"What's that to me? Haven't I got eyes? Haven't I common sense? Can
you tell me how they find out things about my own life that no one
living knows but me?"
"I can tell you how it was done in other cases--"
"Aha, I thought so--you can tell me, for instance, how to crawl through
a trap in the mopboard, can't you? I'd rather hear how you impose on
silly women, if you're going in for your confessions. What do you
expect me to believe? I am quite satisfied with my own ability to
investigate. I haven't lived for fifty years in the West to be imposed
upon by flimflam. I'm not suffering from senile decay quite yet!"
He took Clytie to the door; there he paused dramatically, to deliver his
parting shot.
"I notice you've hidden away that young woman you're living with. You
might as well send for her--my daughter is not likely to be back again
in a hurry."
As they left, Clytie gave him a look which denied her father's words.
Granthope waited till the hall door had slammed, then went into the
office, where the red-haired boy was lolling out of the window.
"Jim," he said, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, "I shall not need
you any more. Here's your pay for the week. You needn't come back."
Jim shuffled into his coat, whistling, pulled on his cap, and left
without a trace of regret. Granthope pulled a chair up to the grate.
The dusk fell, and he still remained, watching the fire.
It was after six o'clock when a knock awoke him from his reverie. He
called out a moody, annoyed, "Come in!" without rising.
Mrs. Page rustled in, bringing an odor of sandalwood. She was dressed in
a squirrel-coat and a Cossack cap, from which a long veil floated. Her
cheeks were rosy with the wind, her glossy hair coquetted over her
forehead in dark, springy curls. She stopped, her head on one side, her
arms saucily akimbo, as Granthope sprang up and snapped on the electric
light.
"Oh, I'm _so_ glad I found you!" she bubbled. "You're run after so much
now that I knew it was only a chance, my finding you in. I hope I
didn't disturb you at silent prayer, or anything, did I? You looked
terribly serious. Were you thinking of home and mother? If you don't
look out, some day you'll be framed and labeled _Pictures in the Fire_.
Now, you're angry with me! What's the matter? Don't frown, please; it
isn't at all becoming!"
She walked up to him, her hand outstretched. Lightly he evaded her and
forced a smile.
"What an iceberg you are, nowadays, Frank!" she laughed. "Don't be
afraid; I'm not going to kiss you! It's only little Violet, the Pride of
the Presidio. Please laugh! You used to think that was funny."
"Do have a seat, won't you?" he said, in a half-hearted attempt to
conceal his distaste.
"Thanks, awfully, but really I can't wait. I just simply tore to get
here, and I must go right off. You must come along with me; so get on
your hat and coat." She looked about the room for them.
"What is it?" he asked without curiosity.
"Why, a dinner, of course! What else could it be at this time of day?
It's Mr. Summer's affair, and I promised to get you."
"Mr. Summer is the latest, I suppose?"
She came back to him and took his coat by the two lapels, smiling up at
him.
"That's mean, Frank! You know I never went back on you. But you as
much as gave me notice, as if I was a servant-girl. Gay's a nice boy,
and I like him--that's all. I'm educating him. Of course, he doesn't
know what's what, yet, but he's rather fun. Do come--we're going to
have dinner at the Poodle Dog, and the Orpheum afterward perhaps--Heaven
knows where it'll end. There's an awfully swell New York girl coming, a
Miss Cavendish, and she's simply _dying_ to meet you. You'll like her.
She's a sport--you can't feaze her--and she's pretty enough to suit even
you. You can have her all to yourself. Come on!"
"I'm sorry, but I can't go to-night," he said wearily.
"Oh, Frank, please! Not if I beg you?" She looked at him
languishingly, and tried for his hand.
"Really, no! I'm sorry, but I'm too busy."
Mrs. Page pouted and turned slowly toward the door.
"I suppose you're afraid Gay'll bore you. I'll manage him. I've got
him trained. Or, if you say so--we'll go alone? Just you and me. I
can get rid of them, some way."
He shook his head decidedly.
"Did you have such a dull time the last time over at the Hermitage?" she
tempted. "We might go there. I don't know _when_ I'll have another
chance. Edgar will be back soon." She raised her brows meaningly.
"It's awfully good of you--but I can't, possibly."
"You might say you'd _like_ to!"
"I don't really care to, if you must have it!"
She bridled and tossed her head. "_Oh_, very well!" she sniffed, and
was off in a huff.
Granthope went to the desk, and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket,
unlocked the two lower drawers. The first contained a collection of
photographs of women. He drew them out in handfuls, stopping at one
occasionally, or turning it over to see what was written upon it. The
most were inscribed, on the back, or scrawled across the face, "To Mr.
Granthope"--several "To Francis"--one or two "To Frank, with love." All
types of beauty were represented, all sorts of costumes, all ages, all
phases of pretty women's vanity. He looked at some with a puzzled
expression, searching his memory for a clue to their identity. At a few
he smiled sarcastically, at some he frowned. Once or twice his face
softened to tenderness or pity. There was one of Fancy amongst them,
showing her in costume. It had been taken years ago, while she was
acting. He looked at it with a sort of wonder, she seemed so young, so
girlish. On the back was written, "N.F.F.I.L." He put it back into the
drawer and gathered up the others.
