To-morrow morning please go down to the ticket office at the Ferry, and
see if you can find out where a soldier, with his nose shot off, bought
a ticket to, about ten days ago.
He rose, yawned, stared thoughtfully at the cast; for a few moments,
then snapped his fingers and walked to the window. His cab was waiting.
He went down-stairs, got into the vehicle and drove off.
The Maxwells lived at Presidio Heights, in one of the newer residences
of the aristocratic Western Addition, a handsome brick house decorated
with Romanesque fantasies in terra cotta, behind a bronze rail guarded
by heraldic griffins. Granthope walked up under the lantern-hung awning
five minutes before the hour and was shown to a room up-stairs.
Here there were several men waiting and adjusting their garments. All
but one were in Chinese costume; this was a fat, red-faced man, with a
white mustache. He was in evening dress, and kept exclaiming:
"I won't make a damned fool of myself for anybody. It's all nonsense!"
He was obviously embarrassed at being the only nonconformist.
"Sully" Maxwell, arrayed in a magnificently embroidered Chinese
officer's summer uniform--a long, flounced robe, with the imperial
dragons and their balls of fire, the rainbow border and the all-over
cloud-pattern--was helping the men to dress, chaffing each of them in
turn. He was middle-aged and prosperous-looking, typically a "man's
man" and "hail-fellow-well-met," despite his immense fortune. He
greeted Granthope cordially, without hint of patronage, and introduced
him to the others.
Of two, Keith and Fernigan, Granthope had heard much. They were the
pets of a certain smartish social circle, in virtue of their cleverness
and wit. They were of the kind who habitually do "stunts" and were
always expected to make the company merry and informal. Keith was a
tall, wiry, flap-eared, smiling fellow, made up as a Chinese
stage-comedian, with his nose painted white. Fernigan, short, stout to
rotundity, almost bald, with spectacles, and a round, Irish face, was
dressed in woman's costume, head-dress, earrings, green coat and pink
silk trousers. He was naturally droll, a wag at all times, and his
whimsical way constantly approached a shocking limit but never quite
reached it. He was speaking a good parody of the Cantonese dialect to
his partner, and making eccentric gestures.
Both he and Keith greeted Granthope with mock gravity, addressing him in
pidgin English. Granthope answered with what spirit he had, and, taking
his place at the mirror, placed upon his nose an enormous pair of
blue-glass spectacles, horn-rimmed. They disguised him effectually.
As he left the room, a man with a pointed, reddish beard entered,
dressed in long flowing robes of plum-colored silk.
Granthope caught the greeting: "Hello, Blan!" and turned with curiosity
to see the Mr. Cayley of whom he had heard so much. He did not,
however, wait to be introduced, but passed on.
The great reception-room down-stairs presented one of the most
beautiful, as well as one of the most original, of San Francisco
interiors. It was entirely of redwood, panels six feet in width all
round the walls extending up to a narrow shelf supported by carved
brackets. The low-studded ceiling was broken by a row of finely adzed
beams, carved tastefully at the ends. A feature of the reception-room
was a wide fireplace of terra cotta surmounted by a mantel, consisting
of at least a dozen combined moldings, each member of which showed a
striking individuality of detail. The place was illuminated by side
brackets in the form of copper sconces. Granthope entered, quite at his
ease, with a long, swinging, heel-and-toe stride that comported well
with his costume.
There were already some half-dozen persons sitting about the room, most
of whom seemed afraid to talk for fear of disclosing their identity, or
perhaps, a little too self-conscious in their garish raiment. The
silence, if it had not been painful, would have been absurd. Granthope
looked in vain for any sign of his hostess' presence, and then
suspecting that she, too, was masked to enjoy the piquancy of the
situation, he saluted one of the ladies, sat down beside her and began a
conversation. Knowing that few were acquainted with him he had no need
to disguise his voice. He sat on a straight chair stiffly, as he had
seen Chinese actors pose at the theater, his toes turned out in opposite
directions so as to insure the proper fall of the skirt of his robe, and
disclose, through a narrow gap, the splendor of his lavender trousers.
