, offering her hand."Good-by," she said genially. "You've done me more good than a Picon punch. I'm going home to wear my looking-glass out.""You'll never see half I do," Clytie replied, shaking her head."That's because I haven't got such fine eyes," countered Fancy."I think mine are never so pretty as when they have a little image of you in them."Fancy gave up the duel. "Well, I guess I'd better go quick before you raise that! You play nothing but blue chips, and I can't keep up!"Clytie walked up Market Street alone. She turned into Geary Street at the group of tall newspaper buildings by Lotta's fountain, and in ten minutes was knocking at Granthope's office door. There being no response she descended the stairs, crossed the street and went into the square to wait for him upon a bench beside the soldiers' monument.There were two young women at the other end of the seat. One, scarcely more than a girl, was pretty, in a demure, timid way; she was freckled and tanned, her clothes were simple and neat. The other was of a coarser grain, full-lipped, large-handed, painted and powdered, with hard eyes and large features. She wore several cheap rings, and her finery made her soiled and wrinkled garments look still more vulgar. Clytie gave the two a glance and took no further interest in them until she caught the mention of Granthope's name.She turned, astonished, to see the younger woman looking seriously at the other. There was a charming earnestness in her face, and, though her lower lip drooped tremulously, it was not weak; nor was her chin, nor her nose, nor the gracefully reliant poise of her head."You ought to go see him, Kate!" she was saying. "I tell you he's a wonder! Why, if I hadn't gone there I don't know where I'd be now. I know one thing, I wouldn't be married. Why, when Bill was out in the Philippines and didn't write, I thought I'd lay down and die! I waited about two months, and then I took five dollars I saved up for one of them automobile coats they was all wearing, and I went to see Granthope. What d'you think?—he wouldn't take a cent off me! That's the kind of a man Granthope is! He said it would be all right and Bill would come back and marry me. But I tell you, I had to do most of the courting!""You did, did you? Do you mean to say you run after a man like that—without any nose? I never see such a face in my life! If he'd only wear a patch or something it wouldn't be so bad," commented her companion."Bill wouldn't do it; he's too proud. Nobody's ashamed of having only one leg or one arm, why should they be of having a nose gone?""What did you think when you first see him, though? Wan't it disgusting, kind of?" her companion asked, making a sour face."Why, I was so proud of him that I didn't see anything but a man who loved me and who had fought for his country! But it was some time before Ididsee him, though. He did his best not to let me.""How did you ever find him?""Why, finally Mr. Granthope located Bill down at Santa Barbara. He was working as a gardener on a place a little ways out of town. Bill's captain give me the money to get down there. I guess I cried pretty near all the way, thinking of Bill hiding out like a yellow dog without any friends. Finally I found the place. Bill was living up in a room over the stable."She paused. "Go on!" said her companion. The woman's voice had changed somewhat. There was something more than curiosity in its tone. Fleurette was looking down, now, fingering her jacket. Suddenly she began to breathe heavily."Bill had a little dog named Dot. A fox terrier, it was. Bill says he thought it was the only living thing that didn't despise him on account of his looks. He was awful fond of Dot. So was I, you bet. Dot's dead, now." She put a handkerchief to her eyes."Well, I was dead tired. I'd walked all the way from the station. I was pretty hungry, too. I couldn't afford to get dinner on the train, and I couldn't wait to stop to eat in Santa Barbara. And I was good and trembly—because—well, I hadn't seen Bill for over a year. I stumbled up the stairs and knocked on the door, and when Bill heard my voice he wouldn't let me in. I heard him groan—O, God! it almost broke my heart! He called through the door for me to go away. He said he didn't love me any more. Of course I knew he was lying. I didn't know what to do. Bill's got an awful strong will. I didn't know how to make him believe I didn't care how he looked. I just sat down on the stairs and begun to cry. Then Dot begun to whine and scratch on the door. Bill couldn't standthat. He swore at him and kicked him. It was the only time he ever struck him, but Dotwouldn'tbudge and kept scratching on the door. It was terrible. So Bill wrapped a towel round his face and opened the door. I just fell in his arms. But he put me away from him and said he wouldn't curse my life, and that I must go away."The other girl was staring at her, awed. "What did you do?" she whispered."Oh, I ran up to him again, and pulled off the towel and I kissed him." She spoke almost impersonally.Kate kindled, now. "Oh, Fleurette, did you? Gee, you were game!" She giggled somewhat hysterically. "Lucky his mouth wasn't shot off, wasn't it?"Fleurette gazed off across the green and spoke as to one who knew not of life's realities, saying, simply:"Oh, I didn't kiss him on the mouth, Kate—there was plenty of time for that! I kissed him right where that Moro bullet had wounded him!"Kate shook her head slowly. "I guess you done right!" she said. Then, "Say, I'd like to see Bill again, Fleurette."Clytie arose, gave the girl one swift glance as she left, and walked away. She had met two heroines that day, and her nerves were vibrating like tense strings. She walked up and down the square, keeping her eyes on Granthope's doorway.In half an hour she saw him striding up Geary Street. She followed him rapidly, ran up the stairs and knocked again at his door. He opened it and took her instantly into his arms. She lay there without speaking, and there was a blessed interval of silence after his kiss.The stimulating newness of possession thrilled him. She was still strange, mysterious, of a different caste, and there was something deliriously fearful in this familiarity as she lay captive, unresisting, trembling in his embrace. He had set his trap for a sparrow and caught a bird of paradise. He knew his power over her, now, though he dared not test it. He dreaded to break the spell of her wonderful condescension, her royal grace and favor. He was in no hurry to remove her crown and scepter; the piquancy of his romance fascinated him.She broke away from him with a gentle insistence, and looked at him, rosy and smiling. "I'm afraid I'm just like all other women, after all—and I'm glad of it!" she confessed, as she readjusted her hat and sank into the arm-chair to look up at him fondly."I don't suppose you realize how strange it seems for me to act this way?" she said. "No man has ever held me in his arms before. I have never thought of the possibility of it—even with you. All that sort of demonstration has been inhibited—I have always wondered if I had any passion in me. Of course, when I kissed you the other time it was different—it was the seal of a compact. But this time it seemed so natural that I didn't think. This is the end of my virginal serenity for ever. I think you have awakened me at last!"She broke into happy laughter. "Did I do it well, dear? I'm ashamed to think how inexperienced I am—and you have known so many cleverer women. If you call me amateurish, I'll slay you! But I think I shall be an apt pupil, though. Francis, stop laughing at me, or I'll go home!"Her naïveté was breaking up that glorified seraphic vision he had held of her and put her more nearly on his level, or, perhaps, raised him to her. He let his wonder fade slowly. However, with all his customary audacity he could not yet match her mood. She saw his reserve and took a woman's delight in wooing him."Must I convince you that I am flesh and blood?" she exclaimed with spirit. "And you—the lady-killer—the hero of a hundred victories—you don't seem to know that you have me at your feet! Nor how proud I am of it!"Then she jumped up and took his hands in hers softly. "You must be very good to me, Francis, dear, for I'm simple and ignorant compared to the women you've known, I suppose. But I'm a woman, after all. I don't want to be worshiped. I want the tenderness of an honest man's love, such as other women have. I want my divine birthright. I've been aloof from men all my life. That doesn't make me any less desirable, does it? I've never met a man who answered my demands. You do, or you will before I'm through with you. Don't think I'm going