"Ah, it is only with you that I can do it." She seemed to be more
confused at the incident than he. "I know so much more than I ever dare
speak of," she added.
This did not weaken her spell.
She continued: "Do you remember what you said, when you read my palm,
about my being willing to make an exaggerated confession of motives,
rather than seem to be hypocritical, or unable to see my own faults?"
He did not remember, but he dared not say so. He waited a fraction of a
second too long before he said:
"Certainly I remember."
She looked hard at him and mentally he cowered under her clear gaze.
Then her brows drew slightly together with a puzzled expression, as if
she wondered why he should take the trouble to lie about so small a
matter. But this passed, and she did not arraign his sincerity.
"Well, what I want you to know now is that I don't consider myself any
better--than she is. Do you know what I mean? I don't condemn her.
Oh, dear, I'm so inarticulate! I hope you understand!"
"I think I do," he answered, but he could not help speculating as to the
definiteness of her perception. She answered his question unasked.
"I get things only vaguely--that's one reason why I could not judge a
person upon the evidence of my intuition--I couldn't tell you, for
instance, exactly what happened between you two just now. I know only
that I was disturbed, and that you, somehow, reassured me."
"But you were more precise about what happened up-stairs." He was still
at a loss to fix her limitations.
"Oh, there I pieced it out a little. Shall I confess? I knew you well
enough to fill in the picture. I know something of her, too."
"Witch!"
"You're a wizard to make me confess!" she replied, brightly shining on
him. "I don't often speak. It's usually very disagreeable to know so
much of people--indeed, I often combat it and refuse to see. But with
you it's different."
"It's not disagreeable?"
"No, it is disagreeable usually. It makes me feel priggish to mention
it, too, but, with you, the impulse to speak is as strong as the
revelation itself; that's the strangest part of it."
This confession gave him a new sense of power, for he saw that,
sensitive as was her intuition, he controlled and appropriated it. It
had already occurred to him what splendid use he might make of her,
compelling such assistance as she could render. Vistas of ambition had
opened to his fancy. For him, as a mere adventurer, her clairvoyance
might reinforce his scheming most successfully. With her he could play
his game as with a new queen on the chess-board. But he saw now how
absurd was the possibility of harnessing her to such projects. He was,
in fact, a little dazzled by the prospect she suggested. As he
corrected that mistake with a blush for his worldly innocence, he saw
what the game with her alone could be--his game transferred from the
plane of chicanery to the level of an intimate friendship--or even love.
He saw how she would play it, how she would hold his interest, keeping
him intellectually alive with the subtlety of her character.
So far he had not taken her seriously; he had reveled in the possibility
of a love affair, but he had not even contemplated the possibility of a
permanent alliance. As Madam Spoll had said, he had had his pick of
women--and each had ended by boring him. Granthope, besides, with all
his delight in strategy, was modest, and desire for social establishment
had not entered into his plans. He had accepted Clytie as one of a
different world, desirable and even tempting, but not at all as one who
would change either his theory or his mode of life. But now, with a
sudden turn, his thoughts turned to marriage with her. Madam Spoll's
words leaped to his memory--she had said that it was possible. This
idea came as the final explosion of a long, tumescent agitation. He
looked at Clytie with new eyes. His ambition soared.
The meal went on in a succession of bizarre courses--seaweed soup,
shark's fins, duck's eggs, fried goose and roasted sucking pig, boiled
bamboo sprouts to bird's nests and mysterious dishes--with rice gin and
citron wine. The company was rollicking now; even the gentleman in
black evening dress was laughing, and, goaded on by the irrepressible
Mrs. Page, had taken a large crown of gold paper, cut into rich patterns
and decorated with colored trimmings, from its place in the center of
the table and had set it upon his bald head. The walls of the
dining-room were covered with a row of paper costumes, elaborate robes
used by the Chinese tongs in their triennial festival of the dead. They
were of all colors, decorated with cut paper or painted in dragon
designs with rainbow borders and gold mons. Mrs. Page tore one from the
wainscot and wrapped it about her partner's shoulders. Fernigan
gibbered a fantastic allegiance before him; Keith, he of the white nose,
called for a speech. Over all this mirth the clashing cymbals, the
rattling tom-toms and squeaking two-stringed fiddles kept up an uncouth
accompaniment. Granthope, so far, had been a quiet observer, but when
at Clytie's request he removed his wig and false mustache, he was
recognized by Frankie Dean, who sat further up the table.
