Part 27

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 melee 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. The _Piedmont_ rang 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 I _did_ see 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 stand _that_. He swore at him and kicked him. It was the only time he ever struck him, but Dot _wouldn't_ budge 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 naivete 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's _all_ you 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 with _me_ to-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 you _must_ be 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 an _Examiner_ and 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 the _Philistine_!"

"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're_ the 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 you _really_ want 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.