to be all moonshine and vapors. I'm going to love you till stars dance in the heavens! That's what you get for wakening me, my friend! I've been asleep, floating in dreams. I want a man's strength and chivalry and audacity and vigor and romance, instead of the painted shadows I've known. Aren't you afraid of me?" She dropped her head to his shoulder.He needed no further hint. He put away her halo and her crown, he drew the ermine from her, and the vision in her eyes was made manifest. But it was still too new for her to more than sip at the cup of delight; she would take her happiness by epicurean inches. So she slid away and evaded him, putting the chair half-mockingly between them."My father has forbidden me to come down here to see you," she said. "It's really quite romantic. But of course I told him I should come, nevertheless, so we can't quite call it clandestine. He'll never dare ask me if I've been here. He's quite afraid of me, when I insist upon having my own way.""Have you said anything about Madam Spoll and Vixley to him?""Yes, but that's no use. They certainly seem to have given him some wonderful tests—I don't see how they could have done so well—and he's absolutely convinced. I don't see what we can do, unless we wait for them to go too far and arouse his suspicions. I can't think he's feeble-minded. They're making him pay, though that's the least of the matter.""I have had an idea that I might get hold of one of the gang—a Doctor Masterson—and induce him to sell them out. He's a turncoat, and if he only knows enough about their game he could be bribed.""I must leave it to you, Francis. I don't like that method, exactly, but we must do what we can. Perhaps it will settle itself. We can do nothing yet, at any rate. To-day I've come down to ask you to invite me to lunch, please!""With pleasure—only, if I must confess—I don't know that I can offer you a very good one. Wait I'll see how much money I have left." He felt doubtfully in his pocket, and added, "Oh, that's all right, we can go to the Palace."Clytie was instantly suspicious. "How much have you?""Quite enough.""Answer me, sir!""About twelve dollars."She gasped. "Do you mean to say that'sallyou have left?""Everything. But my rent is paid for a month in advance.""Have you any debts?""Naturally. Two hundred dollars or so, that's all."She came up to him and worked her finger into his buttonhole. "Francis Granthope," she said solemnly, "are you really—ruined?" Her eyes danced."Oh, I've got enough junk in my chamber to pay that off, I expect, but it won't leave me exactly affluent."She burst into a delicious chime of laughter. "Why, it's positively melodramatic, isn't it? I never happened to know any one who was actually bankrupt before. Of course it must happen, sometimes, but somehow I thought people could always raise some money, even if they had to scrimp. How exciting it is—aren't you nervous about it? Why, I'd be frightened to death! And yet it seems terribly amusing!"He laughed with her. "I can't seem to take it very seriously, while you're with me, at any rate. To tell the truth, I haven't begun to think about it yet. Of course my fees have always been in cash, and consequently there's nothing coming in. And I've always spent every cent I made, and a little more. But I've been broke before, and it doesn't alarm me, except that, of course, I can't depend upon living by my wits in quite the same way as I would have, if I hadn't chucked that sort of thing. If I didn't care how I did it, I suppose I could make a hundred or so a week easily enough."She listened and grew more serious. "Of course that's all over. But you've got to have money! Let's see what I have with me." She took her purse from her bag and emptied it upon the desk. Several ten- and twenty-dollar gold pieces rolled out.Granthope shook his head sharply. "No, don't do that, please! I can't take anything, even as a loan, you know. I can't spend a cent I haven't honestly earned—I never shall again, if I have to starve, which I don't intend to do, either. You must know that.""But from me—isn't that different?""Not even from you!""Of course you mustn't. I see. It's better not to, yet somehow I could have forgiven you if you had let me help a little at first. I don't exactly see how you're going to live. Why, it's awful, when you come to think of it, isn't it? It really is serious. What a goose I've been! I'm afraid I shall worry about you now. Well, you'll have to have lunch withmeto-day, anyway. That's only fair, if I invite you.""On the contrary, I'm going to invite you to share my humble meal.""All right; let's be reckless then, if youmustbe proud and show off. It will be fun. I never economized in my life, but now I'm going to show you how. Hand over all your wealth, please."She counted it out upon the desk, a five dollar piece, six silver dollars and two halves and a few nickels. "Now," she said, "how long can we make this last—a week?""I've lived for three weeks on that much, often, and paid for my room.""Something's bound to happen within ten days, I'm sure. If you see nothing ahead at the end of a week, I'll put you on half-rations, and till then I'll allow you a dollar a day. Shall I keep it for you?"He was delighted to have a treasurer."Now we'll take fifty cents and go to some nice dairy place and sit on a stool."But, as he insisted upon a place where they could talk in quiet, they went, instead, to a shady little restaurant around the corner, and there they seriously discussed his prospects.He did so whimsically. It was really absurd that he, in full health, six feet high and a hundred and seventy pounds in weight, at twenty-eight, could do nothing, so far as he knew, to support himself honestly. He had been a parasite upon the vanity of fools. After much casting about for ideas, she sent for anExaminerand began to search through the "Help Wanted; Male" column.The Barber's College she rejected first, although he pointed out the advantageous fact that it offered "wages while learning." Canvassing for books or watches they both agreed was not interesting enough. Boot-black—he raised his eyebrows in consideration, she shook her head energetically; it was too conspicuous, with these open-air sidewalk stands. She turned up her nose, also, at the idea of his distributing circulars. The Marine Corps tempted him next—but no, she couldn't think of sparing him for three years, not to speak of a girl in every port. She asked him what a job-press feeder was; he didn't know, but he was sure he couldn't do it—it would be all he could do to feed himself. Profiler—if he could make as good a profile as Clytie's now, he might get that job. But it appeared to be something connected with a machine-shop. He looked at his white hands and smiled. Weavers, warpers and winders—equally mysterious and impossible. The rest of the wants were for mechanics and tradesmen. Clytie dropped the paper, disappointed.He declined to let the matter disturb him, as yet. He had no fear of the future, and the present was too charming not to be enjoyed to the full."What I've always wanted to do," he said, "is to study medicine. If I could get money enough ahead to put myself through a medical school, I wouldn't mind beginning even at my age. I think I'm fitted for that, for I've cultivated my powers of observation and I know a good deal about human nature, and I've read everything I could lay my hands on. Some day I shall try that.""Very well, Doctor Granthope, I shall make up my mind to being a doctor's wife, and being rung up at all hours, and being alone half the time.""I wasn't aware that I had proposed yet," he answered jocosely."Why, people don't propose, now, do they? Not real people. What a Bromide you are!" she laughed joyously."I'll have to disprove that. Let's spend the rest of the afternoon out of doors and get acquainted! Then when I have a good chance I'll ask if you'll be my wife. Do you realize how little we know of one another? It's ridiculous. Why, you may have a middle name for all I know! You may eat sugar on canteloupe or vinegar on your oysters; you may be an extraordinary mimic; you may have escaped sudden death; you may have been engaged when you were seventeen; you may sulk; you may mispronounce my favorite words! How do I know but you like magenta and Germans and canary birds, and wear Jaegers; and object to profanity and nicknames, and say 'well-read' and read thePhilistine!""Good Lord, deliver us! That's a devil's liturgy!" In denial of his categories she held him out her palm. "Oh, you should know me by that right hand! You're supposed to be a trained observer of symptoms and stigmata.You'rethe one who needs investigation! Do you realize