Part 26

As he held the two slates together in his hand, the false sheet from the upper one fell into the frame of the lower. He laid the two upon the table and took off the top one. The lower surface upon which the writing was now exposed he took care to hold so that it could not be seen. Next, he took the slip of paper which Mr. Payson had been holding, substituted for it with a deft motion the written question which he had previously palmed, and, throwing the blank into his lap, dropped the real one, with a small fragment of slate-pencil, upon the slate. He put the written slate on top of the other, writing down, then asked the old man to hold it in position, laying his own fingers upon it as well. A faint scratching was heard. It was too dark for the old man to notice the slight motions of Vixley's finger-nail upon the surface. After a moment he removed the top slate and showed the writing, then, unfolded the slip.

Mr. Payson looked at the inscription with curiosity and surprise. "Marvelous!" he exclaimed. "Why, it's incredible. I didn't know it could be done as simply as that. Why, all three of my questions are answered and they haven't left my possession."

"You seem to have a very strong control. Are the answers correct?"

"I'll soon find out," said Mr. Payson, "if you'll raise the shades while I look at this book." He cut the strings of a package he had brought into the room, showed his copy of the _Astrology of the New Testament_ and turned to page one hundred.

"Here it is, 'Chapter IX.' It's most extraordinary, indeed! Now for the number of my watch. Do you know, I didn't even know these answers myself. That would tend to prove it's not mere telepathy, wouldn't it?"

He took out his watch and opened the back covers. Upon the frame were engraved the figures "801,101."

"That's correct, too. Now for the last one--have you a telephone?"

"Right down at the end of the hall."

"If you'll excuse me a moment I'll ring up a friend of mine who will know whether this is the right name or not."

In five minutes he returned with an expression of wonder upon his face. "I wanted to make sure that this couldn't be got from my mind, so I asked a friend of mine to select a name for me. It seems that Marigold was the name. This is a most wonderful and convincing test, Mr. Vixley; I must say that I'm amazed."

The Professor took his praise modestly. "Oh, I hope to do much better for you than this after a while, Mr. Payson. The main point is, that now we can get to work in such a way as to help you practically, without wastin' your time on mere experiments. These test conditions is very apt to deteriorate mediumship and I don't like to do no more of it than is absolutely necessary to convince you of the genuineness of my manifestations.

"Now," he added, "before we draw down the shades again, you write down some important question you want answered and we'll get down to business."

When Mr. Payson had finished writing, the medium, taking a slip of paper from his vest pocket unobserved, held it under the table, saying:

"Now you fold it twice, each time in half." As Payson did so, Vixley folded his own slip in a similar manner and held it palmed in his left hand. After drawing the shades, he said: "Now, then, will you please hold that paper to your forehead? Not like that--here, let me show you."

He took the slip from Mr. Payson and dexterously substituting for it his own duplicate, held it to his own forehead. "This way, so that it will be in plain sight all the time." He gave the blank slip to his sitter, who obeyed the directions.

"I think we'll do better if there's less light," Vixley said, as he arose to draw the shades. "You keep hold of that paper. I don't want it to go out of your possession for a moment. You see I couldn't read it even if I had it, it's so dark. But if you'll excuse me, I'll light this cigar; I haven't had a smoke all day."

As he spoke, he went to the bookcase, and standing, facing Mr. Payson, he took a match from a box on the top and lighted the cigar which was between his teeth. His left hand, which had already secretly unfolded the ballot, covered the paper. He put it up with a natural gesture to keep the match from being blown out as he lighted his cigar. The operation took only a few seconds, but in that time, illuminated by the match, he was able to read the words: "Will my book be a success?" He dropped his hand, refolded the ballot with his fingers and held it hidden. Then he took two slates from the pile.

There are many well-known ways of slate-writing, and the sleight-of-hand necessary in obtaining the ballots and writing the answers is simple compared with the sort of psychological juggling in which the medium must be an adept. Professor Vixley, however, had no need of any special craft with the old man. Mr. Payson was by no means a skilled observer, and, credulous and desirous of a marvel, was easily hoodwinked by Vixley's talk. The simplest methods sufficed, and he worked with increasing confidence, preparing his sitter's mind, till it would be possible for the medium merely to sit at the table and write openly under the supposititious influence of his control.

