Time was when Phil Strange boasted that he and his wife had played
every fair-ground and seaside amusement-park from Coney Island to
Galveston. In his battered wardrobe-trunks were parts of old costumes,
scrapbooks of clippings, and a goodly collection of lithographs, some
advertising the supernatural powers of "Professor Magi, Sovereign of
the Unseen World," and others the accomplishments of "Mlle. Le Garde,
Renowned Serpent Enchantress." In these gaudy portraits of "Magi the
Mystic" no one would have recognized Phil Strange. And even more
difficult would it have been to trace a resemblance between Mrs.
Strange and the blond, bushy-headed "Mlle. Le Garde" of the posters.
Nevertheless, the likenesses at one time had been considered not too
flattering, and Phil treasured them as evidences of imperishable
distinction.
But the Stranges had tired of public life. For a long time the wife had
confessed to a lack of interest in her vocation which amounted almost
to a repugnance. Snake-charming, she had discovered, was far from an
ideal profession for a woman of refinement. It possessed unpleasant
features, and even such euphemistic titles as "Serpent Enchantress" and
"Reptilian Mesmerist" failed to rob the calling of a certain odium, a
suggestion of vulgarity in the minds of the more discriminating. This
had become so distressing to Mrs. Strange's finer sensibilities that
she had voiced a yearning to forsake the platform and pit for something
more congenial, and finally she had prevailed upon Phil to make a
change.
The step had not been taken without misgivings, but a benign Providence
had watched over the pair. Mrs. Strange was a natural seamstress, and
luck had directed her and Phil to a community which was not only in
need of a good dressmaker, but peculiarly ripe for the talents of a
soothsayer. Phil, too, had intended to embrace a new profession; but he
had soon discovered that Jonesville offered better financial returns to
a man of his accepted gifts than did the choicest of seaside
concessions, and therefore he had resumed his old calling under a
slightly different guise. Before long he acknowledged himself well
pleased with the new environment, for his wife was far happier in
draping dress goods upon the figures of her customers than in hanging
python folds about her own, and he found his own fame growing with
every day. His mediumistic gifts came into general demand. The country
people journeyed miles to consult him, and Blaze Jones's statement that
they confided in the fortune-teller as they would have confided in a
priest was scarcely an exaggeration. Phil did indeed become the
repository for confessions of many sorts.
Contrary to Blaze's belief, however, Strange was no Prince of Darkness,
and took little joy in some of the secrets forced upon him. Phil was a
good man in his way--so conscientious that certain information he
acquired weighed him down with a sense of unpleasant responsibility.
Chancing to meet Dave Law one day, he determined to relieve himself of
at least one troublesome burden.
But Dave was not easily approachable. He met the medium's allusions to
the occult with contemptuous amusement, nor would he consent to a
private "reading," Strange grew almost desperate enough to speak the
ungarnisned truth.
"You'd better pay a little attention to me," he grieved; "I've got a
message to you from the 'Unseen World.'"
"Charges 'collect,' I reckon," the Ranger grinned.
Strange waved aside the suggestion. "It came unbidden and I pass it on
for what it's worth." As Dave turned away he added, hastily, "It's
about a skeleton in the chaparral, and a red-haired woman."
Dave stopped; he eyed the speaker curiously. "Go on," said he.
But a public street, Strange explained, was no place for psychic
discussions. If Dave cared to come to his room, where the surroundings
were favorable to thought transference, and where Phil's spirit control
could have a chance to make itself felt, they would interrogate the
"Unseen Forces" further. Dave agreed. When they were alone in the
fortune-telling "parlor," he sat back while the medium closed his eyes
and prepared to explore the Invisible. After a brief delay Phil began:
"I see a great many things--that woman I told you about, and three men.