what a risk I am running? Why, I haven't yet heard you speak to a dog, or answer a beggar, or seen you eat a banana, or watch a vaudeville show—and all four are necessary before I really know you."She bent her head in mock humility and looked up at him from beneath her golden lashes. "You needn't be afraid, Francis; if you tell me what your rules are, I'll obey them. If youreallywant me to wear magenta, I shall be terribly fond of it, and I shall only think I've been stupid all my life to loathe it, and be so glad to learn. But I hope you don't!""If you'll allow me five cents for dessert," he said as seriously, "I'll order bananas, at the risk of losing you for ever."They had begun now to revel in the piquancy of the situation. Their meetings had, up to this time, seemed fatal in their dramatic sequence, fraught with meaning, working steadily up to the climax in the studio. There had been few scenes between them, but those scenes had been cumulative in feeling. They had played their parts like actors in a play of destiny, a play whose plot had been closely knit and esthetically economical in incident and dialogue, each act developing logically the previous situation. Now that the tension was released, and the reaction had come after an histrionic catastrophe, each looked at the other with new eyes, seeking the living person under the tragic mask.In this delightful pursuit they came upon such fantastic surprises, such rare coincidences, such lovely similarities of whim and taste and prejudice, and, above all, such a rare harmony in their points of view on life, that their talk was as exciting as if they had just met for the first time. The talk ran on, back and forth, lively with continual revelation. It came out, not in dominating trends of thought, or principled opinions, but in many charming lesser exemplifications of their mutual fastidiousness. She reached for a plate, and his hand was outstretched to give it to her at precisely the same instant—their fingers touched, and their eyes spoke in delighted surprise. He discovered that she, like himself, took no sugar in her coffee, and on that consanguinity of taste an imaginative structure arose, to be destroyed with equal delight when he found that she was resisting a temptation to use cream. She quoted spontaneously a line from Stevenson that, for no reason whatever, he had always loved: "For to my mind one thing is as good as another in this world, and a shoe of a horse will do." She knew his language, he fulfilled her test. Such were their tiny psychological romances at table.They had reversed the usual order of progression in their friendship, or rather Fate had reversed it for them. Had they become betrothed in the ancient manner without previous knowledge of one another, their position could have been no more alluring and delicate, for, strangers physically and, to an extent, mentally, their intimacy of spirit was as certain and irrevocable as a blood relationship. They played with a series of little embarrassments.To-day they had changed their characteristic parts; he was timid, as he had never been timid with women. She was bold, as she had never been bold with men. The primitive woman had come to life in her. They were, however, both of that caste which can notice, analyze and discuss the subtleties of such a condition while still enjoying it to the full. It delighted them to glean the nuances and overtones of that harmony. It was a new experience to Granthope to be with one who understood and was sensitive to the secondary and tertiary thrills of delight without having become hyper-refined out of vibration with the primal note of passion. That sharing of the wonderful first fruits with her, mentally as well as physically and spiritually, kept his appetite for her whetted to a keen edge. He could not get enough of her from sight or hearing, and each touch of her hand became a perilously exciting event, a little voyage of poetic adventure.They were both learning swiftly the art of loving, but, though one goes far in the first sensational lessons, one can not go all the way, no matter how reckless is the attempt. Passion has to be adjusted to tenderness, and affection to experience, or there is discord. For her, perhaps, that love held more of faery, more freshness and delicious abandon, more mystery, for her nerves had never been dulled by contact; but for him there were newer and truer wonders as well. He had taken another degree in sentiment, and the initiation was as marvelous for him, an apprentice, as for her, a neophyte. And, in that sacred, secret lodge, when the time came, she would jump in a single intuitive moment to his level and surpass him.Already she was tuned to the emotional pitch; she would notice every false move, every mistake in his devotion, as well as if she had been with him past-master in the rites of love. She could already teach him, and already she began to hold him back sensitively, to linger over every transient mood of feeling, every minor phase which women, in that stage between wooing and winning, so care to taste to the last sweet drop. Every reflex, every echo, she would bid him answer to, indefinitely prolonging, now that she was sure of him, the fineness of the reward of her moment, delaying the definite end. He had taught her the rapture of a caress—she would teach him the excitement of a smile, a tone, a gesture.They lingered long at the table and then went forth into the sun. The cable-car carried them, still bantering, to the gate of the Presidio, and they set out rollicking across the golf-links. The open downs stretched in front of them in long, sweeping lines, like the ground swells of the sea, skirted to the north by groves of cypress and eucalyptus trees. Beyond, to the west, the ground grew sandy as it approached the ocean, and from that direction a sea-breeze sailed, salt and strong. Behind them was Lone Mountain, with its huge cross on top, and from there in a scattering quadrant a multitude of little houses, the outskirts of the city, skirmished towards the park. The turf was hard and smooth as a carpet, burned, here and there, in patches of black, but elsewhere of a pastel green, colored by the hardier weeds that had sustained the drought and fought their way through the matted, sunburned stalks of dry grass.Dipping down through a wide, sandy hollow, tangled with fuzzy undergrowth, they climbed up again, making for a shoulder of the hill where the road curved sharply round the summit. They were alone in the world, now; no one was in sight, at least, and the glory of this free space of earth and air brought them as near to one another as if they had regained childhood. Clytie's hat was off, and her hair wantoned over her forehead and neck. She gave him her joyous laughter unrestrained, and he listened as to a song, and attempted by every wile he knew to provoke it again and again. If she had been high-priestess before, now she was pixie, and he was, at first, almost as afraid of her in this new guise. He explored a new world with her, as Adam did with Eve. As Adam did with Eve, he marveled at her.It came to him, as they walked, that what had kept them apart, mentally, was an odd lack of humor. He saw how his whole life had been a pose towards himself as well as towards the world, repressing what now, the costume and custom gone, would come forth bubbling without care. He had kept a straight face so long! What mirth he had felt, in presence of his dupes, had been strained fine, escaping in the corner of a smile, while he fashioned his glib phrases. It had been a preacher's sobriety, the sedateness of priest-craft, aging him prematurely. She held him her hands now down the years, back to decent, cleanly fun. To his surprise he found that he could give full vent to it. He could laugh aloud, and need not study effects and poses; he need not impress her. His wit was clumsy; it even approached silliness, in its first runaway impulse, but he at least lost his self-consciousness. He followed her merriment, and they discovered nonsense together.So, jollying, they tramped up to the road and came suddenly upon the sea, flaming, peacock blue, at the foot of the cliff which fell almost vertically at their feet. Across the dancing waves, from a coast like Norway's, Point Bonita arose, guarding the Golden Gate. At the end of a semicircular cove to their left a ragged cliff jutted into the channel; behind its promontory the hills rolled back.She gave a cry of joy and happiness and sat down on the verge of the bluff to feast upon the view. He dropped beside her and took her hand. An automobile whirred past them and she did not flinch. There he underwent a revulsion of feeling.