"Oh, Mr. Granthope," she cried out. "Won't you please read my hand?"
Every one turned to him. Clytie watched him to see what he would do.
Mrs. Maxwell, at the head of the table, obviously annoyed at this
indelicacy, sought to rescue him.
"I promised Mr. Granthope that he wouldn't be asked," she interposed,
smiling with difficulty.
"Office hours from ten till four," Fernigan announced. The guests
tittered.
Granthope arose calmly and walked up to the young lady's side, taking
her hand. Then he turned to his sarcastic tormentor.
"This is one of the rewards of my profession," he said, smiling
graciously. "I assure you I don't often get a chance to hold such a
beautiful hand as this."
Clytie got a glance across to him, and in it he read her approval. He
bent to the girl's palm gravely:
"I see by your clothes-line," he said, "that you have much taste and
dress well. Your fish-line shows that you have extraordinary luck in
catching anything you want. There are many victories along your line of
march. There is a pronounced line of beauty here; in fact, all your
lines are cast in pleasant places. You will have a very good hand at
whatever game you play, and whoever is fortunate enough to marry you
will surely take the palm."
He retired gracefully, followed by laughter and applause, and was not
troubled by more requests. Clytie whispered to him:
"I think you saved yourself with honor. It was a test, but I was sure
of you!"
Mrs. Maxwell, immensely relieved, almost immediately gave the signal for
the ladies to leave. After the men had reseated themselves, heavy
Chinese pipes with small bowls were passed about. Most of the guests
tried a few puffs of the mild tobacco, and then reached for cigarettes
or cigars. As the doors to the drawing-room were shut they drew closer
together and began to talk more freely.
Blanchard Cayley came over and sat down beside Granthope in Clytie's
empty chair. He, too, had taken off his wig. His smile was
ingratiating, his voice was suave, as he said:
"I don't want to make you talk shop if you don't care to, Granthope, but
I'd like to know if you ever heard of reading the character by
thumb-prints. I don't know exactly what you'd call it--papilamancy,
perhaps."
"I don't think it has ever been done, but I don't see why it shouldn't
be," said Granthope, amused.
"What is necessary to make it a science?"
Granthope, quicker with women than with men, was at a loss to see what
Cayley was driving at, but he suspected a trap, and foresaw that his
science was to be impugned. He countermined:
"Oh, first of all, a classification and a terminology," he suggested.
Cayley was caught neatly. He was more ignorant than he knew.
"Why don't you classify the markings then? I should think it might be
considered a logical development of chiromancy."
"One reason is, because they have already been classified by Galton.
I've forgotten most of it, but I remember some of the primary divisions.
Have you a pencil?"
Cayley unbuttoned and threw open his plum-colored, long-sleeved 'dun,'
disclosing evening dress underneath, and produced a pencil which he gave
to the palmist. Granthope smoothed out his paper napkin, and, as he
talked, drew illustrative diagrams upon it.
"You see, the identification of thumb-prints is made by means of the
characteristic involution of the nucleus and its envelope. One needs
only a few square millimeters of area. There are three primary
nuclei--arches, whorls and loops. Each has variously formed cores. The
arch, for instance, may be tented or forked--so. The whorls may be
circular or spiral. The loops may be nascent, invaded or crested, and
may contain either a single or several rods, as they are called. Let me
see your thumb, please. You have a banded, duplex, spiral whorl. It
was there when you were born, it will be the same in form when you die.
Mine is an invaded loop with three rods."
He saw by Cayley's face that he had scored. Such technical detail was,
in point of fact, Cayley's penchant, and he was interested. Granthope
proceeded:
"Almost every distinguishing characteristic of the human body has been
used at one time or another for divination or interpretation, as I
suppose you know."
Cayley saw an opening. "But what do you think the reading of moles, for
instance, amounts to, really?"
"The reading of them, very little, of course. But the location of them,
a good deal."
"Ah," said Cayley, "I thought so. Then you affirm an esoteric basis
with regard to such interpretations? You think that a mass of absolute
knowledge has been conserved, coming down from no one knows where, I
suppose?"