One of 'em is you, the other two is Mexicans. You're at a water-hole in
the mesquite. Now there's a shooting scrape; I see the body of a dead
man." The speaker became silent; evidently his cataleptic vision was
far from perfect. But he soon began to drone again. "Now I behold a
stranger at the same water-hole. He's alone--he's looking for
something. He rides in circles. He's off his horse and bending
over--What? A skeleton! Yes, it's the skeleton of one of them other
Mexicans." Strange's voice became positively sepulchral as his spirit
control took fuller possession of his earthly shell and as his visions
resolved themselves into clearer outline. "See! He swears an oath to
avenge. And now--the scene changes. Everything dissolves. I'm in a
mansion; and the red-haired woman comes toward me. Over her head floats
that skeleton--"
Dave broke in crisply. "All right! Let's get down to cases. What's on
your mind, Strange?"
The psychic simulated a shudder--a painful contortion, such as any one
might suffer if rudely jerked out of the spirit world.
"Eh? What was I--? There! You've broke the connection," he declared.
"Did I tell you anything?"
"No. But evidently you can."
"I'm sorry. They never come back."
"Rot!"
Phil was hurt, indignant. With some stiffness he explained the danger
of interrupting a seance of this sort, but Law remained obdurate.
"You can put over that second-sight stuff with the Greasers," he
declared, sharply, "but not with me. So, José Sanchez has been to see
you and you want to warn me. Is that it?"
"I don't know any such party," Strange protested. He eyed his caller
for a moment; then with an abrupt change of manner he complained: "Say,
Bo! What's the matter with you? I've got a reputation to protect, and I
do things my own way. I'm getting set to slip you something, and you
try to make me look like a sucker. Is that any way to act?"
"I prefer to talk to you when your eyes are open. I know all about--"
"You don't know nothing about anything," snapped the other. "José's got
it in for Mrs. Austin."
"You said you didn't know him."
"Well, I don't. He's never been to see me in his life, but--his
sweetheart has. Rosa Morales comes regular."
"Rosa! José's sweetheart!"
"Yes. Her and José have joined out together since you shot Panfilo, and
they're framing something."
"What, for instance?"
The fortune-teller hesitated. "I only wish I knew," he said, slowly.
"It looks to me like a killing."
Dave nodded. "Probably is. José would like to get me, and of course the
girl--"
"Oh, they don't aim to get you. You ain't the one they're after."
"No? Who then?"
"I don't know nothing definite. In this business, you understand, a
fellow has to put two and two together. Sometimes I have to make one
and two count four. I have to tell more'n I'm told; I have to shoot my
game on the wing, for nobody tells me any more'n they dast. All the
same, I'm sure José ain't carving no epitaph for you. From what I've
dug out of Rosa, he's acting for a third party--somebody with pull and
a lot of coin--but who it is I don't know. Anyhow, he's cooking trouble
for the Austins, and I want to stand from under."
Now that the speaker had dropped all pretense, he answered Dave's
questions without evasion and told what he knew. It was not much, to
Dave's way of thinking, but it was enough to give cause for thought,
and when the men finally parted it was with the understanding that
Strange would promptly communicate any further intelligence on this
subject that came his way.
On the following day Dave's duties called him to Brownsville, where
court was in session. He had planned to leave by the morning train; but
as he continued to meditate over Strange's words he decided that,
before going, he ought to advise Alaire of the fellow's suspicions in
order that she might discharge José Sanchez and in other ways protect
herself against his possible spite. Since the matter was one that could
not well be talked over by telephone, Dave determined to go in person
to Las Palmas that evening. Truth to say, he was hungry to see Alaire.
By this time he had almost ceased to combat the feeling she aroused in
him, and it was in obedience to an impulse far stronger than friendly
anxiety that he hired a machine and, shortly after dark, took the river
road.
The Fates are malicious jades. They delight in playing ill-natured
pranks upon us. Not content with spinning and measuring and cutting the
threads of our lives to suit themselves, they must also tangle the
skein, causing us to cut capers to satisfy their whims.