His partner answered him in whispers.
As he sat talking nonsense gaily, a woman came into the room with so
perfect an imitation of the "tottering lily" walk affected by high-caste
Chinese women, that he turned his eyes upon her in delight at her
acting.
She was of a good height; and her white embroidered shoes, whose heels
were placed in the center of the sole, gave her nearly two inches more.
Her costume was a rainbow of subdued contrasting colors. It was evident
at a glance that every garment she wore was old, valuable and consistent
with her character of bride.
The smoothly coiled rolls of her black wig were decorated by numerous
gold ornaments and artificial flowers. Across her forehead was a
head-dress of gold filigree-work and kingfisher feathers; its ribbon was
tied in the back of her head and fell in fanciful ends. She wore two
coats--the outer was of yellow brocaded silk, a pastel shade, trimmed
with a wide stripe of close blue embroidery and rows of looking-glass
buttons--the inner one, shorter, was of blue and black appliqued work in
bold, virile pattern. Below this showed her closely-pleated skirt of
old rose with a panel of gold embroidery in the center; this, as she
walked, revealed occasional glimpses of a pair of full straight green
trousers trimmed with horizontal stripes, and a flash of white silk
stockings. Necklaces she had in profusion, one of jade, one of purple
mother-of-pearl, one of white coral, one of sandalwood; and others in
graded sizes and colors. In her right hand she carried a narrow
gold-paper fan; on her left wrist was a jade bracelet, and, pulled
through it, a green silk handkerchief with a purple fringe.
Her entry made a sensation, as she courtesied gravely to each one in
turn. So, playing her part cleverly, she came to Granthope, who arose
and greeted her with a dignified salaam. So far they were the only ones
who had at all entered into the spirit of the occasion, and he did his
best to meet her character and play up to her elaborate salutation. He
offered his arm, then, and escorted her, with considerable manner, to a
long settee.
In all this pantomime she had preserved a serious expression, the
repressed, almost inanely impassive, set face of a Chinese lady of rank;
but when at last she was seated, she turned full upon him and smiled
under her mask.
The effect upon Granthope was a sudden thrill of overpowering delight.
He was deliciously weakened by the revelation. His breath came
suddenly, with a swift intake--the blood rioted through his veins.
She wore a much wider mask than the others, so that nothing but her
mouth and chin was shown. But that mouth was so tempting, with its
ravishing, floating smile, and that smile so concentrated in its
limitation to a single feature, that it turned his head. The lips were
narrow and bright; the blood seemed about to ooze through the skin. The
upper one was curved in a tantalizing bow between the drops of soft
shadow at the corners. The cleft above seemed to draw her lip a little
upward to disclose a line of small, perfect, regular teeth of a
delicate, bluish white translucence, which, parting, showed a narrow
rosy tongue. The lower lip was that delicious fraction of an inch
lesser than the upper one which, in profile, gave her a touch of
youthful, almost boyish, wistfulness. Her round, firm chin showed, from
the same point of view, a classic right angle to her throat, where the
line swept down the proud column of her neck, there to swing tenderly
outward toward her breast.
He could not take his eyes from her, but he had not the will to restrain
his staring. The spell was irresistible; he drank her deep and could
not get enough. For these whirling moments he was at the mercy of the
attraction of sex, impersonal, yet distilled to an intoxicating essence.