He made a heap of them and threw them upon the fire, then dropped into
the arm-chair to watch them burn. The flames passed from face to face,
licking up the features. It was like a mimic death.
The other drawer was filled with letters, tied into bunches. They were
all addressed in feminine handwriting, mostly of the fashionable,
angular sort. The envelopes were postmarked chiefly from San Francisco,
but there were not a few from Eastern cities and abroad. One out of
five bore special delivery stamps. A scent of mingled perfumes came from
them. He cut the packages open and threw them into the wastebasket
without stopping to read a word.
He poked up the fire, and, carrying the basket over, fed in the letters,
a handful at a time. The flames roared up the chimney, sending out a
fierce heat. It took an hour to destroy the whole collection. A mass
of distorted, blackened, filmy sheets remained.
As he looked, a sudden draft made one leaf of charcoal glow to a red
heat, and the writing showed plain--black on a cherry-colored ground.
He stooped curiously to read it, and saw that it was the remains of a
card, filled with Fancy Gray's handwriting. He remembered abstracting
her notes upon Clytie, made after that first day's reading. He had
placed it in the letter-drawer for safe keeping, and had forgotten to
remove it.
Only the lower part was legible:
"... intuitive powers (?!) Play her Mysticism.
..... Easy. Sympathetic fool ...."
The glow suddenly faded, the charred paper writhed again, black and
impotent. He gave it a vicious jab with the poker, and scattered it to
ashes.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*THE BLOODSUCKER*
Professor Vixley's place was on Turk Street, the lower flat of three,
whose separate doors made a triplet at the top of a tri-divided flight
of wooden steps up from the sidewalk. The door had a plate-glass
window, behind which was a cheap lace curtain. At the side, nailed over
the letter slip, was a card bearing the written inscription,
+--------------------------+
| |
| PROF. P. VIXLEY. |
| |
+--------------------------+
Inside, a narrow hall ran down into the house, doors leading at
intervals on the right hand, to small box-like rooms. The first one was
the Professor's sitting- and reception-room, the shearing place for his
lambs. The small type-writer on a stand and his roll-top desk attempted
to give the room a businesslike aspect, while the homelier needs of
comfort were satisfied by the machine-carved Morris chair, a padded,
quilted couch with "hand-painted" sofa cushions and a macrame fringe
along the mantel. Art was represented by the lincrusta-walton dado
below the blank white plastered walls, partly covered with "spirit
photographs," and a small parlor organ in the corner. A canary in a
gilded cage gave a touch of gaiety to the apartment.
Here Professor Vixley sat smoking a terrible cigar. Beside him, upon a
small draped table, was a pile of small school slates, a tumbler of
water and a sad towel.
Opposite him, in a patent rocking-chair, was a young woman of some
twenty-four or five years. She was a blonde, with pompadoured
citron-yellow hair. Her eyes were deep violet, her nose slightly
retrousse, giving her a whimsical, almost petulantly juvenile look that
was decidedly engaging. She was dressed in black, so fittingly that no
man would remember what she wore five minutes after he left her. This
attractive creature, for she was indubitably winsome, was Flora Flint,
by profession a materializing medium. Her past was prolific in
adventure; by her alluring person and the dashing spirit shown in her
eyes, her future promised as much as her past.
"Are you busy to-day, Vixley?" she said.
"That's what," said Vixley. "I've got a good graft doped out, and it's
liable to be a big thing. First time to-day. One of Gertie Spoll's
strikes, and we're working him together. Old man Payson it is."
"Oh, that's the one Doc Masterson expected me to help him with, isn't
it?" Flora asked. "I wish you'd let me in on that."
"He ain't in your line, Flo, I expect. Ain't you doin' anything now?"
"Only the regular set, the same old stand-bys, and there's nothing in it
at four bits apiece. I've got so many people to pay that even if I get
forty or fifty in a circle my expenses eat it all up. Then I have to
keep thinking up new stunts and buy props."
"You don't have to spend much on gas," Vixley laughed, as he began
washing off his slates.
Flora smiled. "No, but it comes to about the same thing in luminous
paint."
"Why don't you make it yourself? It ain't nothin' but ground
oyster-shells and sulphur."
"Oh, it ain't only that. I only use the best silk gauze that'll fold up
small--that's expensive; then there's a lot of work on the forms."
"Don't you get your forms from Chicago now?" Vixley asked.
"No, they're no good. I can make better ones myself. Oh, occasionally
I send for a rubber face or two or some cabinet attachments and
extensions. I wish I was clever enough to do the slates." She watched
the Professor sharply.
"Oh, they ain't nothin' in slates nowadays--it don't seem to take,
somehow. They mostly prefer the psychics. I s'pose slate-writin' has
been wrote up too much--I know a dozen books describin' the tricks, and
here's this Drexel chap teachin' 'em at a dollar apiece, even. He's a
queer guy. When he can get a bookin' he travels as a magician; durin'
his off-times he sells his tricks to amachures, and then when he's down
on his uppers he does the medium. I'm sorry I went into physical
mediumship; the graft's about played out--people is gettin' too
intelligent. I've a good mind to try the developin' stunt again."
"Say, do you think Madam Spoll has any real power?" Flora asked.