CHAPTER XIV
THE FORE-HONEYMOON
Outward, across the narrow, mile-long mole, the Oakland Local, a train of twelve coaches, swept on from block to block, beckoned by semaphores, till it threw itself with a roar into the great train-shed upon the Oakland pier. The locomotive stopped, throbbing and panting rhythmically, spouting a cloud of steam that eddied among the iron trusses of the roof. The air-brakes settled back with a long, relieved hiss. The cars emptied streams of passengers; the ferry-station became as populous and busy as a disturbed ant-hill. Up the broad stairs and into the huge waiting-room the commuters poured, there to await the boat.
It was half-past nine in the morning. The earlier trains, laden with clerks and stenographers and the masses of early workers, had already relieved the traffic across the bay. The present contingent consisted chiefly of the more well-to-do business men, ladies bent on shopping in the city, and a scattering of sorts. Some clustered in a dense group by the door of the gangway, the better to rush on board and capture the favorite seats; the rest took to the settees and unfolded their morning papers, conversed, or watched the gathering throng.
The Overland from Chicago was already in, two hours late, and it had contributed to the assembly its delegation of dusty, tired tourists, laden with baggage, commercial travelers, curious and bold, with a few emigrants in outlandish costumes, prolific in children and impedimenta. Another roar, and the Alameda Local thundered into the shed and emptied its lesser load. The Berkeley train had arrived also, and the waiting-room was now well filled.
Through the glazed front of the hall the steamerPiedmontcame into view, entering the slip. It slid in quietly and was deftly tied up. The gang-plank was lowered and its passengers disembarked, filing through a passageway separated from the waiting throng by a fence. Then the heavy door slipped upward, the crowd made for the entrance and passed on board the boat. As each party stepped off the gang-plank some one would say, "Do you want to sit outside or inside?" The continual repetition of this question kept the after part of the deck echoing with the murmur.
Clytie Payson, finding all the best outside seats occupied, went into the great open cabin and sat down. The saloon soon filled. In a moment there was the creaking of the gang-plank drawbridge, a deep, hoarse whistle overhead, the jangle of a bell in the engine room, and the boat started, gathered way, and shot out into the bay. An Italian band started playing.
It was not long before her eyes, roving from one to another passenger, rested upon a couple across the way. Both looked jaded and distrait. They talked but little. The lady was crisp and fresh and glossy, in her blue serge suit and smart hat; her form was molded almost sumptuously—but there were soft, violet circles beneath her roaming eyes. She leaned back in her seat; her attitude had lost, in its California tendency to abandon, an imperceptible something of that erect, well-held poise that such corset-modeled, white-gloved creatures of fashion usually maintain. Clytie recognized her; it was Mrs. Page.
The young man Clytie did not know. He was a dapper, immaculate, pink-cheeked person, who leaned slightly nearer his companion than custom sanctions when he spoke an occasional playful word to her. In his gestures he often touched her arm, where, for a second his gloved hand seemed to linger affectionately. Mrs. Page gave him in return a flashing, ardent smile, then her eyes wandered listlessly.
Before Mrs. Page had a chance to notice her, Clytie arose and walked forward. Just outside the door she stopped upon the wind-swept deck for a moment to look about her. Above Goat Island, melting into the perfect bow of its profile, lay the crest of Tamalpais. The mountains surrounding the bay of San Francisco were wild and terrible, with naked brown slopes void of trees or grass. To the northwest they came down to the very edge of the water, tumbling precipitately, seamed with gulleys, forming the wall of the Golden Gate. Southward was smoke and haze; forward the peninsula loomed through murk. The whole aspect of the harbor was barren, chill, desolate. One felt that one was thousands of miles from civilization—in a land unique, grim, isolate, sufficient unto itself, shut off by sea and mountain from the great world. Yet it had its own strange beauty, and that charm which, once felt, endures for ever, the immortal lure of bigness, wideness, freedom of air and sky and water.
Clytie stood, holding her hat against the nimble breeze for a while, gazing at a flock of gulls that sailed alongside the boat, circling and screaming, then she turned and moved to the right and walked aft.
There was a young woman sitting in an angle of the seats, by the paddle-box. Her arm was resting on the rail and she was gazing down at the swirling rush of water. From her chic shepherd's plaid frock, so cunningly trimmed with red, so perfectly moulding her svelte form, it should have been Fancy Gray, Queen of Piedra Pinta. But it was a poor, tired Majesty, whose face was filled with infinite longing, whose traitor mouth was lax, whose head, bent sidewise, seemed too heavy to be held in its whilom spirited pose. She was off her guard; she had dropped the mask she was learning so painfully to bear.
[image]It was a poor tired Majesty
[image]
[image]
It was a poor tired Majesty
Clytie stepped in front of her. Fancy suddenly looked up. There was a moment when her face was like that of a child awakened from sleep, then, in a flash Fancy was alive again. First, confusion, then a look of pain, lastly an expectant, almost a suspicious expression passed over her face.
"Why, Miss Payson!" Fancy sat erect, and, by her tone, was immediately upon the defensive, waiting to find out what her welcome might be. "Won't you sit down?"
"Good morning, Miss Gray!" Clytie's voice was low and sympathetic.
Fancy took the proffered hand, grasped it for a brief moment and let it drop. Then she waited for Clytie to give her her cue. The eyes of the two women, having met, lingered without conflict. The serenity in Clytie's face melted Fancy's into a smile. A faint glow of pink began to creep up Clytie's neck and mantle her cheek. She took a seat.
"I'm so glad I found you," she began. "I had a queer feeling that I should meet some one pleasant, though I didn't know who it would be."
What was it that reassured Fancy? No man could have told. But that whatever fears she had entertained were dispelled was evident by the way her face softened, by the way her dimples came, by the way a saucy, amiable sprite looked from her eyes.
"I'm sorry I'm just out of blushes," she said, rallying swiftly, "but I'm as delighted as if I had as pretty a one as yours. Did you really want to see me?"
"I've been wanting to see you for some time."
"Why?"
"I've been thinking about you."
"Think of your wasting your time on me! Why, any one with your brains could think me to a finish in five minutes."
"I wanted to tell you something."
"Ihopeit's something sacred," said Fancy with a twinkle in her eyes. "I love to have people tell me their most sacred thoughts." She smiled like a spoiled child.
This was too much for Clytie, who laughed aloud. But she persisted. "I hope you won't think I'm trying to patronize you—"
"You look awfully pretty when you're patronizing; I don't mind it a bit."
"I'm afraid it's no use, you're incorrigible."
"That's a dandy word. I never thought of that. May I use it?"
"Willyou be serious?"
"You mustn't mind me," Fancy said. "I never could do that running throb in my voice. I've lost lots of things by not being able to cry to order. But I'll listen. What is it?"
"I know you've left Mr. Granthope's office."
"Oh, yes. I got tired of the routine there. It's awful to sit and watch women who come to hear themselves talked about. It got on my nerves. So I told Frank I'd have to quit or tell them the straight truth about themselves."
Clytie looked at her curiously for a moment. Fancy turned away from her glance. Clytie went on: "I wanted to see if I couldn't get you a position—perhaps with my father."
"Thank you, but I guess not." Fancy cast her eyes down. "I don't care to go to work just yet—I'm going to drift a while—it's awfully kind of you, though."