At no time since meeting Alaire had Dave Law been more certain of his
moral strength than on this evening; at no time had his grip upon
himself seemed firmer. Nor had Alaire the least reason to doubt her
self-control. Dave, to be sure, had appealed to her fancy and her
interest; in fact, he so dominated her thoughts that the imaginary
creature whom she called her dream-husband had gradually taken on his
physical likeness. But the idea that she was in any way enamoured of
him had never entered her mind; that she could ever be tempted to yield
to him, to be false to her ideals of wifehood, was inconceivable. In
such wise do the Fates amuse themselves.
Alaire had gone to her favorite after-dinner refuge, a nook on one of
the side-galleries, where there was a wide, swinging wicker couch; and
there in a restful obscurity fragrant with unseen flowers she had
prepared to spend the evening with her dreams.
She did not hear Dave's automobile arrive. Her first intimation of his
presence came with the sound of his heel upon the porch. When he
appeared it was almost like the materialization of her uppermost
thought--quite as if a figure from her fancy had stepped forth full
clad.
She rose and met him, smiling. "How did you know I wanted to see you?"
she inquired.
Dave took her hand and looked down at her, framing a commonplace reply.
But for some reason the words lay unspoken upon his tongue. Alaire's
informal greeting, her parted lips, the welcoming light in her eyes,
had sent them flying. It seemed to him that the dim half-light which
illumined this nook emanated from her face and her person, that the
fragrance which came to his nostrils was the perfume of her breath, and
at the prompting of these thoughts all his smothered longings rose as
if at a signal. As mutinous prisoners in a jail delivery overpower
their guards, so did Dave's long-repressed emotions gain the upper hand
of him now, and so swift was their uprising that he could not summon
more than a feeble, panicky resistance.
The awkwardness of the pause which followed Alaire's inquiry
strengthened the rebellious impulses within him, and quite
unconsciously his friendly grasp upon her fingers tightened. For her
part, as she saw this sudden change sweep over him, her own face
altered and she felt something within her breast leap into life. No
woman could have failed to read the meaning of his sudden agitation,
and, strange to say, it worked a similar state of feeling in Alaire.
She strove to control herself and to draw away, but instead found that
her hand had answered his, and that her eyes were flashing recognition
of his look. All in an instant she realized how deathly tired of her
own struggle she had become, and experienced a reckless impulse to cast
away all restraint and blindly meet his first advance. She had no time
to question her yearnings; she seemed to understand only that this man
offered her rest and security; that in his arms lay sanctuary.
To both it seemed that they stood there silently, hand in hand, for a
very long time, though in reality there was scarcely a moment of
hesitation on the part of either. A drunken, breathless instant of
uncertainty, then Alaire was on Dave's breast, and his strength, his
ardor, his desire, was throbbing through her. Her bare arms were about
his neck; a sigh, the token of utter surrender, fluttered from her
throat. She raised her face to his and their lips melted together.
For a time they were all alone in the universe, the center of all
ecstasy. Dave was whispering wild incoherencies as Alaire lay in his
embrace, her limbs relaxed, her flesh touching his, her body clinging
to his.
"Dream-man!" she murmured.
As consciousness returns after a swoon, so did realization return to
Alaire Austin. Faintly, uncertainly at first, then with a swift, strong
effort she pushed herself out of Dave's reluctant arms. They stood
apart, frightened. Dave's gaze was questioning. Alaire began to tremble
and to struggle with her breath.
"Are we--mad?" she gasped. "What have we done?"
"There's no use fighting. It was here--it was bound to come out. Oh,
Alaire--!"
"Don't!" She shook her head, and, avoiding his outstretched hands, went
to the edge of the veranda and leaned weakly against a pillar, with her
head in the crook of her arm. Dave followed her, but the words he spoke
were scarcely intelligible.
Finally she raised her face to his: "No! It is useless to deny it--now
that we know. But I didn't know, until a moment ago."
"I've known, all the time--ever since the first moment I saw you," he
told her, hoarsely. "To me you're all there is; nothing else matters.
And you love me! God! I wonder if I'm awake."
"Dream-man," she repeated, more slowly. "Oh, why did you come so late?"
"So late?"
