Part 28

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.

"How can you love me?" he said bitterly. "What good am I? I have no capacity, no prospects, no purpose, even! I am a mere negative, and if I loved you I should free you from the incubus."

"Do you recall reading the palm of a girl whose lover in the Philippines refused to write to her?" she asked. "It happened about the time I first knew you, I think."

He nodded, watching a tug towing a bark out through the Gate, and she told him what she had heard of Fleurette's story that morning. It was no slight relief to him to think that he had helped some one, though his assistance had been based upon deceit.

"Don't you see?" she said. "Don't you understand how women love? It makes no difference how poor or how dishonored a man may be, if she loves him her happiness must be with him."

"Oh, a physical deformity is easy enough to forget. But how about a moral one? You'll be the wife of an outcast."

"If you refused to accept my love, if you left me, now, you would be inflicting a far greater pain than any gossip could ever give me."

"The mere problem of living appals me," he went on gloomily. "I would never think twice of it, if I were alone. But you know what a coward marriage makes of one."

She laughed in his face. "I'll be your first patient, Doctor Granthope, and I'll pay you well!"

"If there was some way of getting that money of Madam Grant's. I've never even thought of trying to claim it, but perhaps I might go up to Stockton and inquire about it. Of course, there's no fear of being accused of stealing it, now. But even if I had it, I don't know whether or not it would be right to use it myself."

"You might at least borrow it for a while, but for my own part I'm convinced that it's yours. There's no reason why the bank should have the use of it for nothing. I wish we could clear up that matter of Madam Grant."

They set out again, she with a buoyant tread, willowy and strong. It was not till her muscles relaxed that her characteristic, dreamy languor was apparent, and this trait was slowly disappearing under the influence of the new interest in her life. It was as if she had found, now, what she, in her former quiescent moods, had been watching and waiting for, and Granthope's presence stimulated her with energy. She was almost coquettish with him at times, now, the mood alternating with a noble frankness, the boldness of a gambler who has cast all hardily upon a single stroke. She was not afraid of being seen with him. She gave him herself in every word and glance. A casual observer could have read her fondness for him.

They went along the road, skirting the water, past the battery emplacements and disappearing guns, over a low hill toward the Fort. From this side the Bay opened to them, and beyond lay line on line of mountains, growing hazier in the distance, to the north and east. They had regained their spirits with this exercise, and talked again freely as boy and girl. He noticed with amusement and delight how she edged, unconsciously, nearer and nearer him. If he crossed the road, she came to him, without perceiving the regularity of it, as the armature comes to the magnet. She nearly forced him into the wall, or off the walk, in her unthinking pursuit of him, so strongly he attracted her. She blushed furiously when he spoke of it--it was so droll that he could not help mentioning it--but that comment did not cure her. She was over by his side, rubbing elbows as unaffectedly the next instant. How could she help it, when he kept his eyes on her as he did? she said. So, along the shore by the Life Saving Station, up to the parade ground and the barracks, then by a climb up the steep, narrow, tree-grown path to the corner gate of the reservation they sported.

That was the first of a series of outings they had together that week. The Golden Gate Park, Sutro's forest and the beach were each explored in turn, and while still within the limits of the city they tasted of country, mountain and shore, and let the days fly by. Clytie brought the luncheon, and they ate it, picnic fashion, under the blue sky. She kept strict account of his finances, and as his small capital dwindled they came back to his plans for the future. He met her, one day, with news.

"I think I shall have to go to work, after all," he said. "I've got a position."

She congratulated him, not without a shade of sorrow that their holidays were to end.

"It's too much like my old work to be very proud of, but it's a step up. It's founded on vanity, but this time I shall exploit my own instead of others'. I'm going on the stage. I've found my name is worth something."

