CHAPTER 22

Once again I must face the awful contrast—my shabby room, after leaving Edsum’s heaven. All the way home after that last and feverish parting Marion’s words rang in my ears, “ I will wait for you. ” All the way home there stood before my aching eyes the vision of that wonderful girl in all her wonderful beauty; throughout that long ride on the street car the eccentricity of Mr. Carrel and the mystery of Marion troubled my mind.

I laid aside the package and flung myself upon my bed. However curious I was to examine that package, I did not dare excite myself further that day. Carrel’s conduct seemed not natural, and almost uncanny. His interest in Mrs. Raleigh was puzzling. Surely, he could not know this woman, he who had lived so apart from the people into whose class his child had been cast. Then it was the coincidence, I suppose, as he explained when speaking of his early story. And I was engaged—to Marion! Mr. Carrel himself had brought it about. If he were crazy, then Marion should be taken from him. I felt myself sinking in a sea of perplexities and doubts. I determined to see Dermit and blow the whole affair into him in hopes of getting some relief by shifting part of the burden. I put away the package, and leaving my room, had Dermit opposite me for supper an hour later.

“ Do you hear anything about Mrs. Raleigh—you know she is among us? ”

“ Yes, she’s running the club, so I am told. ”

“ Have you met her? ”

“ Yes. She came to my studio a few days ago with an artist named Carlson. She wanted to meet me and see my studio. Attractive, clever woman, but she didn’t fool me. ”

“ Fool you; how do you mean? ”

“ She’s made up! She’s been fooling everybody, I dare say; but not me. I know people in the flesh when I see them. I’ve had plenty of experience with women here and in Paris to know what they are by their looks. Your Mrs. Raleigh has Sarah Bernhardt running neck and neck when it comes to beating age. Take it from me, Mickey, Mrs. Raleigh’s past fifty if she’s past twenty! ”

My knife and fork had slipped from my hands as I followed Dermit’s fingers. My face grew tense. If this man spoke the truth there was no one so badly fooled by Mrs. Raleigh as I; again, if what Dermit had declared was a fact it was easy to understand how this woman outwitted and mastered others, age and experience would do that. She had shown wisdom—she was foxy. I had been living so apart from my kind that I never took the trouble to tell either Dermit or Edsum about my clash with Mrs. Raleigh. I had mentioned her to Dermit, otherwise she had quite passed out of my life. So now I told Dermit the story. Not in his experience, his life-long acquaintance with deaf people, had he heard of such a case. Mrs. Raleigh was a character rarely, if ever, heard of in life or in fiction. Yet here she was among us, an extraordinary character.

“ When Mr. Carrel and I were talking about this woman he grew very much interested in her. ”

“ Her case is enough to arouse anyone’s interest in her. ”

“ A woman who can play the game as she appears to be doing is as clever as the devil himself. I’m getting interested in her. Do you know where she lives? ”

“ No, I don’t. She says she’s a widow, and has a little money by her marriage. You can believe it or not. Back East she was Blanche Moore. ”

“ Do you suppose she could, in any way, have figured in old Carrel’s life? ”

“ Hardly; he has known next to nothing about the deaf, and all he now knows came from Edsum and me. However, my description of her led him to say that she bore a similarity to a character of his in a bit of fiction he once wrote. I suppose it was this that aroused his interest. ”

Dermit looked oddly in my face. I suppose he was at wit’s end to know how I could be so stupid.

“ What are you going to do now—you’re nicely mixed in a mess of things, this beautiful and mysterious Marion, and this otherwise beautiful and mysterious Mrs. Raleigh; then there’s Carrel, quite as much a mystery as either of the others. ” He paused as he filled his fork and raised the food to his mouth. “ Now, I don’t know what you’re going to do, but I can suggest what I think you ought to do— ”

“ What? ”

“ You have told me you were something of a writer—have the literary ‘ itch ’ or something. Now, if that is true, why in thunder don’t you make a capital story out of all this stuff? You have the beautiful maiden, the tragic old man and his riches, the magnificent estate, and this vixen, this she-fox. I have a mind to work it up myself, Mickey, if you don’t—look out for Dermit. Edsum might come in handy making illustrations, you know. ”

I saw myself a cobbler going barefoot. The leather and the tools were in my house, I had leisure, yet I was without shoes. Now I understood that stupid look Dermit had given me; now I called to mind Carrel’s package. Smart fellow, Dermit; stupid one, I. I have heard that even a genius has sometimes to be given a whaling before he will set to work.

We had made away with our viands and salad. I ordered wine, and cigars—for Dermit.

“ Now just try a few puffs of this very mild brand, Mickey. Don’t smoke it so long as you did the other; in the meantime, take half a glass of this sherry, then see if we can’t bring that dull brain of yours out of its lethargy. You’re like a basking frog, you’ll hop if you’re prodded and you need the prodding. ”

“ You’ll agree to get me home if there’s another internal revolution? ”

“ Sure. ” Dermit struck a match and we lighted up. He took his wine clear, while I timidly added water and a cube of sugar. Dermit laughed and glanced at some near-by diners who were watching me with rare good humor.

Thus, over the light wine and the mild cigars we passed another half hour. I grew light of spirit and gayer in my conversation. Visions flitted more lively. I grew jolly and whimsical, and sometimes I would laugh over nothing. When matters had gone thus far Dermit deemed it time to get me home, and true to his word, saw me safely to my room, 10, Snag House.

“ Now your head’s loosened up, Mickey; no, you’re not drunk, far from it. I wouldn’t let you get that far. You’re just light and jolly, and you’ll sleep it off all right. Tomorrow think it all over—the story, I mean, and get to work. ” Dermit shut the door, leaving me in a state of wonder, with strange fancies, dreamy.