"Can't you come and stay with me a while? I thought I might teach you bookbinding and we could work together." Clytie herself was getting somewhat embarrassed.
Fancy shook her head. "Sometime I'll come and see you—but not now."
"Well, since Mr. Granthope has given up his business—"
Fancy changed in an instant; her frivolous manner fell off. She stared at Clytie in surprise.
"Oh! I didn't know that.Hashe?"
"Yes, he stopped last week."
Fancy's gaze drifted off to seaward. She was fighting something mentally. She turned her head away also. Finally she said, "I think I understand."
"I think not, quite," Clytie answered softly.
Fancy's eyes flashed back at her, brimming. "He gave it up on account ofyou, Miss Payson, I'm sure."
"He did, in a way, but it was not altogether my doing."
"I know!" Fancy leaned her head on her hand wearily. "You did for him what I never could do."
"I'm glad you wanted it." Clytie touched Fancy's hand, as it lay limp in her lap.
Instead of taking it, Fancy moved hers gently away. Then she roused herself. "Oh, Iamglad! I'msoglad, Miss Payson. He was too good for that—I always told him so. But you are the only woman who could have done that for him!"
"Indeed, you mustn't think that I did it. He did it for himself."
Fancy smiled wistfully. "I know Frank Granthope. And I know the sort of women he knew. I was one of them. And I could do nothing—nothing to help him!"
"Ah, I don't believe it! Youhavehelped him, I'm sure. I know by the way you speak now."
"Oh, I know what you think!" Fancy retorted impetuously. "You think that I am—that I was—in love with him. That's not true, Miss Payson, really it isn't. I never was. We were good friends, that's all. I'm not suffering from a broken heart or pining away, or anything like that. No secret sorrow for mine! But what's the use of trying to explain! It never does any good. I'm glad he's found a woman who's square and who's a thoroughbred like you! Why, Miss Payson, you canmakehim! I saw that long ago!"
She spoke in a hurried frenzy of denial. She seemed to feel the inadequacy of it in Clytie's eyes, however, and nerved herself again.
"You don't believe it, Miss Payson, but it's true! I give you my word that he's perfectly free. Of course, there was a sort of flirtation at first, there always is, you know, but I wasn't in earnest at all! I'm too afraid of Frank—I'm not in his class. And I know he's in love with you—I saw it from the first."
"Howcouldhe ever help loving such a frank, courageous, irresistible girl as you!" Clytie wondered.
"Miss Payson," Fancy said, avoiding her eyes, "there's a man I'm simply crazy about—I wish I could tell you more, but I can't explain. I never explain. But you can be sure that there's nothing doing with Frank, at any rate. I didn't intend to breathe it to a soul, but I know I can trust you—I'm really—" she drew a quick breath and her eyelids fluttered—"I'm—engaged, Miss Payson!"
Clytie was wearing, that day, a little gold chain from which hung a tiny swastika. As she listened, she unfastened it and took it off and threw it about Fancy's neck. Fancy stopped in surprise.
"Won't you let me give you this?" Clytie said eagerly. "Don't ask me why—I want you to have it and keep it for my sake. You know I have more jewelry than I can wear, but I have always been very fond of this little chain. It belonged to my mother."
Fancy's eyes filled suddenly and her lips parted. Her hand flew up to caress the chain affectionately. Then she cast down her eyes and a timid smile trembled on her lips.
"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.
As she looked off at the water she lifted the chain softly to her lips and kissed it. Then, loosening the collar of her waist, she allowed the chain to drop inside to hang touching her warm pink breast.
Then slowly she turned her head and showed Clytie a new expression, childlike, demure, embarrassed. Her eyes, fluttering, went from Clytie's eyes to Clytie's hair, to her slender, gracile hands. Then, with a wistful emphasis, she said:
"Miss Payson, do you think I'm pretty?"
There was no need, this time, for her to define the adjective.
"Do you want me to tell you exactly?" Clytie answered. "I never saw a woman yet to whom I couldn't tell her best points better than she could herself."
Fancy nestled a little nearer, warming herself at Clytie's smile. "I guess I can stand it. I'll try to be brave," she said.
Clytie looked her over critically.
"First, I'd say that your ears are the most deliciously shaped, cream-white, and the lobes are pure pink with a dab of carmine laid on as if with a brush. The hair behind them has curls like little claws clutching at your neck—and I don't blame them! Your cheeks look as if a rose-leaf had just been pressed against them."
"I believe I'm going to get the truth at last," Fancy murmured. "Oh, it takes a woman, don't it!" In spite of this jaunty speech the pink had grown to scarlet in her cheeks, and she turned her eyes away in a delighted, flattered embarrassment.
"Then, your mouth has a charming little dent at each corner, and your lips curve in a perfect bow, and the nick above is just deep and strong enough for a baby to want to put his little finger into. Your nose is fine and straight and delicate—I can see the light through the bridge of it, the skin is so transparent—like mother-o'-pearl. Your eyes are clear and child-like and the rarest, deepest, pellucid brown. There's a moist purple shadow above them, and a warmer brown tone below. Your lids crinkle and narrow your eyes like a kitten's. Your hands are as dewy-delicate as flowers—white above, faint rose in the palm, deepening almost to strawberry in the finger-tips."
Fancy had laid her head on her arm, upon the railing. When she at last lifted her eyes the tears trickled comically down her cheeks. "That's the first time a woman ever feazed me!" she said, snuffing, and feeling for her handkerchief. "I'll have to appoint you Court Flatterer!" She explained the sovereignty that she enjoyed amongst the Pintos. Clytie, amused, accepted the distinction conferred upon her.
Their talk ran on till the boat passed under the lee of Goat Island. It rose, a bare, bleak slope of hillside on the starboard side. Fancy watched the waters curdling below.
"Ugh!" she exclaimed. "It looks cold, don't it! I'd hate to be down there; it's so wet. Isn't it funny that suicides always jump overboard right opposite Goat Island? There seems to be some fascination about this place. And the bodies are never found. I suppose they drift out through the Gate. The tide runs awfully strong here, they say."
She removed her gaze with an effort, adding, "I hate to think of it! Let's come forward."
They rose and went to the space of deck below the pilot-house and stood by the rail. Already the tourists and emigrants were there, eager for a first glimpse of the city. San Francisco stretched before them, a long, pearl-gray peninsula, its profile undulating in a continuous series of hills. Along the water front was a mêlée of shipping; behind, the houses rose to the heaving, irregular sky-line where the blue was deep and cloudless. The streets showed as gashes, blocking the town off into parallel divisions. A few tall towers broke the monotony of the huddled, colorless buildings. They passed a ferry-boat bound for Oakland, and a foreign man-of-war lying at anchor, nosed by busy launches. ThePiedmontrang down to half-speed, then the vibrations of the paddle wheels stopped as she shot into the slip. There was a surge of back-water, a rattling of chains and ratchets, the cables were fastened and the apron lowered. The crowd surged forward and poured off the boat. At the front of the Ferry Building Fancy stopped, offering her hand.
"Good-by," she said genially. "You've done me more good than a Picon punch. I'm going home to wear my looking-glass out."
"You'll never see half I do," Clytie replied, shaking her head.
"That's because I haven't got such fine eyes," countered Fancy.
