"It is not your brother. You know who it is, Mrs. Riley; and he tells
me that you must give back the papers."
"Oh, I'll give 'em back; I was always meanin' to give 'em back, God
knows I was! I'll do it this week."
"In a week it will be too late."
"I'll do it to-morrow."
"You'll do it to-day, Mrs. Riley."
"I will, oh, I will!"
"Now, if you want a sitting, I'll give you one," Madam Grant continued.
"That is, if I can get Weenie. I can't promise anything. She comes and
she goes like the sun in spring."
"Never mind," said Mrs. Riley, rising abruptly. "I think I'll be going,
after all." She started toward the door.
The clairvoyant's face had set again in a vacant, far-away expression
and her voice fell to the same dead tone she had used before. She
clutched her throat suddenly.
"He's in the water--he's drowning--he's passing out now--he's gone! You
are responsible, you! you! You drove him to it with your false tongue
and your crafty hands. But you'll regret it. You'll pay for it in
misery and pain, Margaret Riley. Your old age will be miserable.
You'll escape shame to suffer torment!"
Mrs. Riley's face, haggard and terrified, was working convulsively.
Without taking her eyes from the medium, she ran into the front room and
shook the boy's shoulder.
"Wake her up, Frankie, I don't want no more of this! Wake her up, dear,
and let me go!"
Francis arose lazily and walked over to Madam Grant. He put his arm
tenderly about her and whispered in her ear.
"Come back, Mamsy dear! Come back, Mamsy, I want you!" He began
stroking her hands firmly.
Mrs. Riley, still gazing, fascinated, at the group, backed out of the
room and closed the door. Her steps were heard stumbling down the
stairs. Madam Grant's eyes quivered and opened slowly. She shuddered,
then shook the blood back into her thin, white hands. Finally she
looked up at Francis and smiled. "All right, dear!"
Her smile, however, lasted but for the few moments during which he
caressed her; then the veil fell upon her countenance, and her eyes grew
strange and hard. She gazed wildly here and there about the room.
"What's that in Boston?" she asked suddenly, the pitch of her voice
sharply raised, as she pointed to the shells upon the rubbish of the
floor.
"Only some peanuts I was eating, Mamsy," said the boy, guiltily watching
her.
"Somebody has been in Toledo, somebody has been in New York! I can see
the smoke of the trains!" Her eyes traveled around an invisible path,
from mound to mound of dirt and scraps, noticing the slight
displacements the boy had made in his quest for food. He watched her
sharply, but without fear.
"Oh, the train didn't stop, Mamsy; they were express trains, you know."
"Don't tell me, don't tell me!"
She pointed with her slender forefinger here and there. "New Orleans is
safe; New Orleans is always a safe, strait-laced old town; but the place
isn't what it was! They've left the French quarter now to the Creoles,
but I know a place on Royal Street where the gallery whispers--O God!
that gallery with the magnolia trees--and the leper girl across the
street in the end room!" Her voice had sunk to a harsh whisper; now it
rose again. "Chicago--all right. I wouldn't care if it weren't.
Baltimore--_he_ never was in Baltimore. But what's the matter with
Denver? Somebody's been to Denver!" She turned her gaze point-blank
upon Francis.
He met it fairly.
"Oh, no, Mamsy, nobody ever goes to Denver, Mamsy dear!"
She knelt down and groped tentatively, sensitively, across the layer of
dust that sloped toward the corner, by the bay-window. She turned,
still on all-fours, to shake her finger at him, and say solemnly: "Don't
ever go to Denver, Francis! Denver's a bad place, a very wicked place.
They gamble in Denver, they gamble yellow money away." She arose,
apparently either satisfied or diverted in her quest, to turn her back
to the boy and look inside the bag she had been holding.
"Go outside, Francis!" she commanded, after fumbling with its contents.
He walked to the door and passed into the hall. Here he waited,
listening listlessly, drumming softly upon the railing. The room was
silent for a while; then he heard a muffled pounding, as of one stamping
down the surface of the matted dirt. At last she called him and he went
in again. Madam Grant's face was placid and kind.