"There are several ways of looking at it," Granthope answered him. He
threw himself back in his chair and gathered the company in with his
eyes. "One theory, as you know, is that palmistry derives its authority
from the fact that the lines are produced by the opening and closing of
the hand--originally, at least--the fundamental markings being
inherited, as are our fundamental mental characteristics--and that such
alteration of the tissue is directly affected by the character. One
stamps his own particular way of doing things upon his palm. Using the
right hand most, more is shown there that is individually
characteristic. Of course this theory will not apply to the
distribution of moles upon the body. But it seems to me that every part
of an organic growth must be consistent with the whole, and with what
governs it. Everything about a person must necessarily be
characteristic of the individual. There are really no such things as
accidents, if we except scars. We recognize that in studying
physiognomy, and, to a certain extent, in phrenology. It is suggested
less intelligibly in a person's gait, gesture and pose. Everything that
is distinctive must be significant, if only we have the power of
interpreting it. Of course we have not that power as yet. Palmistry,
being the most obvious and striking method, has been more fully
developed. A great amount of data has been collected upon the subject,
and every good palmist is continually adding to that material. But I
believe that, to a possible higher intelligence, any part of a man's
body would reveal his character--since every specialized partial
manifestation of himself must be correlated with every other part and
the whole. How else could it be? An infinite experience would draw a
man's mental and physical portrait, for instance, from a single toe, as
it is possible for a scientist to portray a whole extinct animal from a
single bone. I think that there can be, in short, no possible
divergence from type without a reason for it; and that reason is the
same one that molded his character."
"But that doesn't explain prognostication of the future." By this time
the animus of Cayley's attack had died out. He was now impersonally
interested.
"No scientific palmist attempts to give more than possibilities. He
must combine with the signs in the hands a certain amount of
psychology--a knowledge of the tendencies of human nature--in order to
predict. But, after all, his diagnosis, when it is logical, is as
accurate as that of the ordinary physician, and the risk is less
serious. How many doctors look wise and take serious chances--or
prescribe bread-pills? There's guess-work enough in all professions."
By this time the two had been joined by several others who hung over
them in a group, listening. Fernigan interjected:
"That's right! Even Blanchard has to guess what he's talking about most
of the time!"
"And you have to guess whether you're sober or not!" said slim Keith
with the white nose.
"When you talk about the probable tendencies of human nature, you don't
know what you're up against," said Cayley, retreating. "San Francisco
is a town where people are likely to do anything. There's no limit, no
predicting for them. They were buying air-ship stock on the street down
at Lotta's fountain, the last thing I heard."
The old gentleman in evening dress, still wearing his Chinese paper
crown, took him up enthusiastically.
"You can be more foolish here without getting into the insane asylum
than any place on earth, but you have to be a thoroughbred spiritualist
before you can really call yourself bug-house. Look at old man Bennett!
You couldn't make anything up he wouldn't believe!"
"What about him?" said Cayley. "I would like to have him for my
collection of freaks.
"Oh, he was a furniture manufacturer here. I knew him well, but I
forget the details. It was something fierce though, the way they worked
him."
Granthope smiled. "I can tell you something about Bennett," he offered.
"I happened to hear the whole story nearly at first hand."
"Let's have it," Cayley proposed.
Granthope leaned back in his chair and began, rather pleased at having
an audience.
"Why, he went to investigating spiritualism and fell into the hands of a
man named Harry Wing and a gang of mediums here. They won Bennett over
to a firm belief, step by step, till he was the dupe of every ghost that
appeared in the materializing circles, which cost him twenty-five
dollars an evening, by the way. One man that helped Wing out, played
spirit, pretended to be his dead son, and used to ask him for jewelry so
that he could dematerialize it, and then rematerialize it for
identification. If Bennett went down to Los Angeles he'd take the same
train and turn up at a circle there, proving he was the same spirit by
the rings that had been given him up here. Well, Bennett got so strong
for it that after a while they didn't bother with cabinets and dark
seances--the players used to walk right in the door. Then they'd tell
him that, as partly materialized spirits, they ought to have dinner to
increase their magnetism, and he'd send out for chicken and wine.
Finally they got him so they'd point out people on the street and assert
that they were spirits. The prettiest test was when they materialized
Cleopatra. I've never seen the Egyptian queen, but she certainly wasn't
a bit prettier than the girl who played her part. Bennett, as an
extraordinary test of her strength, was allowed to take her out to the
Cliff House in a hack. The curtains of the carriage had to be pulled
down to keep the daylight from burning her."