Vixley stopped in his work to become epigrammatic. "Some mediums are
'on' and some are honest--them that's honest are fools and them that's
'on' are foolin'. Gertie's 'on' all right, and she does considerable
fishin'. I don't say that when she started she didn't have some
faculty--she used to scare me good, sometimes, and she could catch a
name occasional. But Lord, it's so much easier to fake it; you can
generally depend on human nature, and you can't on psychometry."
"I can tell things sometimes," Flora ventured.
"Can you?" said Vixley. "Say, I wish you'd give me a readin'; they's
somethin' I want to know about pretty bad; p'raps you could get it for
me."
"Oh, I know you too well. I can't do it much, except the first time I
see a party; but sometimes, when I'm materializing, I can go right down
and say 'I'm Henry,' or whatever the name is."
"I guess they're more likely to say, 'Are you Henry?' They're so crazy
to be fooled that it's a crime to take their money."
"Women are. They're easy. They simply won't go away without a
wonderful story to tell to their friends, but men are more skeptical, as
a rule."
"That's right. But, Lord, when they do swallow it, they take the hook,
bait and sinker. Why, look here, I had a party what used to come regular
about a girl he was stuck on, a Swede he was. Well, one day he went up
to this Drexel and he showed him one or two easy ways o' workin' the
slates, provin' it was all tricks. The Swede comes back to me and says,
'Oh,' says he, 'I know it's all a fake now; you can't fool _me_ no
more.' I looked him straight in the eye and I says: 'Don't you know
that fellow is really one of the best mediums in the business, and he's
controlled by Martin Luther? He was just tryin' to test your belief by
denyin' the truth o' spiritualism, and seein' if you'd have the courage
to stand up for what you believed. If your faith ain't no stronger than
that, after the tests I gave you, you'd better go into Mormonism and be
done with it.'"
"Did that hold him?"
"I've got that fellow yet; twice a month, regular, I get his little old
two dollars; Lord, he swears by me now. No, them that want to believe
_will_ believe, and you can't pry 'em off with a crowbar. Ain't that
right?"
"I guess yes!" said Flora. "But what gets my game is the widow that
used to quarrel like cats and dogs when her husband was alive and leaks
on his shoulder when he comes to her in the spirit! They're the limit!
When a woman once gets it into her head that the dear departed can take
possession of a living body, there ain't anything she won't stand for.
My brother had a lovely case once. It was a woman whose husband hadn't
passed out more than two months and she was all broke up. Well, Harry
got her to believe that her husband could get control of his body and
talk to her. At first the woman wasn't quite sure, so Harry, talking to
her as her husband, claimed that he himself was in a dead trance.
'Why,' he said, 'if you should stick a pin into this medium's leg here,
he wouldn't feel it at all!' That was where he was foolish, for the
woman said, 'Is that so? I guess I'll just try it and see.' So Harry
had to stand for it while she jabbed a hat pin into him, but he was game
and didn't whimper. Of course that convinced the woman that she was
really communicating with her lawful husband, and she begun to kiss and
hug Harry to beat the cars, she was so glad to get hubby back."
"Well, it's all in a day's work!" Vixley showed his sharp yellow fangs
in a grin.
"Oh, you have to make it pleasant for sitters, sometimes," Flora yawned.
"I guess it's no trouble for you," Vixley said, looking at her with
admiration.
Flora yawned. "Well, I guess we earn our money, what with skeptics and
all. Now, if you have any of these reporters come in you can get rid of
them easy--but we can't. We've got to make good for the sake of the
rest of the crowd, unless they get so gay with us that we can fire 'em
out."
"That's right. I never bother with skeptics; what's the use? I don't
want their money enough to risk their jumpin' up and gettin' on to the
game. No, sir! When any of these slick chaps that look like newspaper
men or sports, come in, I just do a few lines and then tell 'em
conditions ain't satisfactory and let 'em go. It ain't no use takin'
chances."
"You're in luck, Vixley, I tell you! I've had no end of trouble. Why,
last week a couple o' fresh guys come in and scattered a package of
tacks all over the floor. When I come out in my stocking feet I thought
I'd die, it hurt so. But I had to just grin and bear it! My feet are
so sore yet I can hardly walk. I have to sweep the carpet now, just as
soon as it's dark, every time, unless Lulu's there to watch out!"
Vixley laughed for almost five minutes. He had to dry his eyes with a
silk handkerchief.
"Oh, Professor," said Flora, "I almost forgot what I came for. You know
Harry's doing the Middle West now with Mademoiselle Laflamme, the
Inspirational Contralto, and he wanted me to ask you if you had anything
on Missouri and Iowa. Would you mind lending him your test-book? You
was out there a few years ago, wasn't you?"
"Sure. I'll look and see if I can find it," and Vixley arose and left
the room. He was gone a few minutes, and returned with a small,
blue-covered note-book.
"Here's my test-book," he said, handing it over. "It's rather behind the
times. It was five years ago that I was out there, but maybe Harry can
get something out of it."
"How did you get the dope, swapping?"
"Oh, no, I done it all myself, and it's O.K. I went through the country
first as a book-agent, and I kep' my eyes and ears open. I took a look
or two through the cemeteries, when I had time, and I read up the local
papers pretty good. Of course I wouldn't go back till a year after I
got a town planted, but then it was easy graft."
"I suppose these abbreviations are all plain?"
"Yes, Harry will read that all right, he knows the regular cipher. The
name after the first one is the party's control. I've writ in a few
messages that'll work, and all the tests I know."