She proceeded to occupy herself busily at the little oil stove, putting
into the greasy frying-pan some chops which she had brought home with
her. The spluttering and the pungent odor of the frying fat soon filled
the two rooms. She cut a few slices from a loaf of stale bread, and set
the meager repast forth upon the top of a wooden box.
"Come and have dinner, Francis!" she said, with a sweet look at him.
That the boy was far older than his years was evident by the way he
watched her and took his cue from her, humoring her in her madder
moments, restraining her in her moods of mystic exaltation, pathetically
affectionate during her lucid intervals. She was in this last phase now,
and from time to time, in the course of their meal, his hand stole to
hers. Its pressure was softly returned.
"What have you read to-day?"
"I finished _Gulliver_."
"What did you think of it?"
"Why, somehow, it seemed just like it might be true."
"_As if_ it might be true, Francis--what did I tell you?" Her tone grew
severe, almost pedagogic. "You must be careful of your talk, my boy!
Never forget; it is important. You'll never get on if you're careless
and common. You will often be judged by your speech. What else did you
read?"
"I tried Montaigne's _Essays_, but I couldn't understand much. It
seemed so dull to me. But there's one, _Whether the Governor of a Place
Besieged Ought Himself to go out to Parley_. I like that!"
Madam Grant laughed. "I'd like to have known Montaigne; he was a kind
of old maid, but he was a modern, after all; common sense will do if you
can't get humor."
"Where did you get all these books, Mamsy?"
Her face grew blank again; her eyes wandered. She recited in a sort of
croon:
"Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never
repented his sin.
How do they know it? are they his mother? are you of
his kin?"
A frightened look came on the boy's face and his hand went to hers
again.
"Mamsy, Mamsy!" he cried. "Come back, Mamsy! I want you!"
She turned to him as if she had never seen him before. "Oh!" she said,
and drew aside. Then: "You mustn't ask questions, my boy."
"I won't, Mamsy."
"You're a good little boy and you came out of the dark," she pursued.
"Out of the dark?" he repeated, tempting her on. His curiosity was
manifest.
"Don't you remember?"
"I'm not sure. They was a place--"
"There was a place," she corrected.
"There was a place where they beat me, and I ran away, and I found you,
and you were good to me."
"No, it is you who have been good--I'm not good; I'm bad, Francis."
"I know you're good, Mamsy, because you teach me to do everything right,
and I love you!"
With a quick impulse she clasped him to her, but even as she did so, her
face changed again, this time with an expression of pain. She put her
hand to her heart suddenly and moaned. He watched her in terror.
"Get the bottle!" she commanded huskily, dropping to the floor, to
support herself on her elbow.
He ran to a little bath-room beside the closet, brought a bottle and
spoon, poured out a dose of the medicine and put it to her lips.
Finally she sat up, listening.
"Somebody's coming. _She_ is coming! Come here, Francis! Quickly!"
Taking him by the hand, she led him to the closet in the back room,
pushed him inside, closed the door and locked it.
It was dark in the closet, but he knew its contents as well as if he
could see them. Upon a row of shelves were account-books and papers
covered with dust. On nails in the wall his own small stock of clothes
hung, and in a wooden box on the floor were his playthings--blocks, a
wooden horse, several precious bits of twine and leather, a collection
of spools and a toy globe. He sat down on this box patiently and
waited.
Presently there came a knock at the hall door. Madam Grant opened it and
some one entered. He heard his guardian's voice saying:
"Come in, Grace, here I am, such as I am, and here you are, such as you
are." Then her voice changed, becoming tremulous and excited. "Ah, but
she's beautiful! May I kiss her, Grace? Oh, what eyes! Her father's
eyes, aren't they? Don't be afraid, Grace, let her come to me."
There was a reply in a soft voice which Francis could not make out, as
they passed into the front room. He tried to peep through the keyhole,
but as the key had been left in, he could see nothing. He sat down upon
the box again to wait, playing with his toy globe. After a while he
noticed a thin streak of light admitted by a crack in the panel of the
door, and rose to see if he could see through it. At the height of his
eye it was too narrow to show him anything in the room, but farther up
it widened. He pulled down several account-books from the shelves and
piled them upon the box. Standing tiptoe upon these, he found that he
could get a clear though limited view of the bay-window.
