The Heart Line 21

The Heart Line 21

"And, oh!" he added, "that reminds me of another thing I found to-day

while I was looking over a file of the _Chronicle_, digging up this

trade dollar business. It was way back in 1877; a queer story, but I

suppose it’s true."

 

"What was it?" Clytie asked. The rays of the lamp shot her hair with

gold sparks as she sat in a low chair, listening.

 

"Why, there was an old woman who was half crazy; she lived down south of

Market Street somewhere in the most fearful squalor."

 

Clytie suddenly moved back into the shadow.

 

"Yes, yes,—what else?" She followed his words with absorbed attention.

 

"There was no furniture except a lot of boxes and a bookcase. And

here’s the remarkable thing: there was about two inches of rubbish and

dirt matted down all over the floor, where she used to hide money and

food and any old thing, wrapped in little packages. When she died, her

stuff was auctioned off, and they found a trunk with a whole new wedding

outfit in it. How’s that?"

 

"What was her name?" Clytie asked breathlessly.

 

"I don’t remember it. She was a sort of clairvoyant, I believe. There

was a little boy lived with her, too. It seems he disappeared after she

died. Ran away."

 

Clytie leaned forward again, her eyes wide open and staring. Her hands

were tightly clasped together.

 

"A little boy?" she repeated.

 

"Why, that’s what it said in the paper. Great story, isn’t it?"

 

Clytie’s breath came and went rapidly, as if she were trying to breathe

in a storm, amidst the dashing of waves. The color went from her

cheeks, her thin nostrils dilated. Then, retreating into the shade

again, she managed to say:

 

"It certainly is romantic."

 

"No one would believe a thing like that could be true," he followed.

 

"No, I can scarcely believe it’s possible, myself," she replied,

controlling her agitation.

 

Blanchard Cayley ran on and on with his talk. Clytie gave him scant

attention, answering in monosyllables.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER V*

 

*THE RISE AND FALL OF GAY P. SUMMER*

 

 

Two hours after leaving Granthope’s studio, Mr. Gay P. Summer had

"dated" Fancy Gray. Mr. Summer was a "Native Son of the Golden West";

he had, indeed, risen to the honorable station of Vice President of the

Fort Point Parlor of that ecstatic organization. He was, in his modest

way, a leader of men, and aspired to a corresponding mastery over women.

In all matters pertaining to the pursuit and conquest of the fair sex,

Mr. Summer was prompt, ingenious and determined. Before two weeks were

over he was able to boast, to his room-mate, of Fancy’s subjection.

Fancy herself might equally well have boasted of his. At the end of this

time he was, at least, in possession of her photograph, six notes

written in a backward, slanting penmanship, twelve words to the damask

page, with the date spelled out, a lock of hair (though this was arrant

rape), and one gray suede, left-hand glove. These he displayed, as

trophies of the chase, upon the bureau of his bedroom and defended them,

forbye, from the asteistic comments of his room-mate, an unwilling and

unconfessed admirer of Gay P. Summer’s power to charm and subdue.

 

In those two weeks much had been done that it is not possible to do

elsewhere than in the favored city by the Golden Gate. A Sunday

excursion to the beach was the fruit of his first telephonic

conversation. There are beaches in other places, indeed, but there is no

other Carville-by-the-Sea. This capricious suburb, founded upon the

shifting sands of "The Great Highway," as San Francisco’s ocean

boulevard is named, is a little, freakish hamlet, whose dwellings—one

could not seriously call them houses—are built, for the most part, of

old street-cars. The architecture is of a new order, frivolously

inconsequent. According to the owner’s fancy, the cars are placed side

by side or one atop the other, arranged every way, in fact, except

actually standing on end. From single cars, more or less adapted for

temporary occupancy, to whimsical residences, in which the car appears

only in rudimentary fragments, a suppressed motif suggested by rows of

windows or by sliding doors, the owners’ taste and originality have had

wanton range. Balconies jut from roofs, piazzas inclose sides and

fronts, cars are welded together, dovetailed, mortised, added as ells at

right angles or used terminally as kitchens to otherwise normal

habitations.

 

Gay P. Summer was, with his room-mate, the proprietor of a car of the

more modest breed. It was a weather-worn, blistered, orange-colored

affair that had once done service on Mission Street. The cash-box was

still affixed to the interior, the platform, shaky as it was, still

held; the gong above, though cracked, still rang. There was a partition

dividing what they called their living-room, where the seats did service

for bunks, from the kitchen, where they were bridged for a table and

perforated for cupboards. There was a shaky canvas arrangement over a

plank platform; and beneath, in the sand, was buried a treasure of beer

bottles, iron knives, forks and spoons and wooden plates.

 

Here, unchaperoned and unmolested, save by the wind and sun, Gay P.

