CHAPTER X
It was on the morning after his conversation with Jarvis that Boyer, ofthe "Clarion," summoned Kenwick into his office. "Got a story here thatI'd like to have you hunt down," he said, and pushed a clipping acrossthe table. Kenwick read it with an interest that was painfully forced.It was cut from one of the local evening papers and was a rathercolorless account of the spectacular achievements of one of the city'strance mediums. He noted down the address and rose with a hint ofweariness.
"The thing that makes her different from the others and worth a trip outthere," his employer explained, "is that Professor Drew of thepsychology department over at the university has set himself the task ofshowing her up. She has done some rather dramatic things that have goton his nerves and the other day he gave a lecture on her methods beforehis abnormal psychology class and had the place packed. She has justwritten a book too; bizarre sort of thing called the 'Rent Veil' or the'Torn Scarf' or something like that. It ran in the 'Record' about twomonths ago and they made a big hit with it."
He leaned back in his chair and surveyed Kenwick speculatively. "What doyou make of it?" he asked. "This stupendous revival of interest in thesupernatural? Some of our greatest writers devoting themselves tospirit-writing; some of our best citizens declaring that they getcomfort and inspiration out of the ouija-board and planchette?"
"I think," Kenwick answered slowly, "that it is one of the inevitableresults of the war. It has caused a big upheaval in the spiritual aswell as the economic world. And one of the things that it has brought tothe surface is death. Of course death has always been with us but unlessit came right into our own lives we have persistently ignored it, as wehave ignored the industrial problems and immigration and a lot of otherthings. But during the last few years death has been rampant. Everybodyhas had to look at it from a greater or less distance. For awhile we'llhave to go on looking at it. And human nature is so constituted that ithas only two alternatives. It must either ignore things or try toaccount for them. I don't think this renaissance of the supernatural isanything unusual. Every great war must have been followed by a frenziedseason of accounting for death."
The other man glanced at him with eyes in which there was no longerimpersonal speculation. "You've been touched by it too, Kenwick?" heventured.
"Yes. My brother."
"I'm sorry." He stretched out a hand. "Well, to get back to this MadameRosalie; get an interview with her and also with Drew. We'll give 'emeach a column on Sunday. We might be able to start a controversy thatwould be worth while."
And so, half an hour later, Kenwick was ringing the door-bell at ashabby old house on Fillmore Street. As he stood there waiting he wasconvinced that his only motive for the errand was a journalisticinterest. But if there is any season of life when the sane well-balancedman or woman may be tempted into the region of the occult it is duringthat interval between the shock of bereavement and readjustment to analtered order of existence when the soul quivers upon the brink of twoworlds. The lapse of time between shock and readjustment varies withevery temperament, but in that period of helpless groping we all standclose to the psychic, the unexplainable, the supernatural.
If Kenwick had expected to find Madame Rosalie's domain extraordinary inany particular, he was distinctly disappointed. It was one of those uglyold frame houses with protruding bay-windows which still weathercompetition with the concrete and stucco residences in every part of thecity. In the front basement window was the hideous sign of adry-cleaning establishment, and in the neighboring flat the windows wereplacarded with the promise to supply "Costumes for All Occasions."
In response to his summons a petite dark woman in a loose-flowing garnetrobe opened the door and voiced the professional query, "You have anappointment?"
When the visitor had admitted that his call was impromptu, sheconsidered for a moment. "I have a client just now," she explained, "andyou may not want to wait until his sitting is over."
"I'll wait," Kenwick assured her. "How long does it take?" It wasinstantly apparent from Madame Rosalie's expression that this query wasa violation of professional etiquette. As well inquire of a doctor howlong it will take to perform a major operation.
Ignoring his query the medium opened the door wider and ushered hercaller into the front room. It was a dim commonplace apartment furnishedwith flowered cretonne-covered chairs, a defiant-looking piano, andgilt-framed pictures. "You will find some magazines here," she promised."Just make yourself at home, please."
It would be a difficult achievement, the reporter decided, as he settledhimself in one of the rigid-looking chairs. And Madame Rosalie's tone,though courteous, had not been eager or placating. It was apparent thatshe had plenty of business. Her manner of greeting had been more likethat of an experienced and self-possessed hostess taken unawares by aguest, than of an exponent of the supernatural. She was obviously aneducated woman. Her voice alone betrayed that fact, and she moved with agrace that seemed somehow incongruous in those sordid surroundings. Ashe sat beside the bow-windows, gazing out into the fog, Kenwick smiledgrimly. "I don't know Drew yet," he murmured, "but whoever he is, I'llbet she can give him a run for his money."