"Oh, Cliff House, what crimes have been committed in thy name!" Fernigan
murmured.
"Next, they made Bennett believe that his influence was so valuable in
accustoming spirits to earth-conditions, that they were going to reveal
a new bible to him, with all the errors and omissions corrected, and he
would go down to posterity as its author. In return, he was to help
civilize the planet Jupiter. You see, Jupiter being an exterior planet
was behind the earth in culture. Bennett contributed all sorts of
agricultural implements and furniture to be dematerialized and sent to
Jupiter, there to be rematerialized and used as patterns. Wing even got
him to contribute a five hundred dollar carriage for the same purpose.
It was sold by the gang for seventy-five dollars, and even when it was
shown to Bennett by his friends, who were trying to save him, he
wouldn't believe it was the same one. They milked him out of every cent
at last, and he died bankrupt."
Granthope had scarcely finished his story when the drawing-room doors
were half opened and Mrs. Page appeared on the threshold pouting.
"Aren't you ever coming in here?" she exclaimed petulantly. "You might
let us have Mr. Granthope, at least."
The men rose and sauntered in, one by one.
Granthope had but a moment in which to reflect upon what he had done,
but in that moment he regretted his indiscretion in telling the Bennett
story. He had not been able to resist the opportunity to make himself
interesting and agreeable; now he wondered what price he would have to
pay for it. The next moment his speculations vanished at the sight of
Clytie.
He went directly to her and sat down. Although the party was dispersed
in little groups, the conversation had become more or less general, and
he had no chance to talk to her alone. He received her smile, however,
and she favored him with as much of her talk as was possible.
As she sat there, with relaxed grace that was almost languor, she made
the other women in the room look either negligently lolling or awkwardly
conscious. He noticed how some of them showed the fabled western
influence of environment by the frank abandon of their pose, how others
held themselves rigidly, as if aware of their own lack, and sought, by
stern attention, to conceal it. Clytie's head was poised proudly, her
hands fell from her slender wrists like drooping flowers. Her whole body
was faultlessly composed, unified with harmonious lines, as if a
masterly portrait were gently roused into life.
Fernigan now began, upon request, a Chinese parody, accompanied by
absurd pantomime. Granthope could not bear it, and, seeing Clytie still
busy with her admirers, slipped out of the room and went up to the
library.
Mr. Maxwell's books were rare and carefully selected, a treat for such
an amateur as Granthope. He went from case to case fingering the
volumes, opening and glancing through one after another. The pursuit
kept him longer than he had intended.
There was a smaller room off the library, used as a study and shut off
by a portiere. Granthope, standing near the entrance, suddenly heard
the sound of swishing skirts and footsteps, then the subdued, modulated
voices of two women. With no intention at first of eavesdropping, he
kept on with his perusal of the book in his hand. The first part of the
conversation he remembered rather than listened to, but it soon
attracted his alert attention.
"I think it's a rather extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maxwell's asking him,
though, don't you?" one of the ladies said.
The reply was in a gentle and more sympathetic voice: "Oh, she wanted an
attraction, I suppose, and he's really very good-looking, you know."
"He's handsome enough, but he's too much like a matinee hero for me; my
dear, he's absolutely impossible, really! He's not the sort of person
one cares to meet more than once. He's beyond the pale.
"It's rather cruel to invite him just to show him off, I think. In a
way, he had to accept."
"Oh, I expect he's only too glad to come."
"I wonder how he feels! Do you suppose he has any idea that he's out of
his element? It must be strange to be willing to accept an invitation
when you know you are, after all, only a sort of freak."
"Don't worry. A charlatan has to have a pretty thick skin--no doubt
he'll make use of all of us, and brag about his acquaintance. That's
his business, you know; he has to advertise himself."
"I know; but every man has his own sense of dignity, and it must be
somewhat mortifying--no self-respecting coal-heaver would accept such an
invitation--his pride would keep him from it.
"I don't see how a man like that can have much pride. A coal-heaver
has, after all, a dignified way of earning his living. This man hasn't.
His trade can't permit him to be self-respecting. It's more undignified
than any honest labor would be. Why, he lives by trickery and flattery,
and now he's beginning to toady, too. Just look at the way he is after
Clytie Payson, already."