She was a little disappointed and he was not surprised. "Oh, I'll soon become unbearable, I suppose. Most of the time I don't spend in front of the make-up glass looking at myself, I'll spend being looked at, trying to propitiate an audience. It's a school of egoism. But at least my pose will be honest. I saw the stage manager of the _Alcazar_, and I'm going to begin to rehearse next Monday."

He spoke banteringly, but she felt the truth of his jests. Still, it would provide for the present. It would make him more than ever notorious--but it was better than idleness.

The next day at ten o'clock she appeared at the studio to spend the day with him. It was Wednesday, and they were anxious to make the most of what time remained.

Except for his bed, table and bureau, his chamber was empty now, all his effects having been sold at auction. The sum received barely sufficed to pay off his debts. The studio, too, was bare, and placards hung outside both doors indicating that the premises were to let. The little office, however, was left as usual, except for the casts of hands, put away in the closet, and in this room they stayed by the open fire.

He was looking over his card catalogue as she entered. He had conceived the plan of writing a book on palmistry along new lines, in which he might embody his observations and theories. His aim was to attempt to correlate chirography, chiromancy, phrenology, physiognomy and all those sciences and pseudo-sciences which seek to interpret character through specialized individual characteristics, and to trace the evidences from one to another, showing how each element or indication would recur in every manifestation of a person's individuality, and how one symptom might be inferred and corroborated by another. It would take time and trouble, but he could spend his leisure upon it. The plan was tentative and hypothetical, but so suggestive that he was becoming interested in proving its verification. Clytie was enthusiastic about the book and desirous of helping him. He was becoming less afraid of her, and more sure of himself, after their days together, and he greeted her boldly enough, now. Yet there was still a fascinating novelty in his possession of her that made his familiarity seem like recklessness. Not for her, however. Once having given him her lips she could never refuse them again, nor could she longer think the action strange.

She took off her coat and hat, tucked in an errant curl or two over her ears and seated herself luxuriously in the arm-chair. As she had played with him, so now she worked with him, arranging his notes, dictating for him to write, or stopping to discuss the subject. She was too adorable in all this assumption of importance and seriousness for him not to interrupt her occupation more than once, for which diversion of her attention he was sent back promptly to his desk. The business kept them so employed for two hours, when she opened her package, brought forth their luncheon and brewed a pot of tea on the hearth.

"Francis," she said, after that was over, "do you know we are actually becoming acquainted? Isn't it too bad!"

"Don't you enjoy the process?"

"Decidedly I do. That's why I regret that it must soon be over."

"I doubt if we'll ever finish--if we do, it will be still more delightful to know you. And this process brings us toward that beautiful consummation."

"Yes, but this part is so pleasant. I hate to see it go. I want to roll it over on my tongue. Now, every word you say is a revelation and a surprise--a surprise that I have been anticipating all my life, if you'll pardon the bull. It's like unwrapping a mummy--I get excitedly nearer and nearer my ideal of you."

"But there's no satisfaction in opening doors if one can't go in."

"Ah, there's the immortal difference between a man and a woman! Most men want a marvel, patent and notorious. They want to come to the end of the rainbow and find the pot of gold; that's all, whether that means a kiss or a marriage. Women enjoy every step of the journey. Men think of nothing but fulfilment, women of achievement. Men care only for the black art of the Indian fakir who makes a grain of wheat grow to full maturity in a few minutes. Women appreciate the wonder of the natural development of that same little seed in the warm bosom of the earth, with its slow evolution of sprout and stalk and leaf and blossom--the glory of every step on the way!"

"But, can't you see that progress in affection needn't be a limited journey to a finite end, even the end of the flower, but, no matter how fast one travels, if one is really in love, the goal is always infinitely distant? There are enough things to be understood and enjoyed."

"Oh, I'm sure enough that I'll never get enough of you, and never know enough about you!"

"That's almost too true to be funny. You'll never know even who I am, I'm afraid. Think what a risk you run, my dear!"

"Oh, I know who you are well enough. You're the son of Casanova and Little Dorrit."