Within twenty minutes he heard low voices at the far end of the hall,and then the sound of approaching footsteps. He rose and went to thedoor. Madame Rosalie and her client were emerging from a shadowy chamberwhose door was draped with maroon-colored portieres. The caller hadreached the hat-rack and was jerking himself into his overcoat when allat once he stopped with words of astonished greeting. "Why, hello,Kenwick!" He strode forward with extended hand. And Kenwick gripped itwith an equal astonishment. It was one of the men whom he had known wellat college. "Going it strong now that you are back in civilizationagain?" On his face was genuine pleasure and the shamefaced expressionthat it would have worn if the newspaper reporter had suddenlyencountered him tobogganing down one of San Francisco's hills on achild's coaster.
When he was gone the reporter followed his hostess into the room withthe maroon-colored curtains. It was as shabby as the waiting-room butmore comfortable and somehow expressive of a strong personality. Over afelt-covered table, strewn with cards and stubs of pencils and otheraids to occult communication, was an electric bulb held in place by aloop of white cotton string. Madame Rosalie motioned him to a seatbeside this table and sank into a deep chair on the opposite side.
For a moment neither of them spoke. Madame Rosalie's eyes rested uponher client with a scrutiny that was not inquisitive but almostuncomfortably searching. They were dark eyes and brilliant with theunnatural shining that is often caused by chronic insomnia. At firstglance he had thought that her hair was confined under a net; now atclose range he saw that it was cut short and waved alluringly over thelobes of her ears. She had been a beautiful woman once, he reflected,but life had given her brutal treatment.
He picked up a crystal sphere that was lying upon the table. "Tell mewhat you see for me in that?" he commanded.
She turned it slowly under the light. Kenwick watching her, felt alittle cheated by the unspectacular quality of her technic. For all thethrill which she seemed likely to give him, he might as well be openingan interview with the census-taker.
"You came," the medium said at last, still gazing into the depths of thecrystal, "to consult me, not about the future but the past."
He made no response.
"You are in trouble," she went on in the same unhurried voice. "You arein great trouble--but you are not taking the right way out."
"What is the right way out?"
"You must have help."
An expression of annoyance crossed his face. She would follow up thatstatement, of course, with the suggestion that he enlist for a prolongedcourse of "readings." He was preparing a curt dismissal of this planwhen suddenly she set the crystal down upon the table and looked at himwith compassionate eyes. "You must have help," she repeated. "But itmust be the help of some one who is dear to you--or _was_ dear to you."
"Can you evoke such a
spirit?"
"I don't know. I never can promise, but I'll try."
She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. The man, looking ather from across the table, was startled at the change in her face. Forhers was that type of face which is dominated by the eyes. Without theirtoo brilliant light it suffered a complete loss of personality. Wordscame at last through her slightly parted lips. "There is some one whowishes to speak to you. I think it is a woman."
"A woman!" Kenwick was not conscious that his tone held a note ofdisappointment. "Who is she?"
"I can't quite get the name. It's a difficult control. But she wantsvery much to talk to you. She says----It will be hard to forgive atfirst, but you must come back."
"Back where?"
The voice went on, unheeding. "She says----that she was influenced bysome one else--some one stronger. You must look for that man. You mustnever stop looking for him----in crowds and everywhere you go you mustlook. And when you see his face you will know at once that he is theone, the only one who can help you. He is your missing link."
There was a long pause. "Anything else?" Kenwick inquired at last. Hisvoice was guarded but he was strangely moved.
"There is some one calling to you. He seems to be in a prison and he islooking out through iron bars. They might be the bars of a gate. I can'tsee the face, but some one is calling your name."
"Shall I answer the call?"
"No. There would be no use. It is too late now."
Her eyes opened suddenly and met Kenwick's fixed upon them intent butinscrutable. He stretched his hand across the table.
"Read my palm."
She held it only a moment but her eyes seemed to take in its every lineat a glance. "There is a perpetual conflict raging in your soul," shesaid.
He smiled. "That's true of most people, isn't it?"
Madame Rosalie had a superb disregard for irrelevancies. "Part of you iseager to plunge gallantly into the tasks of the present, but the otherpart is holding you back. You have the drooping head-line with theintrospective fingers. It's a bad sign on the hand of the creativetemperament. And you are some kind of a creative artist; painter,musician, or writer. But your head-line didn't always droop. It's arecent tendency, so you have a good chance to overcome it."
"How can I overcome it?"
"In the first place, give up all idea of trying to reconcile yourselfwith the past. You can't possibly do it and the effort may--wreck you."
He got to his feet and stood looking down at her. "There doesn't seem tobe much ahead for me, does there?" he said.
"There is everything ahead; all the tragedy is behind you." She wasstill looking at him compassionately. "You are too young," she said atlast.