Had it not been for her mask hiding the upper part of her face, had her
eyes corrected this almost wanton loveliness with some reserve or with
the effect of a more intellectual character, had his glance even been
given a chance to wander over equally enchanting components of that
expression, he undoubtedly would not have been so moved by the sight of
her laughing, tempting mouth. But that, faultlessly formed, exquisitely
sexed, whimsically provocative, had for him, with the rest of her face
hidden, an original and freshly flavored delight. In the spectrum of
her beauty the violets and blues of her spirit, the greens and orange of
her mind were for the nonce inhibited; only the vibrant red rays of her
physical personality smote him, burning him with their radiance. But
there was, he felt, no malice behind that smile, though it was
mischievous; there was nothing wanton there, though in this guise her
lips seemed abandoned and inviting. There was, in their flexed contour,
in the engaging mobility of their poise, no consciousness of anything
sensually appealing. It was, rather, as if he gained some secret aspect
of the woman beneath and behind all conventions of morality, of modesty,
and of discretion. So far, indeed, she seemed, in a way, without a
personality. She was Woman smiling at him. The vision was too much for
him.
She bent toward him and her lips whispered:
"How do you do, Mr. Granthope? Why are you staring so? I thought of
course you knew me--but I really believe you don't."
Even then he did not recognize her, and was profoundly embarrassed.
That he should fail to remember such a mouth as that! He took her hand
which had been concealed in her long sleeve and looked at it. She had
glued long false nails of celluloid to her little fingers, completing
the picture of a Chinese lady of quality. At the first sight of her
palm, at the first touch of it, even, he knew her, and, with a rush, a
dozen thoughts bewildered him. This was she whom he had been able so to
influence, to cajole. He had, in a way, a claim to this comeliness.
She had favored him, had confessed her interest in him. They were,
besides, bound by a secret tie. He might hope for more of her, perhaps.
She was already somewhat in his power; he had, at least, the capacity to
sway her. She, alluring, delightful, might perhaps be gained, and in
some way, won. She had known him at a glance--there was her prescience
again! She had welcomed him, in assurance of her favor. What then was
possible? What dared he not hope for? A great wave of desire overcame
him.
Meanwhile he answered, distracted and unready:
"You knew me then? I thought I was pretty well disguised."
"Oh, you've forgotten how hard it is to deceive me. I should never try
it, if I were you. Of course I knew you! I should know you if you had
covered your head in a sack."
He stammered, and he was not often confused enough to stammer. "I don't
know how to tell you how beautiful you are, Miss Payson."
She spoke low and slowly, with a wayward inflection, "Oh, I'm so sorry."
Then she added, "I scarcely dared speak to you, you are so magnificent."
"I would need to be, to be worthy of sitting beside you," he replied,
his wits floating, unmanageable.
"Did you get my note?"
"Yes, I want to thank you for it."
"I hope you've forgiven me."
"Of course, I was only flattered by your frankness."
"It's so easy to be frank with you," she said. "You see, I'm perfectly
myself with you, even _en masque_. I doubt if any of my friends would
know me as I am with you."
"But I've seen a new 'you' that I haven't known before."
"Then she owes her existence to your presence. But how am I different?
Tell me."
"You take my breath away. You say such charming things to me that it
deprives me of the power of answering you--anything I could say seems
ineffective and cheap. You get ahead of me so. Really, you'll have to
be positively rude to me before I can summon presence of mind enough to
say anything gallant."
Again her lips curved daintily. Her voice was dulcet:
"Then I am afraid I shall never hear any nice things from you."
He was reduced; baffled by her suavity. He sought in vain for a fitting
return. He had the impulse to take advantage of her courtesy, however,
and gratify some portion of his desire to be nearer her. She wore,
suspended from the gold top-button of her "qua," a red silk tassel with
a filigree network of silver threads, containing a gold heart-shaped
scent bottle. He reached to it and tried to remove it from its place,
covering this slight advance jocosely, with the remark:
"Is that your heart you have there? It seems to be pure gold."
She did not resent what might possibly have been considered a
familiarity, but smiled when she saw that he could not remove the bottle
from the meshes.
"I'm afraid you won't be able to get at it, that way." There was a
touch of playful emphasis in her voice.
Their hands met as she assisted him, showing him how to pull up the
sliding ring and open the net. At that contact he became a little giddy.