Summer and Fancy Gray proceeded to get acquainted. They made short work

of it.

 

Fancy’s velvet cheeks were painted with a fine rose color that day. Her

hair looked well in disorder; how much better it would have looked, had

it kept its natural tone, she did not realize. Her firm, white line of

zigzag teeth made her smile irresistible, even though she chewed gum.

Her eyes were lambent, flickering from brown to green; her lower lids,

shaded with violet, made them seem just wearied enough to give them

softness. None of this was lost on Gay.

 

He, too, was well-developed, masculine, agile, with a juvenile glow and

freshness of complexion that rivaled hers. His dress was jimp and

artful, with tie and socks of the latest and most vivid mode. Upon his

short, pearl, covert coat, he wore a mourning band, probably for

decoration rather than as a badge of affliction. His eyes were still

bright and clear without symptoms of dissipation. His laughter was good

to hear, but, as to his talk, little would bear repetition—slangy

badinage, the braggadocio of youth, a gay running fire of obvious retort

and innuendo, frolic and flirtations. That Fancy appeared to enjoy it

should go without saying. She was not for criticism of her host and

entertainer that fine day. She let herself go in the way of gaiety he

led and slanged him jest for jest, for Fancy herself had a pert and

lively tongue.

 

Upon one point only did she fail to meet him. Not a word in regard to

her employer could he get from her. Again and again, Gay came back to

the subject of the palmist and his business secrets; Fancy parried his

queries every time. He tried her with flattery—she laughed in his face.

He attempted to lead her on by disclosing vivacious secrets of his own

life; his ammunition was only wasted upon her. He coaxed; he threatened

jocosely (she defended herself ably from his punitive kiss), but her

discretion was impregnable. She made merry at his expense when he

sulked. She tantalized him when he pleaded. Her wit was too nimble for

him and he gave up the attempt.

 

The stimulation of this first meeting went to Fancy’s head. She laughed

like a child. She sang snatches from her vaudeville days and mimicked

celebrities. Gay dropped his pose of worldly wisdom and made shrieking

puns. They played like Babes in the Wood.

 

At seven o’clock, hungry and sun-burned, they walked along the beach to

the Cliff House and dined upon the glazed veranda, watching the surf

break on Seal Rocks. As they sat there in the dusk, haunted by an

elusive waiter, Gay waxed eloquent about himself, told of his high

office in the Native Sons, revealed the amount of his salary at the

bank, touched lightly upon his previous amours, bragged loftily of his

indiscretions at exuberant inebriated festivals, puffing magnificently

the while at a "two-bit" cigar.

 

Fancy paid for her meal by listening to him conscientiously, ejaculating

"No!" and "Yes?" or "Say, Gay, that’s a josh, isn’t it?" If her mind

wandered (Fancy was nobody’s fool), he did not perceive it.

 

To their cocktails and California claret they now added a Benedictine,

and Gay grew still more confidential. The night fell, and the crowd

began to leave. They walked entirely round the hotel corridor, bought an

abalone shell split into layers of opalescent hues, then with a last

look at the sea-lions, barking in the surge, they walked for the train,

found a place in an open car and sat down, wedged into a hilarious

crowd, reveling in song and peanuts.

 

Disregarded was the superb view they passed. The train, skirting the

precipitous cliffs along the Golden Gate, commanded a splendor of

darkling water and tumultuous mountain distances, theatrical in beauty.

The sea splashed at the foot of the precipice beneath them. The hills

rose above their heads, the intermittent twinkle of lighthouses

punctuated the purple gloom. It was all lost upon them. Fancy’s head

drooped to Gay’s shoulder. He put his arm about her, cocking his hat to

one side that it might not strike hers as he leaned nearer. No one

observed them, no one cared, for every Jack had his Jill, and a simple,

primitive comradeship had settled upon the wearied throng. A baby

whined occasionally as the train lurched round the sharp curves of the

track. A riotous yell or two came from the misogynists of the smoking

compartment. Fancy did not talk. Gay’s loquacity oozed away. He was

content to feel her breathing against his side.

 

 

There were telephone conversations often after that, then occasional

lunches down-town, when Fancy, always modishly dressed, drew many an eye

to her well-rounded, well-filled Eton jacket, her smart red hat, her

fresh white gloves and her high-heeled shoes. Gay was proud of her, and

he showed her off to his friends without caution. Fancy was nothing

loath. Occasionally they went to the theater, dining previously in

style at some popular restaurant, where Gay hoped that he might be seen

with her. To such as discovered them, he would bow with proud

proprietorship; or perhaps saunter over, on some flimsy pretext, to hear

his friends say, with winks and smiles:

 

"By Jove, that girl’s all right, old man! She’s a stunner. Say,

introduce me, will you?"

 

To which Gay would answer: