The Heart Line 55

The Heart Line 55

"Have you left Granthope?" Dougal inquired.

 

"Yep." Fancy, as usual, did not explain.

 

"Why didn’t you let us know where you were, then?" he complained. "I

was up to the place the other day looking for you, and no one seemed to

know where you were."

 

Fancy, still watching for Cayley, did not answer.

 

"Have you got any money, Fancy?"

 

"Sure!" she answered eagerly. "I have two dollars here—do you want it?"

 

"Oh, no!" he laughed. "I was going to offer you some. If you’re out of

a job you must need it. I can let you have twenty or so easy." He put

his hand into his pocket.

 

She hesitated for a moment, then she said:

 

"I don’t know but I could use it, Dougal, if you can spare it as well as

not."

 

"I’m flush this week." He handed her a gold double eagle.

 

"Granthope will lend me all I want, or I could get it from Blanchard,

but somehow I hate to take it from them. Of course, it’s all right, and

they have plenty, but I’d feel better borrowing of you, you know."

 

"That’s the best thing you’ve said yet," he said, beaming on her.

 

"Oh, Dougal, tell her about the séance," said Elsie, as Fancy put the

money in her purse.

 

"Oh, yes! I wanted to see you about a materializing séance, Fancy. Do

you know of a good one? We want to go some night and see the spooks.

The bunch is going to have some fun with them."

 

"You want to look out for yourself, then. They always have two or three

bouncers, and they’ll throw you out if there’s any row, you know."

 

Dougal grinned happily. "That’s just what we want. I haven’t had a

good scrap for months. Maxim can handle three or four of them alone,

while Benton, Starr and I raise a rough house. We’re going to go early

and get front seats."

 

It was Fancy’s turn to laugh. "You can’t do it, Dougal. You don’t know

the first rules of the game. They always have their own crowd on the

first two rows, and they won’t let you get near the spirits. They only

want believers, anyway. If you aren’t careful, they won’t let you in at

all; they’ll say all the seats are taken. You’d better go separately

and sit in different parts of the room, and spot the bouncers if you

can."

 

"Oh, we’ll handle them all right. Where’s a good one?"

 

Fancy reflected a minute. "I think, perhaps, Flora Flint is the best.

She’s a clever actress, and she always has a crowd. It’s fifty cents.

Her place is on Van Ness Avenue—I think her séances are on Wednesday

evenings—you’ll find the notice in the papers. But they’re pretty

smooth; they’ve had people try to break up the show before. If you try

to turn on the light or grab any ghost, look out you don’t get beaten

up."

 

"Oh, you can trust us; we’ve got a new game," he answered.

 

Then, as the Sausalito boat was about to leave, they bade Fancy a

hurried farewell and ran for the entrance to the slip. A few minutes

after this Blanchard Cayley appeared, put his arm through hers, and they

went on board the ferry.

 

The harbor of Tiburon, in the northern part of San Francisco Bay, is

sheltered on the west by the promontory of Belvedere, where pretty

cottages climb the wooded slopes, and on the south by Angel Island, with

its army barracks, hospital and prison. Here was huddled a little fleet

of house-boats or "arks," the farthest outshore of which belonged to

Sully Maxwell.

 

It was a queer collection of architectural amphibia, these nautical

houses floating in the bay. They were of all sizes, some seemingly too

small to stretch one’s legs in without kicking down a wall, others more

ambitious in size, with double decks and roof-gardens. There were all

grades and quality as well; some even had electric lights and telephone

wires laid to the shore. Here, free from rent, taxes or insurance, the

little summer colony dwelt, and the rowboats of butcher, baker and

grocer plied from one to another. It was late in the season now,

however, and only a few were occupied. A little later, when the rains

had set in, they would all be towed into their winter quarters to

hibernate till spring.

 

Cayley conducted Fancy Gray down to the end of a wharf where the skiff

was moored, in the care of a boatman, and after loading the provisions

and supplies he had purchased at the little French restaurant by the

station, he rowed her out to the _Edyth_.

 

The bay was cloudless and without fog. The September sun poured over

the water and sparkled from every tiny wave-top, the breeze was a

gentle, easterly zephyr. Cayley seemed younger in the open air, and all

that was best in him came to the surface. He was almost enthusiastic.

Fancy was in high feather. As she sat in the stern of the skiff and

trailed her hand in the salt water, he watched her with almost as much

pride as had Gay P. Summer.