The blood surged to her cheeks. She took out the bottle and handed it
to him. That moment was tense with feeling. Then she said, as he tried
in vain to unstopper the little jar:
"Can you open it, do you think?"
He attempted futilely to open the little heart. "I'm afraid I can't," he
said disconsolately. "Won't you help me?"
"No, you must do it yourself. There is a way--see!"
She took it from him and, concealing it in her hand, opened the top and
reached it out for him to smell. He whiffed a penetrating perfume,
disturbingly pungent, then she withdrew it from him and closed the
heart.
"May I take it?" he asked.
She returned it now, saying, and her smile was more serious than before,
"Learn to open it. There is a way."
Granthope took the heart and tried to master its secret. The room had
by this time filled up so that a further tete-a-tete was impossible.
Miss Payson was now besieged by maskers and held court where she sat.
Fernigan, the stout young man with the powdered face, dressed as a
woman, was particularly offensive to Granthope, and especially so
because it could not be denied that his antics and sallies were witty.
Granthope arose therefore, and walked about the room looking for some
one whom he might recognize. There was little likelihood of his
succeeding had not his professional capacity given him a clue to follow.
He passed from one group to another, bowing, gesticulating and joking,
as all had now begun to do, keeping his eyes alertly on the hands of
different members of the assembly. It was not long before he suspected
Mrs. Page, and, after reassuring himself by closer inspection, he went
up to her.
She was as expensively dressed as Clytie, but without Clytie's taste.
Mrs. Page's magnificence was barbaric, untamed to any harmony of color,
though effective in its very violence. She had not left her diamonds at
home. She blazed in them. Tall, dark, well-formed and deep-breasted,
not even the loosely hanging folds of a Chinese costume could hide the
luxuriance with which Nature had endowed her figure. She was laughing
with abandon, reveling in the freedom of the moment, when Granthope
touched her on the shoulder and whispered:
"Violet!"
She turned to him and stared, puzzled by his well-disguised face.
"Who are you?"
"I know more about you than any one here!"
"Good heavens!" she laughed, "what do you know about me?"
"Shall I tell you?"
"Not here, for mercy's sake! Don't give me away in respectable society,
please. Come out in the hall where we won't be eavesdropped."
She took his arm energetically and romped him out to the staircase. The
masks and costumes had let loose all her folly. She effervesced in
giggles.
"Let's go up-stairs in the library," she proposed. "We have the run of
the house to-night, and nobody'll be there. I want to see if I can't
guess who you are. I haven't the least idea who you are, but I believe
you're going to be nice."
She tapped him on the cheek playfully with her fan, then picked up her
skirts and ran up-stairs, giving him a glance of red silk hose, as she
went. He was still quivering with the excitement of Clytie's smile,
still warm from her nearness, still full of her, though he would not
share her wholesale glances to her throng of admirers. He was still
rapt with the exhilaration her smile had kindled, he still held her
little perfumed heart. As he followed Mrs. Page up-stairs he smelt
again of the gold bottle. The fragrant odor fired him anew. He grew
perfervid.
Mrs. Page, unmasked, was awaiting him in the library.
When they came down ten minutes later, he made way to where Clytie sat,
talking to the gentleman with the reddish pointed beard and plum-colored
garments. Seeing Granthope approach, she turned to her companion,
saying:
"Would you mind getting me a glass of water, Blanchard? This mask is
fearfully warm. I hope we won't have to keep them on much longer."
Cayley left to obey her and Granthope took his place by her chair. She
looked up at him quickly, and said, in a low voice:
"I think you had better give me back my scent-bottle, please."
A pang smote him. He felt the shock of reproach in her voice, knowing
what she meant immediately, though he rallied to say, faint-heartedly:
"Why, I haven't learned how to open it yet."
"I'm afraid you'll never learn." She did not look at him.
"What do you mean?" he asked, summoning all his courage. "I thought you
had given it to me."