"In a way the patteran is speech," he answered. "But it always says one thing: "This way I have pa.s.sed." Two sprigs, crossed in certain ways and left upon the trail, compose the patteran. But they must always be of different trees or shrubs. Thus, on the ranch here, a patteran could be made of manzanita and madrono, of oak and spruce, of buckeye and alder, of redwood and laurel, of huckleberry and lilac. It is a sign of Gypsy comrade to Gypsy comrade, of Gypsy lover to Gypsy lover." And he hummed:
""Back to the road again, again, Out of a clear sea track; Follow the cross of the Gypsy trail, Over the world and back.""
She nodded comprehension, looked for a moment with troubled eyes down the long room to the card-players, caught herself in her momentary absentness, and said quickly:
"Heaven knows there"s a lot of Gypsy in some of us. I have more than full share. In spite of his bucolic proclivities, d.i.c.k is a born Gypsy.
And from what he has told of you, you are hopelessly one."
"After all, the white man is the real Gypsy, the king Gypsy," Graham propounded. "He has wandered wider, wilder, and with less equipment, than any Gypsy. The Gypsy has followed in his trails, but never made trail for him.--Come; let us try it."
And as they sang the reckless words to their merry, careless lilt, he looked down at her and wondered--wondered at her--at himself. This was no place for him by this woman"s side, under her husband"s roof-tree.
Yet here he was, and he should have gone days before. After the years he was just getting acquainted with himself. This was enchantment, madness. He should tear himself away at once. He had known enchantments and madnesses before, and had torn himself away. Had he softened with the years? he questioned himself. Or was this a profounder madness than he had experienced? This meant the violation of dear things--things so dear, so jealously cherished and guarded in his secret life, that never yet had they suffered violation.
And still he did not tear himself away. He stood there beside her, looking down on her brown crown of hair glinting gold and bronze and bewitchingly curling into tendrils above her ears, singing a song that was fire to him--that must be fire to her, she being what she was and feeling what she had already, in flashes, half-unwittingly, hinted to him.
She is a witch, and her voice is not the least of her witchery, he thought, as _her_ voice, so richly a woman"s voice, so essentially her voice in contradistinction to all women"s voices in the world, sang and throbbed in his ear. And he knew, beyond shade of doubt, that she felt some touch of this madness that afflicted him; that she sensed, as he sensed, that the man and the woman were met.
They thrilled together as they sang, and the thought and the sure knowledge of it added fuel to his own madness till his voice warmed unconsciously to the daring of the last lines, as, voices and thrills blending, they sang:
""The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, The deer to the wholesome wold, And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid As it was in the days of old-- The heart of a man to the heart of a maid, Light of my tents be fleet, Morning waits at the end of the world, And the world is all at our feet.""
He looked for her to look up as the last notes died away, but she remained quiet a moment, her eyes bent on the keys. And then the face that was turned to his was the face of the Little Lady of the Big House, the mouth smiling mischievously, the eyes filled with roguery, as she said:
"Let us go and devil d.i.c.k--he"s losing. I"ve never seen him lose his temper at cards, but he gets ridiculously blue after a long siege of losing.
"And he does love gambling," she continued, as she led the way to the tables. "It"s one of his modes of relaxing. It does him good. About once or twice a year, if it"s a good poker game, he"ll sit in all night to it and play to the blue sky if they take off the limit."
CHAPTER XVIII
Almost immediately after the singing of the "Gypsy Trail," Paula emerged from her seclusion, and Graham found himself hard put, in the tower room, to keep resolutely to his work when all the morning he could hear s.n.a.t.c.hes of song and opera from her wing, or laughter and scolding of dogs from the great patio, or the continuous pulse for hours of the piano from the distant music room. But Graham, patterning after d.i.c.k, devoted his mornings to work, so that he rarely encountered Paula before lunch.
She made announcement that her spell of insomnia was over and that she was ripe for all gaieties and excursions d.i.c.k had to offer her.
Further, she threatened, in case d.i.c.k grudged these personal diversions, to fill the house with guests and teach him what liveliness was. It was at this time that her Aunt Martha--Mrs. Tully--returned for a several days" visit, and that Paula resumed the driving of Duddy and Fuddy in the high, one-seated Stude-baker trap. Duddy and Fuddy were spirited trotters, but Mrs. Tully, despite her elderliness and avoirdupois, was without timidity when Paula held the reins.