"Too young for what?"
"To have lost so much out of your life." Her voice was like red coalsleaping into sudden flame. It startled Kenwick. "And you are choosingjust the wrong way to wrestle with such a loss. You had originally asplendid initiative, an impatient desire for action. But the artisticside of your nature has assumed control of you. And the artistictemperament is long on endurance and short on combativeness. If youspent one-third of the time fighting this specter in your past that youspend trying to reconcile yourself to it, you would win gloriously."
For a few moments they stood beside the table talking of commonplaces.Once Kenwick mentioned Professor Drew, and Madame Rosalie smiled.
"I'm not afraid of him," she said. "And neither do I care to enter intoa public debate with him."
She followed her client to the door. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to helpyou more. But you are not ready for my help yet."
Kenwick walked back to the "Clarion" office with these words ringing inhis ears. The messages from the other world may have been guess-work,but at least she was a shrewd reader of character. And contrary to allhis expectations she had not made any effort to win him for a permanentclient.
His Sunday story, featuring her and Professor Drew, was all that Boyerhad hoped for it. The astrologist was sketched with a few vivid strokes,the room with the maroon-colored curtains more in detail, and aninterview reported which thrilled the souls of the credulous and heldeven the attention of the skeptical. There was neither ridicule norchampionship in the story, and the caustic comments of Professor Drewwere bare of journalistic comment. Altogether, the thing worked up welland made a hit. After reading it during his late breakfast at the St.Germaine, Kenwick suddenly decided to go around to the HartshireBuilding and keep his promise to Jarvis. He found the photographerenveloped in a long black apron and rubber gloves. "Good boy!" he criedslapping his visitor on the back. "I've been thinking about you and thatcursed story you told me: can't get the blame thing out of my head. Thatwas good stuff about the clairvoyant in the 'Clarion' this morning.Where on earth do you dig up those oddities? I recognized yourpen-name."
He hung Kenwick's coat in a shallow closet as he talked. "You are in thenick of time to help me with an experiment if you will," he went on. "Iwant to do some research work on the human eye and I've got to have asubject. I've got a lot of cards here--featuring optical illusions andthat sort of thing. Do you mind helping me for, say, half an hour? Yousee, the human eye and brain are the ideal apparatus for perfecting thecamera and I'm working on an invention."
Kenwick complied with alacrity, glad of the opportunity to get his mindoff of himself. For almost an hour Jarvis worked under the black hood ofthe tripod while Kenwick reported on the images printed upon the cards.When the tests were finished and he rose to go, the photographer pushedaside his paraphernalia and wiped his forehead. "Hot as Hades under thatthing!" he cried. "Say, I was wondering the other day if you play golf."
"I used to go out and play with my brother at his club," Kenwickreplied. "But it's been some time ago; I'd be a duffer at it now."
"Well, I've got a card that will let us into the club over inClaremont," Jarvis explained. "If you haven't got anything better to do,what do you say that we meet at the ferry building about two o'clockthis afternoon and play a few holes over on the course? It's a great dayto be outside. Can you make it?"
"Yes, I think so." For a moment Kenwick stood looking at his host withan expression that puzzled Jarvis. Then abruptly he turned and wentaway. Up the steep California street hills he strode, scarcely consciousof the effort it cost. For a horrible dread was tearing at his heart. Itwas not a new sensation to him, and its very familiarity made it themore hideous; that persistent dread known only to those who arestruggling back over the hard road of mental prostration. The seed of ithad sprouted on the morning when he had bought that fatal newspaper atthe Third and Townsend Depot. And during the weeks that followed itstendrils had wrapped a strangle-hold about his life. Sometimes it almoststopped his breathing. And as yet he had never seen the thing that hedreaded. It was not yet upon any one's face. But he assured himselfdesperately that some day he would see it. Some day, when perhaps hewasn't thinking about it at all, it would suddenly leap out at him. Inthe eyes of some man or woman, or perhaps even some little child, hewould see suspicion or fear or morbid curiosity. Without being told,they would know suddenly that here was a man who had once lost hismental grip. They would be afraid that he might suddenly lose it again,and that shuddering fear would send him reeling backward into the landof shadows and specters.
He stumbled on blindly, and through the blackness of his anguish therecame to him again the curious sensation that he had experienced on hissecond night at Mont-Mer; the sensation of having lost some materialprop that could restore his courage.
The genial suggestion of Jarvis that they play golf together over inClaremont was like a cool hand laid upon his forehead. To Jarvis he mustseem sane and normal, capable at least of acquitting himself creditablyin the sport of sane and normal men. He ate a hasty and solitary lunchand at two o'clock met the photographer in front of the flower-booth inthe ferry building for an afternoon at the country club.