He grew reflective. "Isn't it strange," he said, "that you, with all your wonderful intuitions, shouldn't be able, somehow, to solve that riddle? Do you think I am Madam Grant's son? Sometimes that seems to be the inevitable conclusion."

"I can't quite think you are, Francis. Everything you have told me about her has brought her very near to me, somehow, and I feel as if I knew her, but you don't affect me in the same way. I think you're a changeling, myself! It is strange that I can't quite 'get' you now, though, not nearly as well as I used to. My power seems to have waned ever since--"

"Since what?"

"Since that first kiss! You see, I've exchanged that elusive power for something tangible." She put him away with a gesture. "No, not now! I want to be serious! And oh, here's what I found in my father's scrap-book. It seemed to have been cut from a very old paper. Somehow it seems to point to her. I want to know what you think about it."

She had copied it out and read it to him:

"Miss Felicia Gerard, who spoke immediately after Mrs. Woodhull's address, is one of that lady's most devoted adherents and helpers, having been connected with the cause for nearly a year. Although only twenty years of age, Miss Gerard has brought into action talents of no mean order. She was graduated at Vassar College, and is endowed both physically and mentally with the rarest and most lovable qualities. She was first presented to Mrs. Woodhull in Toledo, where the remarkable clairvoyant powers shared by the two women drew them naturally together. Miss Gerard is a regular contributor to _Woodhull and Claflin's Weekly_ where her spirited articles have attracted wide notice and flattering praise."

"That must be Mamsy," he said.

"I'm sure of it. I shall ask my father as soon as I get the opportunity."

For the rest of the afternoon they talked as if they were never to meet again. Once or twice there came a knock, and the door was tried, but Granthope did not answer, and they were left alone in peace. She rose to go at six, and, as she was to be busy all the next day, the parting was long delayed. They were, indeed, getting rapidly acquainted.

*CHAPTER XV*

*THE REENTRANT ANGLE*

Blanchard Cayley strolled into the Mercantile Library, one afternoon, and, nodding to the clerk at the desk, walked to an alcove in the corner of the main hall. He stopped at a shelf and sat down on a stool. He had done this several afternoons a week for years, going through the library as a business man takes account of stock, examining every book in order. Of some he read only the titles, glancing perhaps also at the date of the edition; of some he looked over the table of contents. Others he read, nibbling here and there. A few he took home. He had, by this time, almost exhausted the list. He read, not like a bookworm, with relish and zest, nor like a student desirous of a mastery of his subject; he read, as he did everything, even to his love-making, deliberately, accurately, with an elaborate scientific method that was, in its intricacy, something of a game, whose rules he alone knew. He had, indeed, specialized, taking up such subjects as jade, Japanese poetry, Esperanto, higher space, Bahiism, and devil-worship, and in such subjects he had what is termed "lore," but his main object was the conquest of the whole library in itself.

This afternoon he did not read long. Looking over the top of his book, as was his custom from time to time, to discover what women were present, he caught sight of Clytie Payson in the alcove containing the government reports. He replaced his volume and went over to her.

She was in high spirits, and welcomed him cordially, as if she had but just come from something interesting and stimulating; another man's smile seemed still to linger with her.

"Why, how d'you do, Blanchard?" she said. "I haven't seen you here for a long time. What has happened? Have you finished the library yet?"

"Oh, no, not quite. I've still a few more shelves to do, but I've been studying psychology on the side."

She looked at him with an indulgence that was new to him. "In petticoats, I presume, then?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "No, I've been studying a man," he said. "What are you doing?"

She overlooked the purport of his question and answered lightly, "Oh, only looking up some statistics for father. I've been coming here quite often, lately, but I'm almost finished, now. Is there anything in the world duller than a statistic? I always think of the man who went for information to a statistician at Washington and was asked, 'What d'you want to prove?'"

"How is your father getting on with the book?"

Clytie grew a little more serious. "Why, father's queer lately. I can't understand him at all. He's taken up with some spiritualists, and I'm rather worried about it."