"Yes, I can't see why she permits it, but she seems to be positively
fascinated by him. Isn't it strange how a fine girl like that is
usually the most easily deceived? Did you see the way she was looking
at him at supper? That told the story. Of course, you'd expect it of
Mrs. Page, but not of Cly."
"Don't you believe it! Cly's no fool--she sees through him. He's
interesting, you can't deny that; and you know that a clever man can get
about anything he wants in this town. There are too few of them to go
round, and so they're all spoiled. But Cly's only playing him."
"You don't think she's deliberately fooling him, do you?"
"Nonsense! I know Cly as well as you do. She would always play fair
enough, of course, but that doesn't prevent her wanting to study a new
specimen, especially one as attractive as Granthope. But it won't last
long. Cly's too honest. It's likely that he'll go too far and take
advantage of her--then she'll call him down and dismiss him."
"Do you think he imagines that he could really--" began the other.
"Oh, _he's_ no fool either! He knows perfectly well where he belongs,
but he's working his chances while they last."
Granthope had been deliberately listening and, as the last words came to
his ears, his emotion burst into flame. This, then, was how he was
regarded by the new circle into which he had been admitted. He was a
curiosity, handsome, but beyond the pale--even Clytie, it was probable,
was willing to amuse herself with him. The illumination it gave him as
to his status was vivid, its radiance scorched him.
He had never caught this point of view before. He had been too
interested in his emergence from obscurity, he had even congratulated
himself upon his increasing success. Now he saw that the further he
went on that road the further away from Clytie he would be--he saw the
chasm that separated them. His undignified profession appeared to him
for the first time in its true aspect. The humiliation and
mortification of that revelation was sickening. He had not believed
that it was possible for him to suffer over anything so keenly. The
insults he had received, produced, after a poignant moment of despair,
an energetic reaction. His fighting instinct was awakened. He had
achieved a certain control of himself, he had a social poise and
assurance that kindled his mind at the prospect of an encounter.
He drew aside the portiere and walked boldly into the little room.
Two ladies were sitting there, picturesque in their costumes. Their
rainbow-hued garments showed a bizarre blotch of color in the quiet
monochrome of the place. Their faces were whitened with powder, their
eyebrows blackened to the willow-curve, their lips lined with red--they
looked, in the half-light, like fantastic, exotic Pierrettes. As they
caught sight of him they started up with surprise, almost with fear.
Granthope bowed with a quiet smile, perfectly master of himself.
"I want to apologize for having overheard your conversation," he said.
"I must confess that I was eavesdropping. My business is, you know, to
read character for others, and I don't often have a chance to hear my
own so well described. I'm much obliged to you, I'm sure."
He had the whip-hand now. There was nothing for them to say; they said
nothing, staring at him, their lips parted.
He walked through to the door of the hall and there paused like an actor
making his exit from the stage. A cynical smile still floated on his
lips. He had never looked more handsome, with his black hair, his
clean-cut head, and his fine, deep eyes that looked them over calmly,
without haste. His costume became him and he wore it well. Now, as he
raised his hand, the long sleeve of his olive green coat fell a little
away from his fingers. Below, his lavender trousers gleamed softly. It
was a queer draping for his serious pose. It was a strangely figured
pair that he addressed as they sat, embarrassed, immovable in their
splendid silken garments.
He added more gently, with no trace of sarcasm in his smooth voice: "I
would like to tell you, if it is any satisfaction for you to know, that
your operation has been successful. It was rather painful, without the
anesthetic of kindness, but I shall recover. I think I may even be
better for it, perhaps restored to health--who knows!" Then his smile
became enigmatic; he left them and went down the stairs.
He made his way to Clytie with a new assurance; inexplicably to him,
some innate power, long in reserve, had risen to meet the emergency. He
was exhilarated, as with a victory. She looked up at him puzzled.
"I wonder if you know what has happened this time?" he said.
"Oh, if I only did! Something has--you have changed, somehow."
"Is it an improvement?"
"You know, it is my theory that you're going to--" She gave up her
explanation--her lips quivered. "Well, yes! You have been
embarrassed?"
"I suppose it was good for my vanity."
"Then you have heard something unpleasant."
"The truth often is."
"Was it true?"