She opened the book and ran through the pages which ran something like
this:
Jefferson City, Mo.
Mrs. Henry Field "Mayflower" hb John died
pneumonia 1870 good wishes from little
Emily broken leg.
Cameron, Mo.
Mrs. Osborne "Pauline" hub James calls him Jimmie
da disappeared July 1897 found drowned in Red
River August Aunt Molly is happy Love to Belle
and Joe.
Flora put the book in her bag, and then reached over and took up one of
the slates. The one on top was marked diagonally with two chalk-lines,
and over this was written in slate-pencil the following inscription:
801,101
Chapter
Marigold.
Beside this, was a thin sheet of slate. She placed it over the marked
surface. It fitted the frame exactly and looked, at a cursory glance,
precisely like the other slates, its dark surface being clean.
She took up another slate. On this was written:
Unforeseen difficulties will prevent your
book being successful, if you do not take
care. Felicia.
The Professor grinned. "That's the dope for old Payson," he explained.
"He ought to be here any time, now." He went to the window and looked
out.
"What game are you going to work with him?" Flora asked.
"Oh, only a few of the old stunts. He's so easy that it won't be
nothin' but child's play. I got a lot of the old-fashioned slab-slates
for a starter, and I can change 'em on him whenever I want. He won't
insist on test conditions. Anyways, if he does, I got my little spirit
friend here handy."
He reached up his sleeve, and pulled down a thimble attached to an
elastic cord. To the end of the thimble a small piece of slate-pencil
was affixed.
"The only hard part about it is learnin' to write backwards and upside
down," he commented, as he let the instrument snap back out of sight.
"Say, I wish't I had a double-jointed leg like Slade! I tell you I'd
give some sittin's in this town that would paralyze the Psychical
Research!"
"But what's this stuff on the slates mean?"
"Oh, them is the answers I've prepared. You see, I happened to get hold
of some questions he's goin' to ask, from a young fellow who goes to his
house; and so havin' inside information, it saves considerable trouble.
Funny thing--this chap wants to marry the daughter, who'll have money, I
suppose, and he's standin' in with me on account o' what I can do for
him through the old man."
"Why, I heard that Granthope was setting his traps for her!"
Vixley scowled. "That's right, too. Frank's got something up his
sleeve that I can't fathom. He's been trying to buy me off, in fact,
but he'll never do it. This fellow Cayley naturally has got it in for
him, Frank bein' pretty thick with the girl. So I got to play both ends
and work the old man for Cayley and against Frank. But I can do it all
right. The old man's a cinch!"
Flora walked up to him. "You're in luck," she said. She permitted him
to put his arm about her small trim waist and looked at him
good-naturedly. "Say, Vixley, if he's as easy as that, why can't you fix
it for some good materializing? We could do all sorts of things for
him."
"I'd thought of that. It might be a good idea later, and we may talk
business with you."
"Well, when you're ready, I'll do anything you say. You know me."
At that moment the front door-bell rang.
"Here he is now!" Vixley exclaimed. "Say, Flora, you go out the back
door through the kitchen, will you? It won't do for him to see you
here."
"Sure! I'll spare him. The Doc says he's scared to death of a pretty
woman," and she disappeared down the hall.
Professor Vixley went to the front door, welcomed Mr. Payson with an
oily smile, took his hat and coat and then let him into a small chamber
next to the front room. There were two straight chairs here on either
side of a table which was draped with an embroidered cloth. Behind was
a high bookcase.
"Well, I'm all ready for you, Mr. Payson," said the medium. "We'll see
what we can do. If we don't get anything I won't charge you a cent.
Have you ever seen any slate-writin' done before?"
"No, I haven't," said Mr. Payson, "but I've heard a good deal about it."
"It's a very interestin' phenomena. Now, before we begin, p'raps you'd
like to examine this table; it's been examined so often, that it's
pretty well used to it by this time, but I want to have you satisfied
that there's no possibility of trickery or deceit."
As he spoke, he took off the cover, and turned the table upside down.
Mr. Payson looked it over gravely and knocked on the top to see if it
were hollow. The investigation finished, Professor Vixley said:
"May I ask who recommended you to me?"
"Madam Spoll--I suppose you know her."
"Oh, yes, and I admire her, too. Madam Spoll is a wonderful woman. I
don't know how this community could get on without her. She's brought
more satisfaction to them desirin' communication with their dear
departed than all the rest of us mediums put together. She's doin' a
great work, Mr. Payson. But she has more success with what you might
call affairs of the heart, while I find my control prefers generally to
help out in the way of business. We're all specialists, nowadays, you
know."
"I should think that the spirits could help in one way as well as
another."
"Now would you?" said Vixley, fixing the old man with his glittering
eyes. "Spirits ain't so much different from people on this side. Some
o' them is interested in one thing, and some in another, same as we are.
Some is nearer what I might call the material plane and some has
progressed so they don't take much interest in earthly affairs."
"It seems to me that I'd always have an interest in my friends," said
Mr. Payson.
"Does it?" Vixley replied. "Where was you raised?"
"In Vermont. I lived there till I was ten years old."
"Well, are you much interested in the kids you knew when you went to
school there?"
"Perhaps not."
"Well, then, that's the way it is with spirits who have got progression.