Here a little girl sat quietly, vividly illuminated in the sunshine.
She was scarcely more than four years of age and was dressed in a navy
blue silk frock whose collar and pockets were elaborately trimmed with
ruffles of white satin and bows of ribbon. She wore a white muslin cap
decorated with ribbon, lace and rosebuds; white stockings showed above
her high buttoned boots; her hair was a truant mass of fine-spun
threads, curling, tawny yellow. Her face was round, her eyes
extraordinarily wide apart under level, straight brows. What caught and
held his attention, however, as he watched, was a velvety mole upon her
left cheek, so placed as to be a piquant ornament rather than a
disfigurement to her countenance. She sat listening, tightly holding a
woolly lamb in her plump little arms. The two women were out of his
range of vision.
The steady low sound of voices came to him, but he made no attempt to
listen--his attention was riveted upon the figure of the little girl who
was sharply focused, as in an opera-glass, directly in his field of
view. Occasionally, as she was spoken to, she smiled, and her cheek
dimpled; but she seemed to be looking at him, through the door. She
scarcely moved her eyes, but kept them fixed in his direction, as if
conscious of an invisible presence.
The women talked on. Occasionally Madam Grant's voice rose to a more
excited note, and a few words came to him, betraying to his knowledge of
her that her mood had been interrupted by her customary vagaries. At
such times the little girl would withdraw her glance to gaze solemnly in
Madam Grant's direction; she showed, however, no signs of alarm. It
seemed, indeed, as if the little girl understood, even as he understood,
the temporary aberration. Then her eyes would return to his, as if
drawn back by his gaze.
So the scene lasted for a half-hour, during which time he caught no
glimpse of the other visitor. At last a hand was outstretched and the
little girl rose. Francis stepped down for a moment to rest himself from
his strained position; when he had put his eye again to the crack she
had passed out of his line of sight.
He was to catch a few words more, however, before the callers left.
"I'm glad you came to-day," Madam Grant said. "You were just in time."
"Why, are you going to leave here?"
"Yes, I'm going away."
"Felicia," the visitor said earnestly, "why won't you let us take care
of you? This is no place for you--it is dreadful to think of you here!
Now, while you are able to talk to me, do let me do something for you!"
"No; it's too late. Besides, there is Francis," said Madam Grant.
"Let Francis come, too. This is a terrible place for a child. Look at
this room--look at the filth and disorder!"
Madam Grant's voice rose again. "Take her away, take her away!" she
cried raucously. "She'll go to New York, she'll go to Toledo--I don't
want her in Toledo meddling! She'll be in New Orleans the first thing
you know; there she goes now! Take her away, take her away!"
The door closed. Francis heard the key turn in the lock. Then there
was the jarring sound of a fall and finally all was still. He waited
for some moments, then he called out:
"Mamsy, let me out! let me out!"
There was no reply.
"Mamsy!" he called out again. "Where are you? Come and let me out,
_please_ let me out!"
There was still no answer to his pleadings. In terror now, he pounded
the panels, shook the handle of the door, and then began to cry.
Climbing upon the box again, he caught sight of Madam Grant's skirt.
She was lying prone upon the floor. As he wept on, she moved and began
to crawl slowly toward him. At last her hand groped to the door and the
key was turned in the lock. He burst out into her arms.
The blood was gone from her tense, anguished face; one hand clutched at
her heart. She did not speak, but gasped horribly for breath. There
was no need now for her to direct him. He poured out a dose of medicine
and forced it between her lips. He gave her another spoonful; the drops
trickled from her mouth and stained the front of her crimson gown.
Then, with his assistance, she crept to his couch, pulled herself upon
it and lay down, groaning. He sat on the floor beside her, stroking her
hand.
For some time she was too weak to speak. Her black eyebrows were drawn
down, the cleft between them was deep, like the gash of a knife. Her
white hair fell about her head in disorder. She drew a ragged coverlid
over her chest, as if suffering from the cold, though the sun shone in
upon her as she lay and mercilessly illumined her desperate face. The
spasm of agony abated, and after some minutes she breathed more freely.
Then, with a sigh, her muscles relaxed and her voice came clear and
calm.
"You must be a good boy, Francis," she began, "for I am going away.