The second experiment terminated with the appearance of the message that Flora Flint had read in the front room, the message signed "Felicia."

Mr. Payson read the communication with a frown. "That's bad," he said, "I'm very sorry to find that this answer isn't favorable."

"What's the matter?" the Professor asked sympathetically.

"Well, you see, I may as well tell you that I'm writing a book, Professor," said Mr. Payson, wiping his spectacles, "and, of course, I am anxious that it should be a success. It seems from this that there is likely to be some trouble about it--I don't quite understand how."

Vixley tipped back in his chair with his hands in his pockets. "I thought you looked like an intellectual-minded man. O' course, it wan't my place to ask no questions, but when you come in I sized you up as a party who wan't entirely devoted to a pure business life. So you've written a book, eh? Well, I'm sure my control could help you. I'll ask him, and see what's to be done. But for that, I think we'll be more liable to be successful at automatic writin' than by independent slate-writin'. It's more quicker and satisfactory all round."

"How do you suppose the spirits can help?" said Mr. Payson.

"Why," said Vixley, "all sorts o' ways. It's like this: I don't know nothing about your book, but I do know what's happened before. Take Gibbon's _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, for instance. He predicted that there wouldn't never be no more wars--he claimed we'd outlived the possibility of it, and everything would be settled peaceably. What happened? Why, Napoleon arose inside o' fifty years and they was wars like never had been seen on earth. Now, if Gibbon had only been able to put himself in communication with the spirit intelligence, he wouldn't have made that mistake--the spirits would have told him what was goin' to happen. Look at Voltaire! He went on record by sayin' that in fifty years they wouldn't be no more churches. Now he's a ridicule and a by-word amongst Christian people. If he'd only consulted the spirit-plane he wouldn't have made a fool of hisself. But, o' course, spiritualism wan't heard of then no more than Voltaire's heard of now. Now let's say, for example, you was writin' a book on evolution ten years ago, thoroughly believin' in Darwin's theory o' the origin of species. Up to that time nobody believed that a new specie had been evolved since man. But look at this here Burbank up to Santa Rosa--he has gone to work and produced some absolutely new species, and what's more, I predicted his success in this very room ten years ago. If you'd written on evolution then, you might have taken advantage o' what I could have gave you. Now, for all I know, some man may come along and breed two different animals together, p'raps through vivisection or what not, and develop a bran' new kind of specie in the animal world. Heart disease and cancer and consumption are supposed by modern science to be incurable, but I wouldn't venture to write that down in a book till I had taken the means at my disposal o' findin' out whether they was or wasn't."

He arose and let up the window-shades; the level rays of the sunshine illuminated his figure and burnished his purpling coat. He shook his finger at Mr. Payson, who was listening open-mouthed, impressed with the glib argument.

"Now, my control is Theodore Parker. You've heard of him--p'raps you knew him. You wouldn't hesitate to ask his advice if he was still on the flesh plane, for he was a brainy man; how much more, now he's passed out and gone beyond, into a fuller development and comprehension of the universe! I don't know what your subject is, but whatever it is, he can help and he will help. I'm sure o' that. It's for you to say whether you'll avail yourself of his guidance or not. I can give you all the tests you want, but I tell you, you're only wastin' your time, while you might be in daily communication with one of the grandest minds this country and this century has produced. I can get into communication with him and give you his messages by means of automatic writin', or I can develop you so's you can do it yourself."

Professor Vixley's victim had ceased to struggle, and, caught inextricably in the web so artfully woven, gazed, fascinated, into the eyes of the spider who was preparing to suck his golden blood.

*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 steamer _Piedmont_ came 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.

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."

"I _hope_ it'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?"

"_Will_ you 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. _Has_ he?"

"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 of _you_, 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, I _am_ glad! I'm _so_ glad, 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! You _have_ helped 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 can _make_ him! 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."

"How _could_ he 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."