Their life on earth seems like childhood's days to them. Lord, they
have their own business to attend to. I expect it keeps 'em pretty
busy."
"Well, I don't know." Mr. Payson shook his head and seated himself.
"It's all very strange and mysterious. But I'm only an investigator, and
what I want is the truth, no matter what it may be."
"That's the right frame o' mind to come in," said Vixley; "you treat me
right and I'll treat you right. Have a cigar?" He took one from his
pocket and put it unlighted into his mouth, offering another to Mr.
Payson.
"No, thanks, I don't smoke."
"Well, if you don't mind, I will. It's a bad habit, I'm told, but it
sorts o' helps me when I'm nervous."
Mr. Payson placed the tips of his fingers together, palm to palm, and
gestured with them. "Now, Professor Vixley, seeing that I know nothing
about you, would you mind letting me see what you can do first in the
way of a test, before we go to the main object of my visit?"
"Why, certainly, though I can't promise to do anything conclusive the
first time. I want you to feel at liberty to try me in any way you
wish."
"Well, I've got three questions I'd like to have you answer. I happen
to know that you couldn't possibly know what they are. If you can
answer them, I'll be satisfied that you can help me."
"I'll try," said Vixley modestly. "It all depends upon my guides, and
we can't tell till we begin." He arose, walked to the mantel and
brought back a small pad of paper.
"Here's what I generally use. This paper is magnetized in order to make
it easier. Examine it all you please--you won't find no carbon transfer
paper nor nothin' like that."
"Why can't I use my own paper?"
"I ain't got no more idea than you have," the medium confessed candidly.
"Why can't a photographer take a picture on common glass? I don't know.
I ain't a photographer. All I do know is, that we can get results from
this paper that my control has magnetized, when we can't from yours.
The spirits may be able to explain it--I can't. Now you write down the
name of your control and your three questions, one on each piece and
fold it over twice. Then I'll pull down the shades and see what I can
do."
Mr. Payson brought his hand down on the table querulously. "That's
another thing I don't like," he said. "Why can't spirits work in the
light as well as in the dark, I'd like to know? It looks suspicious to
me."
Vixley took the cigar from his teeth and sat down patiently before his
dupe. He rapped with his forefinger upon the table. "See here, it's
this way, Mr. Payson; every science has its own condition that has got
to be fulfilled before any experiment can be a success, hasn't it? You
can't go against nature. If you want an electric light or telephone, you
have to run wires, don't you? Why? I don't know--I'm not an
electrician. If you want to develop a photograph, you have to do it in
the dark. Why? I don't know--go ask a photographer. If you want to
make a seed grow, you put it down into the dirt and water it. Why? I
don't know. Nobody knows. It's one o' the mysteries o' life. In the
same way, if you want to get results in spiritualism, you have to submit
to the conditions that are imposed by my guide. Why? I don't know.
And what's more, I don't care. If I can get the results, it makes no
difference to me how they come. All I do know is that fifty years'
experience has shown us mediums the proper conditions necessary for the
physical manifestation of phenomena. Full daylight is all right for
psychic influences, but it don't do for slate-writin'. The question is
whether you want to accept the conditions I give you, or do you expect
the spirits to work in a way that's impossible?"
Mr. Payson, overcome with this profound logic, submitted without further
protest to having the shades drawn down. The Professor reseated himself
and waited till the three slips were written and folded according to
direction. In his own lap were three blank slips folded in exactly the
same manner.
Vixley now pressed his brow and smoothed it with both hands. "Some
fakirs will palm a blank slip and exchange it for your written one, but
you see I ain't got nothin' in my hands," he said, showing them empty.
Even as he spoke he dropped his hands into his lap, and secreted one of
his folded slips in his palm. Then he reached for one of Payson's
written questions and seemed to place it on the old man's forehead, but
quick as was the motion, he had made the substitution.
"You hold this paper there while I go and get the slates. And keep your
mind on the question as hard as you can."
He returned in a moment, having glanced meanwhile at Mr. Payson's first
question, while he was outside, bringing back a dozen or more slates
which he put on the book-shelf. He took off the top one and handed it
to Mr. Payson.
"Just look at it, examine it all you want to, and then take this wet
towel, wash it off clean and dry it with the other end, please."
As the old man did so, the Professor went to the pile and took down the
next slate. This was the first one which Flora had read, the writing
being now concealed by the thin slab which fitted neatly into the frame.
As Mr. Payson handed back the first slate, Professor Vixley, looking him
intently in the eye, said:
"Now, can you tell me about how many years ago it was that your control
passed out? Was it five years, twenty, or how long?"
The question was accurately timed so as to be put just as Mr. Payson
extended his hand. Vixley's eyes held the old man's in a direct gaze.
During this psychological moment while his victim was intently trying to
answer the question, the Professor, with a facile movement, put the two
slates together and handed back the same one that had been washed.
"I should say it would be nearly thirty years--twenty-seven."
"All right," said Vixley. "Now, take this slate and wash it off like
you did the other." The old man did so without noticing that it was the
same one he had had before.
Vixley took back the slate when he had finished, and, with a piece of
chalk, drew diagonal lines from corner to corner upon each of the faces
of both slates.
"That will show you that the writin' hasn't been prepared beforehand,
for you'll see that the pencil will write through the chalk, showin'
it's been done after I made these lines."