It's all over now with the worry and the puzzle and the pain. What will
you do, I wonder? Oliver might help, perhaps. Oliver isn't so bad,
down in his heart. He was fair enough. There's money enough. Francis,
when I fall asleep, look in the trunk and hide the money, if you
can--don't let them get it away from you! Wait till I'm asleep,
though--the key is in my bag. What a fool I was! I might have known.
There was my grandmother, she was mad, too. It may stop with me--oh,
she was a dear little thing, though!"
"Who was the little girl, Mamsy?" Francis inquired, his curiosity
overcoming his fear for her.
"Born with a veil, born with a veil! I was a seventh daughter,
too--much good it did me! I could tell others--who could tell me?
Bosh! it's all rubbish--we'll never know! fol-de-rol, Francis, it's all
gammon--all but Weenie. Weenie knows. Yellow hair, too; it will grow
gray soon enough!" Then, as if she had just heard his question she
broke our querulously, "Where did _you_ see her?"
"I looked through a crack in the door, Mamsy."
She pulled herself up in a frenzy of anger and shook her finger at him.
"Oh, you did, did you? You snooping, sniping monkey! I'll tell you
what you were looking at, you were watching the train to New York!
You'll go to Toledo, will you? You won't find anything there. Go to
New Orleans; there's plenty to find out in New Orleans! In Denver, too,
and way stations, but be careful, be careful! I was born in Toledo."
She sank back exhausted.
"Don't be worried, Mamsy," said Francis, attempting to calm her. "I
won't never go to Toledo, Mamsy!"
"'Won't never'!" She glared at him. "What did I say about double
negatives, boy? Two negatives make a positive, two pints make a quart,
two fools make a quarrel, two quarrels make a fool. What language! I
was at Vassar, too--I was secretary of my class! Oh, I want to see
Victoria! She would understand, I'm sure! Oh, Francis!" Her voice
dwindled away and her eyes closed.
For a moment she seemed to be asleep. Then a sudden convulsion
frightened him. She spoke again without raising her lids.
"Why, there's mother! Come and kiss me, mother! Did Weenie send for
you, mother? Oh, Weenie! Who's the old man? Father? I never saw
father on this side, did I, Weenie? He passed out when I was very
little, didn't he? So many people! Why, the room is full of them!
Yes, I'm coming--"
The boy was tugging frantically at her hand, calling to her without
ceasing, sobbing in his fright. He succeeded at last in bringing her
out of her trance and she opened her eyes to stare at him. Her breath
was coming harder. With a great effort she reached for the boy's head
and pulled it nearer, gazing into his frightened eyes.
"Poor Francis!" she gasped. "You've been so good, dear--you've been my
hope! Felicia Grant's hope! You have no name, dear; take that one,
instead of mine--Francis Granthope--oh, this pain!"
"Shan't I get you the medicine?" he asked, sobbing.
"No, it's no use." She pushed him gently away. "I'm going--to
sleep--now-- Don't call me back, Francis; I want rest. Remember the
trunk--good-by!"
She closed her eyes and rolled over on her side, turning her face away
from him.
He waited half an hour in silence. Then he put his hands to her arms
softly.
"Mamsy!" he said quietly but insistently. "Are you asleep, Mamsy?"
There was no answer.
He arose and looked for her leather bag. He found it on the floor where
she had fallen. Opening it, he found inside a heterogeneous
collection--strings, hair-pins, peppermints, papers, a lock of hair in
an envelope, a photograph, several gold pieces, and the key--he took it
and tiptoed into the little side room with excited interest. He had
never looked inside the trunk before and his eagerness made his hands
tremble as he unlocked it.
On top was a tray filled with account-books and papers, letters, folded
newspapers and a mahogany box. It was all he could do to lift it to get
at what was beneath. He struggled with it until he had tilted it up and
slid it down to the floor.
Below was a mass of white satin and lace. He lifted this piece by
piece, disclosing a heavy wedding gown, silk-lined, wrapped in tissue
paper, and many accessories of an elaborate trousseau--a half-dozen
pairs of silk stockings, a pair of exquisite white satin slippers, a box
of long white gloves, another of lace handkerchiefs, dozens of
mysterious articles of lingerie, embroidered and lace-trimmed. In a
lower corner was a little, white vellum, gold-clasped prayer-book.