As Mrs. Tully told Graham: "And that is a concession I make to no woman save Paula. She is the only woman I can trust myself to with horses.
She has the horse-way about her. When she was a child she was wild over horses. It"s a wonder she didn"t become a circus rider."
More, much more, Graham learned about Paula in various chats with her aunt. Of Philip Desten, Paula"s father, Mrs. Tully could never say enough. Her eldest brother, and older by many years, he had been her childhood prince. His ways had been big ways, princely ways--ways that to commoner folk had betokened a streak of madness. He was continually guilty of the wildest things and the most chivalrous things. It was this streak that had enabled him to win various fortunes, and with equal facility to lose them, in the great gold adventure of Forty-nine.
Himself of old New England stock, he had had for great grandfather a Frenchman--a trifle of flotsam from a mid-ocean wreck and landed to grow up among the farmer-sailormen of the coast of Maine.
"And once, and once only, in each generation, that French Desten crops out," Mrs. Tully a.s.sured Graham. "Philip was that Frenchman in his generation, and who but Paula, and in full measure, received that same inheritance in her generation. Though Lute and Ernestine are her half-sisters, no one would imagine one drop of the common blood was shared. That"s why Paula, instead of going circus-riding, drifted inevitably to France. It was that old original Desten that drew her over."
And of the adventure in France, Graham learned much. Philip Desten"s luck had been to die when the wheel of his fortune had turned over and down. Ernestine and Lute, little tots, had been easy enough for Desten"s sisters to manage. But Paula, who had fallen to Mrs. Tully, had been the problem--"because of that Frenchman."
"Oh, she is rigid New England," Mrs. Tully insisted, "the solidest of creatures as to honor and rect.i.tude, dependableness and faithfulness.
As a girl she really couldn"t bring herself to lie, except to save others. In which case all her New England ancestry took flight and she would lie as magnificently as her father before her. And he had the same charm of manner, the same daring, the same ready laughter, the same vivacity. But what is lightsome and blithe in her, was debonaire in him. He won men"s hearts always, or, failing that, their bitterest enmity. No one was left cold by him in pa.s.sing. Contact with him quickened them to love or hate. Therein Paula differs, being a woman, I suppose, and not enjoying man"s prerogative of tilting at windmills. I don"t know that she has an enemy in the world. All love her, unless, it may well be, there are cat-women who envy her her nice husband."
And as Graham listened, Paula"s singing came through the open window from somewhere down the long arcades, and there was that ever-haunting thrill in her voice that he could not escape remembering afterward. She burst into laughter, and Mrs. Tully beamed to him and nodded at the sound.
"There laughs Philip Desten," she murmured, "and all the Frenchwomen behind the original Frenchman who was brought into Pen.o.bscot, dressed in homespun, and sent to meeting. Have you noticed how Paula"s laugh invariably makes everybody look up and smile? Philip"s laugh did the same thing."
"Paula had always been pa.s.sionately fond of music, painting, drawing.
As a little girl she could be traced around the house and grounds by the trail she left behind her of images and shapes, made in whatever medium she chanced upon--drawn on sc.r.a.ps of paper, scratched on bits of wood, modeled in mud and sand.
"She loved everything, and everything loved her," said Mrs. Tully. "She was never timid of animals. And yet she always stood in awe of them; but she was born sense-struck, and her awe was beauty-awe. Yes, she was an incorrigible hero-worshiper, whether the person was merely beautiful or did things. And she never will outgrow that beauty--awe of anything she loves, whether it is a grand piano, a great painting, a beautiful mare, or a bit of landscape.
"And Paula had wanted to do, to make beauty herself. But she was sorely puzzled whether she should devote herself to music or painting. In the full swing of work under the best masters in Boston, she could not refrain from straying back to her drawing. From her easel she was lured to modeling.
"And so, with her love of the best, her soul and heart full of beauty, she grew quite puzzled and worried over herself, as to which talent was the greater and if she had genius at all. I suggested a complete rest from work and took her abroad for a year. And of all things, she developed a talent for dancing. But always she harked back to her music and painting. No, she was not flighty. Her trouble was that she was too talented--"
"Too diversely talented," Graham amplified.