"Yes. We must think it out, the best way we can, I--wonder what you
think of me?"
"You must know. There's no need for excuses; there's nothing to
explain, except the miracle that such great happiness could come to a
fellow like me."
"Happiness? It means anything but that. I was miserable enough before,
what shall I do now?"
"Why, readjust your life," he cried, roughly. "Surely you won't
hesitate after this?"
But Alaire did not seem to hear him. She was staring out into the night
again. "What a failure I must be!" she murmured, finally. "I suppose I
should have seen this coming, but--I didn't. And in his house, too!
This dress is his, and these jewels--everything!" She held up her hands
and stared curiously at the few rings she wore, as if seeing them for
the first time. "How does that make you feel?"
Dave stirred; there was resentment in his voice when he answered: "Your
husband has sacrificed his claim to you, as everybody knows. To my mind
he has lost his rights. You're mine, mine! By God!" He waved a vigorous
gesture of defiance. "I'll take you away from him at any cost. I'll see
that he gives you up, somehow. You're all I have."
"Of course the law provides a way, but you wouldn't, couldn't,
understand how I feel about divorce." The mere mention of the word was
difficult and caused Alaire to clench her hands. "We're both too shaken
to talk sanely now, so let's wait--"
"There's something you must understand before we go any further," Dave
insisted. "I'm poor; I haven't a thing I can call my own, so I'm not
sure I have any right to take you away from all this." He turned a
hostile eye upon their surroundings. "Most people would say that I've
simply wasted my life. Perhaps I have--that depends upon the way you
look at it and upon what you consider worth while--anyhow, all I can
offer you is love--" He broke off momentarily as if his breath had
suddenly failed him. "Greater love, it seems to me, than any woman ever
had."
"Money means so little, and it's so easy to be happy without it,"
Alaire told him. "But I'm not altogether poor. Of course, everything
here is Ed's, but I have enough. All my life I've had everything except
the very thing you offer--and how I've longed for that! How I've envied
other people! Do you think I'll be allowed, somehow, to have it?"
"Yes! I've something to say about that. You gave me the right when you
gave me that kiss."
Alaire shook her head. "I'm not sure. It seems easy now, while you are
here, but how will it seem later? I'm in no condition at this minute to
reason. Perhaps, as you say, it is all a dream; perhaps this feeling I
have is just a passing frenzy."
Dave laughed softly, confidently. "It's too new yet for you to
understand, but wait. It is frenzy, witchery--yes, and more. To-morrow,
and every day after, it will grow and grow and grow! Trust me, I've
watched it in myself."
"So you cared for me from the very first?" Alaire questioned. It was
the woman's curiosity, the woman's hunger to hear over and over again
that truth which never fails to thrill and yet never fully satisfies.
"Oh, even before that, I think! When you came to my fire that evening
in the chaparral I knew every line of your face, every movement of your
body, every tone of your voice, as a man knows and recognizes his
ideal. But it took time for me to realize all you meant to me."
Alaire nodded. "Yes, and it must have been the same with me." She met
his eyes frankly, but when he reached toward her she held him away.
"No, dear. Not yet, not again, not until we have the right. It would be
better for us both if you went away now."
"No, no! Oh, I have so much to say! I've been dumb all my life, and
you've just opened my lips."
"Please! After I've decided what to do--once I feel that I can control
myself better--I'll send for you. But you must promise not to come
until then, for you would only make it harder."
It required all Dave's determination to force himself to obey her wish,
and the struggle nearly kept him from recalling the original object of
his visit. Remembering, he tried to tell Alaire what he had learned
from Phil Strange; but so broken and so unconvincing was his recital
that he doubted if she understood in the least what he was talking
about.
At last he took her hand and kissed her wrist, just over her pulse, as
if to speed a message to her heart, then into her rosy palm he
whispered a tender something that thrilled her.
She stood white, motionless, against the dim illumination of the porch
until he had gone, and not until the last sound of his motor had died
away did she stir. Then she pressed her own lips to the palm he had
caressed and walked slowly to her room.