As he held the two slates together in his hand, the false sheet from the
upper one fell into the frame of the lower. He laid the two upon the
table and took off the top one. The lower surface upon which the
writing was now exposed he took care to hold so that it could not be
seen. Next, he took the slip of paper which Mr. Payson had been
holding, substituted for it with a deft motion the written question
which he had previously palmed, and, throwing the blank into his lap,
dropped the real one, with a small fragment of slate-pencil, upon the
slate. He put the written slate on top of the other, writing down, then
asked the old man to hold it in position, laying his own fingers upon it
as well. A faint scratching was heard. It was too dark for the old man
to notice the slight motions of Vixley's finger-nail upon the surface.
After a moment he removed the top slate and showed the writing, then,
unfolded the slip.
Mr. Payson looked at the inscription with curiosity and surprise.
"Marvelous!" he exclaimed. "Why, it's incredible. I didn't know it
could be done as simply as that. Why, all three of my questions are
answered and they haven't left my possession."
"You seem to have a very strong control. Are the answers correct?"
"I'll soon find out," said Mr. Payson, "if you'll raise the shades while
I look at this book." He cut the strings of a package he had brought
into the room, showed his copy of the _Astrology of the New Testament_
and turned to page one hundred.
"Here it is, 'Chapter IX.' It's most extraordinary, indeed! Now for
the number of my watch. Do you know, I didn't even know these answers
myself. That would tend to prove it's not mere telepathy, wouldn't it?"
He took out his watch and opened the back covers. Upon the frame were
engraved the figures "801,101."
"That's correct, too. Now for the last one--have you a telephone?"
"Right down at the end of the hall."
"If you'll excuse me a moment I'll ring up a friend of mine who will
know whether this is the right name or not."
In five minutes he returned with an expression of wonder upon his face.
"I wanted to make sure that this couldn't be got from my mind, so I
asked a friend of mine to select a name for me. It seems that Marigold
was the name. This is a most wonderful and convincing test, Mr. Vixley;
I must say that I'm amazed."
The Professor took his praise modestly. "Oh, I hope to do much better
for you than this after a while, Mr. Payson. The main point is, that
now we can get to work in such a way as to help you practically, without
wastin' your time on mere experiments. These test conditions is very
apt to deteriorate mediumship and I don't like to do no more of it than
is absolutely necessary to convince you of the genuineness of my
manifestations.
"Now," he added, "before we draw down the shades again, you write down
some important question you want answered and we'll get down to
business."
When Mr. Payson had finished writing, the medium, taking a slip of paper
from his vest pocket unobserved, held it under the table, saying:
"Now you fold it twice, each time in half." As Payson did so, Vixley
folded his own slip in a similar manner and held it palmed in his left
hand. After drawing the shades, he said: "Now, then, will you please
hold that paper to your forehead? Not like that--here, let me show
you."
He took the slip from Mr. Payson and dexterously substituting for it his
own duplicate, held it to his own forehead. "This way, so that it will
be in plain sight all the time." He gave the blank slip to his sitter,
who obeyed the directions.
"I think we'll do better if there's less light," Vixley said, as he
arose to draw the shades. "You keep hold of that paper. I don't want
it to go out of your possession for a moment. You see I couldn't read
it even if I had it, it's so dark. But if you'll excuse me, I'll light
this cigar; I haven't had a smoke all day."
As he spoke, he went to the bookcase, and standing, facing Mr. Payson,
he took a match from a box on the top and lighted the cigar which was
between his teeth. His left hand, which had already secretly unfolded
the ballot, covered the paper. He put it up with a natural gesture to
keep the match from being blown out as he lighted his cigar. The
operation took only a few seconds, but in that time, illuminated by the
match, he was able to read the words: "Will my book be a success?" He
dropped his hand, refolded the ballot with his fingers and held it
hidden. Then he took two slates from the pile.
There are many well-known ways of slate-writing, and the sleight-of-hand
necessary in obtaining the ballots and writing the answers is simple
compared with the sort of psychological juggling in which the medium
must be an adept. Professor Vixley, however, had no need of any special
craft with the old man. Mr. Payson was by no means a skilled observer,
and, credulous and desirous of a marvel, was easily hoodwinked by
Vixley's talk. The simplest methods sufficed, and he worked with
increasing confidence, preparing his sitter's mind, till it would be
possible for the medium merely to sit at the table and write openly
under the supposititious influence of his control.
The second experiment terminated with the appearance of the message that
Flora Flint had read in the front room, the message signed "Felicia."
Mr. Payson read the communication with a frown. "That's bad," he said,
"I'm very sorry to find that this answer isn't favorable."
"What's the matter?" the Professor asked sympathetically.
"Well, you see, I may as well tell you that I'm writing a book,
Professor," said Mr. Payson, wiping his spectacles, "and, of course, I
am anxious that it should be a success. It seems from this that there
is likely to be some trouble about it--I don't quite understand how."
Vixley tipped back in his chair with his hands in his pockets. "I
thought you looked like an intellectual-minded man. O' course, it wan't
my place to ask no questions, but when you come in I sized you up as a
party who wan't entirely devoted to a pure business life. So you've
written a book, eh? Well, I'm sure my control could help you. I'll ask
him, and see what's to be done. But for that, I think we'll be more
liable to be successful at automatic writin' than by independent
slate-writin'. It's more quicker and satisfactory all round."