"Yes, that is better," Mrs. Tully nodded. "But from talent to genius is a far cry, and to save my life, at this late day, I don"t know whether the child ever had a trace of genius in her. She has certainly not done anything big in any of her chosen things."
"Except to be herself," Graham added.
"Which _is_ the big thing," Mrs. Tully accepted with a smile of enthusiasm. "She is a splendid, unusual woman, very unspoiled, very natural. And after all, what does doing things amount to? I"d give more for one of Paula"s madcap escapades--oh, I heard all about swimming the big stallion--than for all her pictures if every one was a masterpiece.
But she was hard for me to understand at first. d.i.c.k often calls her the girl that never grew up. But gracious, she can put on the grand air when she needs to. I call her the most mature child I have ever seen.
d.i.c.k was the finest thing that ever happened to her. It was then that she really seemed for the first time to find herself. It was this way."
And Mrs. Tully went on to sketch the year of travel in Europe, the resumption of Paula"s painting in Paris, and the conviction she finally reached that success could be achieved only by struggle and that her aunt"s money was a handicap.
"And she had her way," Mrs. Tully sighed. "She--why, she dismissed me, sent me home. She would accept no more than the meagerest allowance, and went down into the Latin Quarter on her own, batching with two other American girls. And she met d.i.c.k. d.i.c.k was a rare one. You couldn"t guess what he was doing then. Running a cabaret--oh, not these modern cabarets, but a real students" cabaret of sorts. It was very select. They were a lot of madmen. You see, he was just back from some of his wild adventuring at the ends of the earth, and, as he stated it, he wanted to stop living life for a while and to talk about life instead.
"Paula took me there once. Oh, they were engaged--the day before, and he had called on me and all that. I had known "Lucky" Richard Forrest, and I knew all about his son. From a worldly standpoint, Paula couldn"t have made a finer marriage. It was quite a romance. Paula had seen him captain the University of California eleven to victory over Stanford.
And the next time she saw him was in the studio she shared with the two girls. She didn"t know whether d.i.c.k was worth millions or whether he was running a cabaret because he was hard up, and she cared less. She always followed her heart. Fancy the situation: d.i.c.k the uncatchable, and Paula who never flirted. They must have sprung forthright into each other"s arms, for inside the week it was all arranged, and d.i.c.k made his call on me, as if my decision meant anything one way or the other.
"But d.i.c.k"s cabaret. It was the Cabaret of the Philosophers--a small pokey place, down in a cellar, in the heart of the Quarter, and it had only one table. Fancy that for a cabaret! But such a table! A big round one, of plain boards, without even an oil-cloth, the wood stained with the countless drinks spilled by the table-pounding of the philosophers, and it could seat thirty. Women were not permitted. An exception was made for Paula and me.
"You"ve met Aaron Hanc.o.c.k here. He was one of the philosophers, and to this day he swaggers that he owed d.i.c.k a bigger bill that never was paid than any of his customers. And there they used to meet, all those wild young thinkers, and pound the table, and talk philosophy in all the tongues of Europe. d.i.c.k always had a penchant for philosophers.
"But Paula spoiled that little adventure. No sooner were they married than d.i.c.k fitted out his schooner, the All Away, and away the blessed pair of them went, honeymooning from Bordeaux to Hongkong."
"And the cabaret was closed, and the philosophers left homeless and discussionless," Graham remarked.
Mrs. Tully laughed heartily and shook her head.
"He endowed it for them," she gasped, her hand to her side. "Or partially endowed it, or something. I don"t know what the arrangement was. And within the month it was raided by the police for an anarchist club."
After having learned the wide scope of her interests and talents, Graham was nevertheless surprised one day at finding Paula all by herself in a corner of a window-seat, completely absorbed in her work on a piece of fine embroidery.
"I love it," she explained. "All the costly needlework of the shops means nothing to me alongside of my own work on my own designs. d.i.c.k used to fret at my sewing. He"s all for efficiency, you know, elimination of waste energy and such things. He thought sewing was a wasting of time. Peasants could be hired for a song to do what I was doing. But I succeeded in making my viewpoint clear to him.