Lastly he found a package securely wrapped in brown paper; opening this,
he discovered six crisp, green packages of bank-notes. These he
rewrapped and slid them inside his full blue blouse. Then he put
everything back in order, replaced the tray and locked the trunk.
Finally he stole back to the form upon the couch. "Mamsy, are you
awake?" he whispered.
There was no answer, and he shook her shoulder slightly. Then, as she
made no reply, he leaned over and looked at her face. Her eyes were
open, fearfully open, but they did not turn to his. They were set and
glazed with film.
A horror came over him now, and he shook her with all his strength.
"Mamsy, Mamsy!" he cried. "Look at me, Mamsy! What's the matter?"
Still she did not look at him, or speak, or move. He noticed that she
was not breathing, and his fear overcame him. He dropped her cold hand
and ran screaming out into the hall.
*CHAPTER I*
*THE PALMIST AND FANCY GRAY*
Fancy Gray was the lady's name and the lady's hair was red. Both were
characteristic of her daringly original character, for, as Fancy's name
had once been Fanny, Fanny's hair had once been brown. Further
indication of Miss Gray's disposition was to be found in her eyebrows,
which were whimsically arched, and her mouth, which was scarlet-lipped
and tightly held. Another detail of significance was her green silk
stockings, rather artfully displayed to lend a harmony to her dark green
cloth tailor-made suit, which fitted like a kid glove over Miss Gray's
cunningly rounded little body. Her eyes were brown and bright; they
were as quick as heliograph flashes, but could, when she willed, burn as
softly as glowing coals of fire. Her face seemed freshly washed, her
complexion was translucently clear, modified only by the violet shadows
under her eyes and an imperceptible tint of fine down on her upper lip.
Her hands, well beringed and well kept, were fully worth the admiration
which, by her willingness to display them to advantage, she seemed to
expect on their account.
In New York, a good guesser would have put her age at twenty-three; but,
taking into account the precocious effect of the California climate,
nineteen might be nearer the mark. She was, at all events, a finished
product; there was no evidence of diffidence or _gaucherie_ about Fancy
Gray. She appeared to be very well satisfied with herself. If, as she
evidently did, she considered herself beautiful, her claim would
undoubtedly be acknowledged by most men who met her for the first time.
On those more fastidious, she had but to smile and her mouth grew still
more generous, showing a double line of white teeth, those in the lower
jaw being set slightly zigzag, as if they were so pretty that it had
been wished to put in as many as possible--her cheeks dimpled, her eyes
half closed--and she triumphed over her critic. For there was something
more dangerous than beauty in that smile; there was an elfin humor that
captured and bewildered--there was warmth and welcome in it. It made
one feel happy.
As she sat at her desk in the waiting-room she could look across the
corner of Geary and Powell Streets to catch the errant eye of passing
cable-car conductors, or gaze, in abstraction, at pedestrians crossing
Union Square, or at the oriental towers of the Synagogue beyond. With
the bait of a promising smile, she caught many an upward glance. Fancy
Gray was not in the habit of hiding her charms, and she levied tribute
to her beauty on all mankind. She gazed upon women, however, far less
indulgently than upon men; never was there a more captious observer of
her sex. A glance up and a glance down she gave; and the specimen was
classified, appraised, appreciated, condemned, condoned or complimented.
Not a pin missed her scrutiny, not a variation of the mode escaped her
quest for revealing evidence. A woman could hardly pass from contact
with Fancy's swift glance without being robbed, mentally, of everything
worth while that she possessed in the matter of novelty in fashion or
deportment. Fancy appropriated the ideas thus gained, and made use of
them at the earliest opportunity. The waiting-room bore, upon the
outside, the legend:
+------------------------------+
| |
| FRANCIS GRANTHOPE, PALMIST |
| |
+------------------------------+
Inside, where Fancy sat daily from ten to four, the apartment was walled
and carpeted in red. Upon the walls, painted wooden Chinese grotesque
masks, grinning or scowling against the fire-cracker paper, hung, at
intervals, from black stained woodwork. Between the two windows was a
plaster column bearing the winged head of Hypnos; at the other end of
the room was a row of casts of hands hanging on hooks against a black
panel. The desk in the corner was Fancy's station, and here she
murmured into the telephone, scribbled appointments in a blank-book,
read _The Second Wife_, gazed out into the green square, or manicured
her nails--according as the waiting-room chairs were empty, or occupied
with men or with women. Whatever company she had, she was never
careless of the light upon her or the condition of her tinted hair.