"How do you suppose the spirits can help?" said Mr. Payson.
"Why," said Vixley, "all sorts o' ways. It's like this: I don't know
nothing about your book, but I do know what's happened before. Take
Gibbon's _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, for instance. He
predicted that there wouldn't never be no more wars--he claimed we'd
outlived the possibility of it, and everything would be settled
peaceably. What happened? Why, Napoleon arose inside o' fifty years
and they was wars like never had been seen on earth. Now, if Gibbon had
only been able to put himself in communication with the spirit
intelligence, he wouldn't have made that mistake--the spirits would have
told him what was goin' to happen. Look at Voltaire! He went on record
by sayin' that in fifty years they wouldn't be no more churches. Now
he's a ridicule and a by-word amongst Christian people. If he'd only
consulted the spirit-plane he wouldn't have made a fool of hisself.
But, o' course, spiritualism wan't heard of then no more than Voltaire's
heard of now. Now let's say, for example, you was writin' a book on
evolution ten years ago, thoroughly believin' in Darwin's theory o' the
origin of species. Up to that time nobody believed that a new specie
had been evolved since man. But look at this here Burbank up to Santa
Rosa--he has gone to work and produced some absolutely new species, and
what's more, I predicted his success in this very room ten years ago. If
you'd written on evolution then, you might have taken advantage o' what
I could have gave you. Now, for all I know, some man may come along and
breed two different animals together, p'raps through vivisection or what
not, and develop a bran' new kind of specie in the animal world. Heart
disease and cancer and consumption are supposed by modern science to be
incurable, but I wouldn't venture to write that down in a book till I
had taken the means at my disposal o' findin' out whether they was or
wasn't."
He arose and let up the window-shades; the level rays of the sunshine
illuminated his figure and burnished his purpling coat. He shook his
finger at Mr. Payson, who was listening open-mouthed, impressed with the
glib argument.
"Now, my control is Theodore Parker. You've heard of him--p'raps you
knew him. You wouldn't hesitate to ask his advice if he was still on
the flesh plane, for he was a brainy man; how much more, now he's passed
out and gone beyond, into a fuller development and comprehension of the
universe! I don't know what your subject is, but whatever it is, he can
help and he will help. I'm sure o' that. It's for you to say whether
you'll avail yourself of his guidance or not. I can give you all the
tests you want, but I tell you, you're only wastin' your time, while you
might be in daily communication with one of the grandest minds this
country and this century has produced. I can get into communication
with him and give you his messages by means of automatic writin', or I
can develop you so's you can do it yourself."
Professor Vixley's victim had ceased to struggle, and, caught
inextricably in the web so artfully woven, gazed, fascinated, into the
eyes of the spider who was preparing to suck his golden blood.
*CHAPTER XIV*
*THE FORE-HONEYMOON*
Outward, across the narrow, mile-long mole, the Oakland Local, a train
of twelve coaches, swept on from block to block, beckoned by semaphores,
till it threw itself with a roar into the great train-shed upon the
Oakland pier. The locomotive stopped, throbbing and panting
rhythmically, spouting a cloud of steam that eddied among the iron
trusses of the roof. The air-brakes settled back with a long, relieved
hiss. The cars emptied streams of passengers; the ferry-station became
as populous and busy as a disturbed ant-hill. Up the broad stairs and
into the huge waiting-room the commuters poured, there to await the
boat.
It was half-past nine in the morning. The earlier trains, laden with
clerks and stenographers and the masses of early workers, had already
relieved the traffic across the bay. The present contingent consisted
chiefly of the more well-to-do business men, ladies bent on shopping in
the city, and a scattering of sorts. Some clustered in a dense group by
the door of the gangway, the better to rush on board and capture the
favorite seats; the rest took to the settees and unfolded their morning
papers, conversed, or watched the gathering throng.
The Overland from Chicago was already in, two hours late, and it had
contributed to the assembly its delegation of dusty, tired tourists,
laden with baggage, commercial travelers, curious and bold, with a few
emigrants in outlandish costumes, prolific in children and impedimenta.
Another roar, and the Alameda Local thundered into the shed and emptied
its lesser load. The Berkeley train had arrived also, and the
waiting-room was now well filled.
Through the glazed front of the hall the steamer _Piedmont_ came into
view, entering the slip. It slid in quietly and was deftly tied up.
The gang-plank was lowered and its passengers disembarked, filing
through a passageway separated from the waiting throng by a fence. Then
the heavy door slipped upward, the crowd made for the entrance and
passed on board the boat. As each party stepped off the gang-plank some
one would say, "Do you want to sit outside or inside?" The continual
repetition of this question kept the after part of the deck echoing with
the murmur.
Clytie Payson, finding all the best outside seats occupied, went into
the great open cabin and sat down. The saloon soon filled. In a moment
there was the creaking of the gang-plank drawbridge, a deep, hoarse
whistle overhead, the jangle of a bell in the engine room, and the boat
started, gathered way, and shot out into the bay. An Italian band
started playing.
It was not long before her eyes, roving from one to another passenger,
rested upon a couple across the way. Both looked jaded and distrait.