"He's talked to me about them. But I should hardly think you'd be surprised at it. You're as much interested in palmistry as he is in the spooks, aren't you?"

Clytie flashed a glance at him. "Didn't you know that Mr. Granthope had given up palmistry?"

Cayley smiled and smoothed his pointed beard. "Oh, yes. I've heard considerable about it. Nobody seems to understand it but me. Very clever of him, I think."

"What d'you mean?" Clytie was instantly upon the defense.

"I like his system. It's subtle."

"His system?"

"Yes. You don't mean to say you still think he's sincere, do you?"

"I don't think it's necessary to discuss Mr. Granthope," said Clytie carelessly. "Of course I do believe he's sincere, or I wouldn't call myself a friend of his. He has given up a good paying business because he was sick of that way of earning a living."

"And also in order to make more money by quitting."

"How?"

"By marrying you."

She winced. "Blanchard," she said, "if you weren't an old friend, I couldn't forgive you that. But because you are, I can't permit you to think it."

"It was because we are old friends that I permitted myself to speak so plainly. You'll count it, I suppose, merely as jealousy. But I hate to see you taken in so easily."

Clytie looked up at him calmly, folding her hands in her lap. "Now, Blanchard, please tell me exactly what you mean, without any more insinuations."

"Why, Granthope has been for two months trying to marry you. He's after your money."

"Thank you for the implied compliment," she retorted dryly.

"Oh, well, you know perfectly well what _I_ think of you, Cly. I was thinking of what I know of him, not what I know of you. He's made a deliberate attempt to get you, and this reform business is only a part of the game."

She smiled and turned away, as if she were so sure of Granthope that it was hardly worth her while even to defend him.

"It's not pleasant to say it," he went on; "but you spoke of being distrustful of these mediums your father knows, and my point is that Granthope's tarred with the same brush. He has worked with them and plotted with them."

She was as yet unruffled; the spell of her happiness was still upon her, and she answered mildly. "I can hardly blame you for thinking that, perhaps. I suppose I might myself, if I didn't know him so well. But I do happen to know something about his life, and I'm sure you're mistaken. He's told me a good deal, and I have my own intuitions besides."

Cayley was as serene. "Do your intuitions tell you, for instance, that he has a definite understanding with these mediums--in regard to you?"

"No, they do not!" she answered calmly, looking him fair in the face.

"It's true, nevertheless." Cayley, with sharp eyes, noted her flush. Her eyes were well schooled, but her quivering mouth betrayed her trouble.

She took up her book as if to dismiss the subject.

Cayley watched her with impassive eyes. "You may be his friend, as you say, but there are a lot of things about Granthope that you don't know yet."

"No doubt," she replied without looking up.

"And there are things which you ought to know."

She looked at him now, to say: "Do you fancy that you are helping your own chances any by attacking him?"

"Will it help his chances any if you find that he has given away particular facts that he's discovered about you and your father?"

She had begun to be aroused, now, and she showed fight. "I don't believe it!"

Still unperturbed, he went on in his mechanically precise way. "I've made it my business to find out about Granthope, Cly. It shouldn't surprise you--you know I'm in earnest about wanting you. I'm as earnest, too, in wanting to protect you. I don't propose to hold my tongue when I find that you're trusting in a man that's knifing you behind your back."

Her voice rang with pride and scorn as she rose, saying, "I don't care to discuss the matter further, Blanchard."

"Not when I say that I have seen notes in Granthope's own handwriting that were given to a medium as a part of a deliberate scheme? These notes were on definite things he had learned, I'm sure, from his conversations with you. Some of them are personal matters that I'm sure you wouldn't at all care to have made public. You could easily prove it if you saw them."

She had lost courage again, and hesitated, staring at him.

Then she said, freezing, "Let me see them, then. If you're determined to have a scene, you may as well follow the rules of melodrama."