It was a cool, blustering afternoon in August. San Francisco was at its
worst phase. The wind was high and harsh, harassing the city with its
burden of dust. Over the mountains, on the Marin shore, a high fog
hung, its advance guard scudding in through the Golden Gate, piling over
the hills by the Twin Peaks and preparing its line of battle for a
general assault upon the peninsula at nightfall. In the streets men and
women clung to their hats savagely as they passed gusty corners, and
coat collars were turned up against the raw air. Summer had, so far,
spent its effort in four violently hot days, when the humid atmosphere
made the temperature unbearable. Now the weather had flung back to an
extreme as unpleasant; open fires were in order. There was one now
burning in Granthope's reception-room, to which Fancy Gray made frequent
excursions. She was there, making a picture of herself beside the
hearth, having resolutely held her pose for some time in anticipation of
his coming, when Francis Granthope arrived.
Tall, erect and able-bodied, with the physique of an athlete, and a
strong, leonine head covered with crisp, waving, black hair, Francis
Granthope had the complement of the actor's type of looks; but his
alertness of carriage and his swift, searching glance distinguished him
from the professional male beauty. Fine eyes of deep, rich blue, fine
teeth often exposed in compelling smiles, a resolute mouth and a firm,
deeply cleft chin he had; and all these attractions were set off by his
precise dress--gloves, bell-tailed overcoat, sharply creased trousers,
varnished boots and silk hat. A short mustache, curling upward slightly
at the ends, and a small, triangular tuft of hair on his lower lip gave
him a somewhat foreign aspect. He had an air, a manner, that kept up
the illusion. Men would perhaps have distrusted him as too obviously
handsome; women would talk about him as soon as he had left the room.
Stage managers would have complimented his "presence"; children would
have watched him, fascinated, reserving their judgment. He seemed to
fill the room with electricity.
He sent a smile to Fancy, half of welcome, half of amusement at her
picturesque posture, and, with cordial "Good morning!" in a mellow
barytone, removed his overcoat and hat, putting them into a closet near
the hall door. He reappeared in morning coat, white waistcoat and
pin-checked trousers, with a red carnation in his buttonhole. He held
his hands for a moment before the fire, then looked indulgently at his
blithe assistant.
Now, one of Fancy's charms was a slender, pointed tongue. This she was
wont to exhibit, on occasion, by sticking it out of her mouth
coquettishly, and shaking it saucily in the direction of her nostrils--a
joyous exploit which was vouchsafed only upon rare and intimate
occasions. This, now, she did, tilting her head backward to give
piquancy to the performance.
Granthope laughed, and went over to where she sat.
"You're a saucy bird, Fancy," he commented, leaning over her, both hands
upon the desk. "Do you know I rather like you!"
Her face grew drolly sober; her whimsical eyebrows lifted.
"I don't know as I blame you," she replied. "You always did have good
taste, though."
"I believe that I might go so far as to imprint a salute upon your
chaste brow!"
"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.
He stooped over and kissed her. She was graciously resigned.
"Thank you, Frank," she said demurely. "Small contributions gratefully
received." She tucked her head into the corner of his arm, and he
looked down upon her kindly.
"Poor little Fancy!" he said softly.
"Have you missed me, Frank?"
"Horribly!"
"Don't laugh at me!"
"How can I help it, O toy queen?"
"Am I so awfully young?"
"You're pretty juvenile, Fancy, but you'll grow up, I think."
She was quite sober now. "Oh, there's an awful lot of time wasted in
growing up," she said. Then she squirmed her head so that she could
look upward at him. "You've been awfully good to me, Frank!" Her tone
was wistful.
"You deserve more than you will ever get, I'm afraid," was his answer as
he patted her hair.
"I think you do like me a little."