 

She climbed rapturously aboard, unlocked the front room and filled it

with her gleeful exclamations of delight. Then she popped into the tiny

kitchen and gazed curiously at the neat, shining collection of

cooking-utensils and the gasoline stove. She danced out again, to

circle round the narrow railed deck. Finally she pulled a steamer chair

to the front porch and flopped into it.

 

"I’m never going to leave this place," she cried. "It’s just like

having a deserted island all to yourself. I feel like a new-laid bride.

Let’s hoist a white flag."

 

Cayley, meanwhile, put the provisions on the kitchen table and came out

to be deliciously idle with her—but she could not rest. She was up and

about like a bee, humming a gay tune. She went into the square, white

sitting-room to inspect everything that was there, commenting on each

object. She sat in every chair and upon the table as well. She tried a

little wheezy melodeon with a snatch of rag-time. She criticized every

picture, she cleaned the mirror with her handkerchief, then went out to

wash it in salt water and hang it on a line to dry. She read aloud the

titles of all the books, she opened and shut drawers, and peeped into a

little state-room with bunks and was lost there for five minutes. When

she came out again, her copper hair was braided down her back and she

had on a white ruffled apron.

 

"I’m going to cook dinner," she announced.

 

Cayley smiled at her enthusiasm. "I don’t believe you can do it."

 

She insisted, and he followed her into the kitchen to watch her

struggles. She succeeded in setting the table without breaking more

than one plate, and then she filled the tea-kettle with fresh water from

the demi-john. After that she looked helplessly at Cayley.

 

"How do you shell these tins?"

 

"With a can-opener."

 

She tried for a few moments, biting her lip and pinching her finger in

the attempt. Then she turned to him coaxingly.

 

"You do it, Blan, please."

 

He had it open in a minute. She unwrapped the steak, put it into a

frying-pan, unbuttered, and began to struggle with the stove. After she

had lighted a match timidly, she said:

 

"I’m awfully afraid it’ll explode."

 

He took her in his arms and lifted her to the table, where she sat

swinging her legs, her hands in her apron pockets.

 

"Confess you don’t know a blessed thing about housework or cooking!"

 

"Of course I don’t. What do you take me for? I’ve lived in restaurants

and boarding-houses all my life—how should I know? But I thought it was

easier than it seems to be. I suppose you have to have a knack for it."

 

"I’ll show you." He took the apron from her, tying it about his own

waist. With the grace of a chef he set about the preparations for

dinner. He lighted the stove, he put potatoes in the oven to roast, he

heated a tin of soup, washed the lettuce, broiled the steak, cut the

cranberry pie and made a pot full of coffee.

 

They sat down at the table with gusto and made short work of the

refreshments. Fancy was a little disappointed that they couldn’t drop a

line over the side of the boat and fry fish while they were fresh and

wriggling, but she ate her share, nevertheless. She drank cup after cup

of coffee and took a cigarette or two, sitting in blissful content,

listening to the _cluck-cluck_ of water plashing lazily against the

sides of the boat. While they were there still lingering at the table,

the ferry-boat passed them. The ark careened on the swell of the wake,

rising and falling, till the water was spilled from the glasses, and the

dishes lurched this way and that. Fancy screamed with delight at the

motion. For some minutes the hanging lamp above their heads swung

slowly to and fro.

 

All that sunny, breezy afternoon she sat happily, chattering on the

front platform, watching the yachts that passed out into the lower bay,

the heavily laden ferry-boat that rocked them deliciously in its heaving

wake, and the rowboats full of Sunday excursionists, who hailed them

with slangy banter. She watched the little red-tiled cottages at

Belvedere. She watched the holiday couples walk the Tiburon beach, past

the wreck of the _Tropic Bird_, now transformed into a summer home. She

watched the mauve shadow deepen over Mount Tamalpais and the gray city

of San Francisco looming to the south in a pearly haze. She was

drenched by the salt air and burned by the sunshine; a permanent glow

came to her cheeks, her brown eyes grew wistful. She talked

incessantly.

 

Cayley amused her all day with his jests and stories. That he was too

subtle for her did not matter. She listened as attentively to his

explanations of the set forms of Japanese verse as she did to his

mechanical love-making. Cayley was not of the impetuous, hot-blooded

type—he preferred the snare to the arrow—his was the wile of the serpent

that charms the bird and makes it approach, falteringly, step by step,

to fall into his power; but his system, if mathematically accurate, was

also artistic. Fancy’s devotion to him was undisguised—he did not need

his art. It was she who was spontaneous, frank and affectionate. He only added a few flourishes.