"I think mine are never so pretty as when they have a little image of you in them."
Fancy gave up the duel. "Well, I guess I'd better go quick before you raise that! You play nothing but blue chips, and I can't keep up!"
Clytie walked up Market Street alone. She turned into Geary Street at the group of tall newspaper buildings by Lotta's fountain, and in ten minutes was knocking at Granthope's office door. There being no response she descended the stairs, crossed the street and went into the square to wait for him upon a bench beside the soldiers' monument.
There were two young women at the other end of the seat. One, scarcely more than a girl, was pretty, in a demure, timid way; she was freckled and tanned, her clothes were simple and neat. The other was of a coarser grain, full-lipped, large-handed, painted and powdered, with hard eyes and large features. She wore several cheap rings, and her finery made her soiled and wrinkled garments look still more vulgar. Clytie gave the two a glance and took no further interest in them until she caught the mention of Granthope's name.
She turned, astonished, to see the younger woman looking seriously at the other. There was a charming earnestness in her face, and, though her lower lip drooped tremulously, it was not weak; nor was her chin, nor her nose, nor the gracefully reliant poise of her head.
"You ought to go see him, Kate!" she was saying. "I tell you he's a wonder! Why, if I hadn't gone there I don't know where I'd be now. I know one thing, I wouldn't be married. Why, when Bill was out in the Philippines and didn't write, I thought I'd lay down and die! I waited about two months, and then I took five dollars I saved up for one of them automobile coats they was all wearing, and I went to see Granthope. What d'you think?—he wouldn't take a cent off me! That's the kind of a man Granthope is! He said it would be all right and Bill would come back and marry me. But I tell you, I had to do most of the courting!"
"You did, did you? Do you mean to say you run after a man like that—without any nose? I never see such a face in my life! If he'd only wear a patch or something it wouldn't be so bad," commented her companion.
"Bill wouldn't do it; he's too proud. Nobody's ashamed of having only one leg or one arm, why should they be of having a nose gone?"
"What did you think when you first see him, though? Wan't it disgusting, kind of?" her companion asked, making a sour face.
"Why, I was so proud of him that I didn't see anything but a man who loved me and who had fought for his country! But it was some time before Ididsee him, though. He did his best not to let me."
"How did you ever find him?"
"Why, finally Mr. Granthope located Bill down at Santa Barbara. He was working as a gardener on a place a little ways out of town. Bill's captain give me the money to get down there. I guess I cried pretty near all the way, thinking of Bill hiding out like a yellow dog without any friends. Finally I found the place. Bill was living up in a room over the stable."
She paused. "Go on!" said her companion. The woman's voice had changed somewhat. There was something more than curiosity in its tone. Fleurette was looking down, now, fingering her jacket. Suddenly she began to breathe heavily.
"Bill had a little dog named Dot. A fox terrier, it was. Bill says he thought it was the only living thing that didn't despise him on account of his looks. He was awful fond of Dot. So was I, you bet. Dot's dead, now." She put a handkerchief to her eyes.
"Well, I was dead tired. I'd walked all the way from the station. I was pretty hungry, too. I couldn't afford to get dinner on the train, and I couldn't wait to stop to eat in Santa Barbara. And I was good and trembly—because—well, I hadn't seen Bill for over a year. I stumbled up the stairs and knocked on the door, and when Bill heard my voice he wouldn't let me in. I heard him groan—O, God! it almost broke my heart! He called through the door for me to go away. He said he didn't love me any more. Of course I knew he was lying. I didn't know what to do. Bill's got an awful strong will. I didn't know how to make him believe I didn't care how he looked. I just sat down on the stairs and begun to cry. Then Dot begun to whine and scratch on the door. Bill couldn't standthat. He swore at him and kicked him. It was the only time he ever struck him, but Dotwouldn'tbudge and kept scratching on the door. It was terrible. So Bill wrapped a towel round his face and opened the door. I just fell in his arms. But he put me away from him and said he wouldn't curse my life, and that I must go away."
The other girl was staring at her, awed. "What did you do?" she whispered.
"Oh, I ran up to him again, and pulled off the towel and I kissed him." She spoke almost impersonally.
Kate kindled, now. "Oh, Fleurette, did you? Gee, you were game!" She giggled somewhat hysterically. "Lucky his mouth wasn't shot off, wasn't it?"
Fleurette gazed off across the green and spoke as to one who knew not of life's realities, saying, simply:
"Oh, I didn't kiss him on the mouth, Kate—there was plenty of time for that! I kissed him right where that Moro bullet had wounded him!"
Kate shook her head slowly. "I guess you done right!" she said. Then, "Say, I'd like to see Bill again, Fleurette."
Clytie arose, gave the girl one swift glance as she left, and walked away. She had met two heroines that day, and her nerves were vibrating like tense strings. She walked up and down the square, keeping her eyes on Granthope's doorway.
In half an hour she saw him striding up Geary Street. She followed him rapidly, ran up the stairs and knocked again at his door. He opened it and took her instantly into his arms. She lay there without speaking, and there was a blessed interval of silence after his kiss.
The stimulating newness of possession thrilled him. She was still strange, mysterious, of a different caste, and there was something deliriously fearful in this familiarity as she lay captive, unresisting, trembling in his embrace. He had set his trap for a sparrow and caught a bird of paradise. He knew his power over her, now, though he dared not test it. He dreaded to break the spell of her wonderful condescension, her royal grace and favor. He was in no hurry to remove her crown and scepter; the piquancy of his romance fascinated him.
She broke away from him with a gentle insistence, and looked at him, rosy and smiling. "I'm afraid I'm just like all other women, after all—and I'm glad of it!" she confessed, as she readjusted her hat and sank into the arm-chair to look up at him fondly.
"I don't suppose you realize how strange it seems for me to act this way?" she said. "No man has ever held me in his arms before. I have never thought of the possibility of it—even with you. All that sort of demonstration has been inhibited—I have always wondered if I had any passion in me. Of course, when I kissed you the other time it was different—it was the seal of a compact. But this time it seemed so natural that I didn't think. This is the end of my virginal serenity for ever. I think you have awakened me at last!"
She broke into happy laughter. "Did I do it well, dear? I'm ashamed to think how inexperienced I am—and you have known so many cleverer women. If you call me amateurish, I'll slay you! But I think I shall be an apt pupil, though. Francis, stop laughing at me, or I'll go home!"
Her naïveté was breaking up that glorified seraphic vision he had held of her and put her more nearly on his level, or, perhaps, raised him to her. He let his wonder fade slowly. However, with all his customary audacity he could not yet match her mood. She saw his reserve and took a woman's delight in wooing him.
"Must I convince you that I am flesh and blood?" she exclaimed with spirit. "And you—the lady-killer—the hero of a hundred victories—you don't seem to know that you have me at your feet! Nor how proud I am of it!"
Then she jumped up and took his hands in hers softly. "You must be very good to me, Francis, dear, for I'm simple and ignorant compared to the women you've known, I suppose. But I'm a woman, after all. I don't want to be worshiped. I want the tenderness of an honest man's love, such as other women have. I want my divine birthright. I've been aloof from men all my life. That doesn't make me any less desirable, does it? I've never met a man who answered my demands. You do, or you will before I'm through with you. Don't think I'm going to be all moonshine and vapors. I'm going to love you till stars dance in the heavens! That's what you get for wakening me, my friend! I've been asleep, floating in dreams. I want a man's strength and chivalry and audacity and vigor and romance, instead of the painted shadows I've known. Aren't you afraid of me?" She dropped her head to his shoulder.
He needed no further hint. He put away her halo and her crown, he drew the ermine from her, and the vision in her eyes was made manifest. But it was still too new for her to more than sip at the cup of delight; she would take her happiness by epicurean inches. So she slid away and evaded him, putting the chair half-mockingly between them.
"My father has forbidden me to come down here to see you," she said. "It's really quite romantic. But of course I told him I should come, nevertheless, so we can't quite call it clandestine. He'll never dare ask me if I've been here. He's quite afraid of me, when I insist upon having my own way."
"Have you said anything about Madam Spoll and Vixley to him?"
"Yes, but that's no use. They certainly seem to have given him some wonderful tests—I don't see how they could have done so well—and he's absolutely convinced. I don't see what we can do, unless we wait for them to go too far and arouse his suspicions. I can't think he's feeble-minded. They're making him pay, though that's the least of the matter."
"I have had an idea that I might get hold of one of the gang—a Doctor Masterson—and induce him to sell them out. He's a turncoat, and if he only knows enough about their game he could be bribed."
"I must leave it to you, Francis. I don't like that method, exactly, but we must do what we can. Perhaps it will settle itself. We can do nothing yet, at any rate. To-day I've come down to ask you to invite me to lunch, please!"
"With pleasure—only, if I must confess—I don't know that I can offer you a very good one. Wait I'll see how much money I have left." He felt doubtfully in his pocket, and added, "Oh, that's all right, we can go to the Palace."
Clytie was instantly suspicious. "How much have you?"
"Quite enough."
"Answer me, sir!"
"About twelve dollars."
She gasped. "Do you mean to say that'sallyou have left?"
"Everything. But my rent is paid for a month in advance."
"Have you any debts?"
"Naturally. Two hundred dollars or so, that's all."
She came up to him and worked her finger into his buttonhole. "Francis Granthope," she said solemnly, "are you really—ruined?" Her eyes danced.
"Oh, I've got enough junk in my chamber to pay that off, I expect, but it won't leave me exactly affluent."
She burst into a delicious chime of laughter. "Why, it's positively melodramatic, isn't it? I never happened to know any one who was actually bankrupt before. Of course it must happen, sometimes, but somehow I thought people could always raise some money, even if they had to scrimp. How exciting it is—aren't you nervous about it? Why, I'd be frightened to death! And yet it seems terribly amusing!"
He laughed with her. "I can't seem to take it very seriously, while you're with me, at any rate. To tell the truth, I haven't begun to think about it yet. Of course my fees have always been in cash, and consequently there's nothing coming in. And I've always spent every cent I made, and a little more. But I've been broke before, and it doesn't alarm me, except that, of course, I can't depend upon living by my wits in quite the same way as I would have, if I hadn't chucked that sort of thing. If I didn't care how I did it, I suppose I could make a hundred or so a week easily enough."
She listened and grew more serious. "Of course that's all over. But you've got to have money! Let's see what I have with me." She took her purse from her bag and emptied it upon the desk. Several ten- and twenty-dollar gold pieces rolled out.
Granthope shook his head sharply. "No, don't do that, please! I can't take anything, even as a loan, you know. I can't spend a cent I haven't honestly earned—I never shall again, if I have to starve, which I don't intend to do, either. You must know that."
"But from me—isn't that different?"
"Not even from you!"
"Of course you mustn't. I see. It's better not to, yet somehow I could have forgiven you if you had let me help a little at first. I don't exactly see how you're going to live. Why, it's awful, when you come to think of it, isn't it? It really is serious. What a goose I've been! I'm afraid I shall worry about you now. Well, you'll have to have lunch withmeto-day, anyway. That's only fair, if I invite you."
"On the contrary, I'm going to invite you to share my humble meal."
"All right; let's be reckless then, if youmustbe proud and show off. It will be fun. I never economized in my life, but now I'm going to show you how. Hand over all your wealth, please."
She counted it out upon the desk, a five dollar piece, six silver dollars and two halves and a few nickels. "Now," she said, "how long can we make this last—a week?"
"I've lived for three weeks on that much, often, and paid for my room."
"Something's bound to happen within ten days, I'm sure. If you see nothing ahead at the end of a week, I'll put you on half-rations, and till then I'll allow you a dollar a day. Shall I keep it for you?"
He was delighted to have a treasurer.
"Now we'll take fifty cents and go to some nice dairy place and sit on a stool."
But, as he insisted upon a place where they could talk in quiet, they went, instead, to a shady little restaurant around the corner, and there they seriously discussed his prospects.
He did so whimsically. It was really absurd that he, in full health, six feet high and a hundred and seventy pounds in weight, at twenty-eight, could do nothing, so far as he knew, to support himself honestly. He had been a parasite upon the vanity of fools. After much casting about for ideas, she sent for anExaminerand began to search through the "Help Wanted; Male" column.
The Barber's College she rejected first, although he pointed out the advantageous fact that it offered "wages while learning." Canvassing for books or watches they both agreed was not interesting enough. Boot-black—he raised his eyebrows in consideration, she shook her head energetically; it was too conspicuous, with these open-air sidewalk stands. She turned up her nose, also, at the idea of his distributing circulars. The Marine Corps tempted him next—but no, she couldn't think of sparing him for three years, not to speak of a girl in every port. She asked him what a job-press feeder was; he didn't know, but he was sure he couldn't do it—it would be all he could do to feed himself. Profiler—if he could make as good a profile as Clytie's now, he might get that job. But it appeared to be something connected with a machine-shop. He looked at his white hands and smiled. Weavers, warpers and winders—equally mysterious and impossible. The rest of the wants were for mechanics and tradesmen. Clytie dropped the paper, disappointed.
He declined to let the matter disturb him, as yet. He had no fear of the future, and the present was too charming not to be enjoyed to the full.
"What I've always wanted to do," he said, "is to study medicine. If I could get money enough ahead to put myself through a medical school, I wouldn't mind beginning even at my age. I think I'm fitted for that, for I've cultivated my powers of observation and I know a good deal about human nature, and I've read everything I could lay my hands on. Some day I shall try that."
"Very well, Doctor Granthope, I shall make up my mind to being a doctor's wife, and being rung up at all hours, and being alone half the time."
"I wasn't aware that I had proposed yet," he answered jocosely.
"Why, people don't propose, now, do they? Not real people. What a Bromide you are!" she laughed joyously.
"I'll have to disprove that. Let's spend the rest of the afternoon out of doors and get acquainted! Then when I have a good chance I'll ask if you'll be my wife. Do you realize how little we know of one another? It's ridiculous. Why, you may have a middle name for all I know! You may eat sugar on canteloupe or vinegar on your oysters; you may be an extraordinary mimic; you may have escaped sudden death; you may have been engaged when you were seventeen; you may sulk; you may mispronounce my favorite words! How do I know but you like magenta and Germans and canary birds, and wear Jaegers; and object to profanity and nicknames, and say 'well-read' and read thePhilistine!"
"Good Lord, deliver us! That's a devil's liturgy!" In denial of his categories she held him out her palm. "Oh, you should know me by that right hand! You're supposed to be a trained observer of symptoms and stigmata.You'rethe one who needs investigation! Do you realize what a risk I am running? Why, I haven't yet heard you speak to a dog, or answer a beggar, or seen you eat a banana, or watch a vaudeville show—and all four are necessary before I really know you."
She bent her head in mock humility and looked up at him from beneath her golden lashes. "You needn't be afraid, Francis; if you tell me what your rules are, I'll obey them. If youreallywant me to wear magenta, I shall be terribly fond of it, and I shall only think I've been stupid all my life to loathe it, and be so glad to learn. But I hope you don't!"
"If you'll allow me five cents for dessert," he said as seriously, "I'll order bananas, at the risk of losing you for ever."
They had begun now to revel in the piquancy of the situation. Their meetings had, up to this time, seemed fatal in their dramatic sequence, fraught with meaning, working steadily up to the climax in the studio. There had been few scenes between them, but those scenes had been cumulative in feeling. They had played their parts like actors in a play of destiny, a play whose plot had been closely knit and esthetically economical in incident and dialogue, each act developing logically the previous situation. Now that the tension was released, and the reaction had come after an histrionic catastrophe, each looked at the other with new eyes, seeking the living person under the tragic mask.
In this delightful pursuit they came upon such fantastic surprises, such rare coincidences, such lovely similarities of whim and taste and prejudice, and, above all, such a rare harmony in their points of view on life, that their talk was as exciting as if they had just met for the first time. The talk ran on, back and forth, lively with continual revelation. It came out, not in dominating trends of thought, or principled opinions, but in many charming lesser exemplifications of their mutual fastidiousness. She reached for a plate, and his hand was outstretched to give it to her at precisely the same instant—their fingers touched, and their eyes spoke in delighted surprise. He discovered that she, like himself, took no sugar in her coffee, and on that consanguinity of taste an imaginative structure arose, to be destroyed with equal delight when he found that she was resisting a temptation to use cream. She quoted spontaneously a line from Stevenson that, for no reason whatever, he had always loved: "For to my mind one thing is as good as another in this world, and a shoe of a horse will do." She knew his language, he fulfilled her test. Such were their tiny psychological romances at table.
They had reversed the usual order of progression in their friendship, or rather Fate had reversed it for them. Had they become betrothed in the ancient manner without previous knowledge of one another, their position could have been no more alluring and delicate, for, strangers physically and, to an extent, mentally, their intimacy of spirit was as certain and irrevocable as a blood relationship. They played with a series of little embarrassments.
To-day they had changed their characteristic parts; he was timid, as he had never been timid with women. She was bold, as she had never been bold with men. The primitive woman had come to life in her. They were, however, both of that caste which can notice, analyze and discuss the subtleties of such a condition while still enjoying it to the full. It delighted them to glean the nuances and overtones of that harmony. It was a new experience to Granthope to be with one who understood and was sensitive to the secondary and tertiary thrills of delight without having become hyper-refined out of vibration with the primal note of passion. That sharing of the wonderful first fruits with her, mentally as well as physically and spiritually, kept his appetite for her whetted to a keen edge. He could not get enough of her from sight or hearing, and each touch of her hand became a perilously exciting event, a little voyage of poetic adventure.
They were both learning swiftly the art of loving, but, though one goes far in the first sensational lessons, one can not go all the way, no matter how reckless is the attempt. Passion has to be adjusted to tenderness, and affection to experience, or there is discord. For her, perhaps, that love held more of faery, more freshness and delicious abandon, more mystery, for her nerves had never been dulled by contact; but for him there were newer and truer wonders as well. He had taken another degree in sentiment, and the initiation was as marvelous for him, an apprentice, as for her, a neophyte. And, in that sacred, secret lodge, when the time came, she would jump in a single intuitive moment to his level and surpass him.
Already she was tuned to the emotional pitch; she would notice every false move, every mistake in his devotion, as well as if she had been with him past-master in the rites of love. She could already teach him, and already she began to hold him back sensitively, to linger over every transient mood of feeling, every minor phase which women, in that stage between wooing and winning, so care to taste to the last sweet drop. Every reflex, every echo, she would bid him answer to, indefinitely prolonging, now that she was sure of him, the fineness of the reward of her moment, delaying the definite end. He had taught her the rapture of a caress—she would teach him the excitement of a smile, a tone, a gesture.
They lingered long at the table and then went forth into the sun. The cable-car carried them, still bantering, to the gate of the Presidio, and they set out rollicking across the golf-links. The open downs stretched in front of them in long, sweeping lines, like the ground swells of the sea, skirted to the north by groves of cypress and eucalyptus trees. Beyond, to the west, the ground grew sandy as it approached the ocean, and from that direction a sea-breeze sailed, salt and strong. Behind them was Lone Mountain, with its huge cross on top, and from there in a scattering quadrant a multitude of little houses, the outskirts of the city, skirmished towards the park. The turf was hard and smooth as a carpet, burned, here and there, in patches of black, but elsewhere of a pastel green, colored by the hardier weeds that had sustained the drought and fought their way through the matted, sunburned stalks of dry grass.
Dipping down through a wide, sandy hollow, tangled with fuzzy undergrowth, they climbed up again, making for a shoulder of the hill where the road curved sharply round the summit. They were alone in the world, now; no one was in sight, at least, and the glory of this free space of earth and air brought them as near to one another as if they had regained childhood. Clytie's hat was off, and her hair wantoned over her forehead and neck. She gave him her joyous laughter unrestrained, and he listened as to a song, and attempted by every wile he knew to provoke it again and again. If she had been high-priestess before, now she was pixie, and he was, at first, almost as afraid of her in this new guise. He explored a new world with her, as Adam did with Eve. As Adam did with Eve, he marveled at her.
It came to him, as they walked, that what had kept them apart, mentally, was an odd lack of humor. He saw how his whole life had been a pose towards himself as well as towards the world, repressing what now, the costume and custom gone, would come forth bubbling without care. He had kept a straight face so long! What mirth he had felt, in presence of his dupes, had been strained fine, escaping in the corner of a smile, while he fashioned his glib phrases. It had been a preacher's sobriety, the sedateness of priest-craft, aging him prematurely. She held him her hands now down the years, back to decent, cleanly fun. To his surprise he found that he could give full vent to it. He could laugh aloud, and need not study effects and poses; he need not impress her. His wit was clumsy; it even approached silliness, in its first runaway impulse, but he at least lost his self-consciousness. He followed her merriment, and they discovered nonsense together.
So, jollying, they tramped up to the road and came suddenly upon the sea, flaming, peacock blue, at the foot of the cliff which fell almost vertically at their feet. Across the dancing waves, from a coast like Norway's, Point Bonita arose, guarding the Golden Gate. At the end of a semicircular cove to their left a ragged cliff jutted into the channel; behind its promontory the hills rolled back.
She gave a cry of joy and happiness and sat down on the verge of the bluff to feast upon the view. He dropped beside her and took her hand. An automobile whirred past them and she did not flinch. There he underwent a revulsion of feeling.