They talked but little. The lady was crisp and fresh and glossy, in her
blue serge suit and smart hat; her form was molded almost
sumptuously--but there were soft, violet circles beneath her roaming
eyes. She leaned back in her seat; her attitude had lost, in its
California tendency to abandon, an imperceptible something of that
erect, well-held poise that such corset-modeled, white-gloved creatures
of fashion usually maintain. Clytie recognized her; it was Mrs. Page.
The young man Clytie did not know. He was a dapper, immaculate,
pink-cheeked person, who leaned slightly nearer his companion than
custom sanctions when he spoke an occasional playful word to her. In
his gestures he often touched her arm, where, for a second his gloved
hand seemed to linger affectionately. Mrs. Page gave him in return a
flashing, ardent smile, then her eyes wandered listlessly.
Before Mrs. Page had a chance to notice her, Clytie arose and walked
forward. Just outside the door she stopped upon the wind-swept deck for
a moment to look about her. Above Goat Island, melting into the perfect
bow of its profile, lay the crest of Tamalpais. The mountains
surrounding the bay of San Francisco were wild and terrible, with naked
brown slopes void of trees or grass. To the northwest they came down to
the very edge of the water, tumbling precipitately, seamed with gulleys,
forming the wall of the Golden Gate. Southward was smoke and haze;
forward the peninsula loomed through murk. The whole aspect of the
harbor was barren, chill, desolate. One felt that one was thousands of
miles from civilization--in a land unique, grim, isolate, sufficient
unto itself, shut off by sea and mountain from the great world. Yet it
had its own strange beauty, and that charm which, once felt, endures for
ever, the immortal lure of bigness, wideness, freedom of air and sky and
water.
Clytie stood, holding her hat against the nimble breeze for a while,
gazing at a flock of gulls that sailed alongside the boat, circling and
screaming, then she turned and moved to the right and walked aft.
There was a young woman sitting in an angle of the seats, by the
paddle-box. Her arm was resting on the rail and she was gazing down at
the swirling rush of water. From her chic shepherd's plaid frock, so
cunningly trimmed with red, so perfectly moulding her svelte form, it
should have been Fancy Gray, Queen of Piedra Pinta. But it was a poor,
tired Majesty, whose face was filled with infinite longing, whose
traitor mouth was lax, whose head, bent sidewise, seemed too heavy to be
held in its whilom spirited pose. She was off her guard; she had
dropped the mask she was learning so painfully to bear.
[Illustration: It was a poor tired Majesty]
Clytie stepped in front of her. Fancy suddenly looked up. There was a
moment when her face was like that of a child awakened from sleep, then,
in a flash Fancy was alive again. First, confusion, then a look of
pain, lastly an expectant, almost a suspicious expression passed over
her face.
"Why, Miss Payson!" Fancy sat erect, and, by her tone, was immediately
upon the defensive, waiting to find out what her welcome might be.
"Won't you sit down?"
"Good morning, Miss Gray!" Clytie's voice was low and sympathetic.
Fancy took the proffered hand, grasped it for a brief moment and let it
drop. Then she waited for Clytie to give her her cue. The eyes of the
two women, having met, lingered without conflict. The serenity in
Clytie's face melted Fancy's into a smile. A faint glow of pink began to
creep up Clytie's neck and mantle her cheek. She took a seat.
"I'm so glad I found you," she began. "I had a queer feeling that I
should meet some one pleasant, though I didn't know who it would be."
What was it that reassured Fancy? No man could have told. But that
whatever fears she had entertained were dispelled was evident by the way
her face softened, by the way her dimples came, by the way a saucy,
amiable sprite looked from her eyes.
"I'm sorry I'm just out of blushes," she said, rallying swiftly, "but
I'm as delighted as if I had as pretty a one as yours. Did you really
want to see me?"
"I've been wanting to see you for some time."
"Why?"
"I've been thinking about you."
"Think of your wasting your time on me! Why, any one with your brains
could think me to a finish in five minutes."
"I wanted to tell you something."
"I _hope_ it's something sacred," said Fancy with a twinkle in her eyes.
"I love to have people tell me their most sacred thoughts." She smiled
like a spoiled child.
This was too much for Clytie, who laughed aloud. But she persisted. "I
hope you won't think I'm trying to patronize you--"
"You look awfully pretty when you're patronizing; I don't mind it a
bit."
"I'm afraid it's no use, you're incorrigible."
"That's a dandy word. I never thought of that. May I use it?"
"_Will_ you be serious?"
"You mustn't mind me," Fancy said. "I never could do that running throb
in my voice. I've lost lots of things by not being able to cry to
order. But I'll listen. What is it?"
"I know you've left Mr. Granthope's office."
"Oh, yes. I got tired of the routine there. It's awful to sit and
watch women who come to hear themselves talked about. It got on my
nerves. So I told Frank I'd have to quit or tell them the straight
truth about themselves."
Clytie looked at her curiously for a moment. Fancy turned away from her
glance. Clytie went on: "I wanted to see if I couldn't get you a
position--perhaps with my father."
"Thank you, but I guess not." Fancy cast her eyes down. "I don't care
to go to work just yet--I'm going to drift a while--it's awfully kind of
you, though."
"Can't you come and stay with me a while? I thought I might teach you
bookbinding and we could work together." Clytie herself was getting
somewhat embarrassed.