Morrow dawned, and with it came to my slowly awakening senses a dullness unusual. Contrary to expectations, I was not at all in a mood to “ get to work. ” My head seemed not to work at all. Never had I felt so blunt and clodpated. The wine had done it—the wine and the cigar. I marveled at Edsum and Dermit, since they could smoke all day and swallow a pot of ale or wine without visible effect. If literary success depended on wine and cigars I felt my case hopeless.

I dressed and left my room for fresh air and a light breakfast. No writing for me that morning. Job hunting seemed more compatible. But not even job hunting was on the program, I would tramp, loaf, for by that manner one’s head soon keeps time with the feet and out of it all come wonders.

All over the town I tramped, up the hills and down, along oriental Grant Street and through the hurrying crowds of Market Street. My head cleared, my thoughts came more happily, though my feet wearied. I dreamed a thousand dreams, and I saw Marion and my artist friends, and Carrel, and Mrs. Raleigh, and Dick and Bunny. I wondered what had become of Bunny; my dreams only visualized him, they did not reveal him and his doings. So the day wore on, and as evening approached, cold winds set in from the sea, drenching the city and its people with the chill damp of fog. I was reminded of London—of London long ago. Vain years, what had they brought me?

But in spite of the fog and the chill, in spite of my weary feet, I let my restless, aching spirit rule and wandered down to the waterfront. It had been months since I last set eyes on ships. Now my inherited sailor blood tingled with the sensation of mingling once more with things briny. For an hour I strolled about. Mile after mile of ships were warped alongside the docks. I dreamed again of rolling decks and endless waves, of wildly tossed spray, of unfettered winds and unwearying seafowl. To some the call of the sea is irresistible, a siren, and in my present predicament I almost resolved to flee everything shore way; if I was not to see Marion again for a year why remain in painful proximity?

Night drew on, a cold, windy night, carrying away the fog, and sending a keen, cutting chill through one’s body. This drove me to my room, but on the way home I stopped for supper, and because of the cold I ate Spanish dishes. Warmed by my peppery food, I left the cafe and was soon in my room. I recalled Carrel’s package, and taking it from the drawer, broke the seals and opened it. There were about a hundred pages neatly written. These pages revealed a skeletonized story which quickly had my whole attention, my interest growing with each page. Why had not Carrel worked on this until he had a book? Page after page I read, my amazement growing as the night wore on, the climax coming with the appearance of a female deaf-mute impostor! I leaped to my feet, hurriedly wrapped the sheets, threw on my overcoat and rushed out of my room, bent on finding Dermit or Edsum and laying the manuscript before them.

I boarded a car, and twenty minutes later was pounding at the door of Dermit’s studio. It opened.

“ Here—I’ve got it—I’ve got it! ” I stumbled over a box and fell into a chair.

“ Got what? The effect of the wine? ” Dermit stared as one half amused, half insulted.

“ No, the case of Mrs. Raleigh—the She-mute! ”

“ Oh, I thought you meant delirium tremens. ”

“ I believe the old she-devil can hear and has worked her hoax to perfection! There’s a case like hers in this story of Carrel’s. ” I held up the manuscript.

Dermit took it and sat down. In my haste and excitement I had paid no attention to a bandage the sculptor was wearing around his head. As he sat back in his chair he said, “ I’ve got an awful headache, Mickey, worked too hard under the stimulus of wine and cigars—my head’s about to burst. I can’t read this tonight, and I want you to pardon me. Come another time; but I shouldn’t be surprised about a double of this case in the person of Mrs. Raleigh. I told you she was an old woman rejuvenated with dye and paint. Her hair’s peroxide, and if she can hear she’s a corker. Oh, Lordy, what a case! ”

“ Pardon me for thus bursting in on you, Dermit. I’ll go home; but there’s no sleep for me tonight. I’ve got another kind of headache—it’s this manuscript till dawn, and from dawn to foggy eve. Goodbye! ” I pushed the package down deep in my pocket and left the studio.

When I got back in Room 10 again it was with a head never so clear, with plans made and my work half done, for starting is half the job. Here was my cue—here my story, in this small package and my own experience with Mrs. Raleigh. It needed but hard work to round it out and make a complete story. I now forgave Carrel his eccentricities. Out of his skeleton story came an idea, the plot followed, characters rose before me, buildings leaped up from the ground within whose walls my brain children should live and play their parts. Sea and fields and woodlands came into view—my story world and its people stood clearly before me; I saw my dream people acting their parts, I felt their passions and their loves, their sins and their virtues, their triumphs and tragedies. And to crown it all, a deaf character played in and out of the scenes!

So through the night hours I sat and thought and visualized and visualized and plotted; so into the early morning hours I mentally toiled. The clock hands pointed at four. I yawned as I rose from my seat. It was time to rest. Throwing back the bed-covers and removing my coat and shoes, I crawled into bed and switched off the light.

Hours later, well past noon, I awoke. I was calm. I arose and pulled on my shoes. As one, who, having made up his mind after long deliberation, goes directly and composedly about his work, so was I now going about my task. I washed, and arranged my wrinkled clothing, went out, breakfasted, bought a large supply of writing paper, returned to my rooming house, paid the room rent, re-entered my room and sat down to begin my story.

And how I worked! I took no heed of time. My brain unfolded the story as a spool gives forth its thread: it was purely inspiration; work would do the rest. I paused to eat only when the ideas, due to brain fog, refused to come, putting in these lapses of time jotting down my progress in my diary. This meant irregular meals with consequent stomach rebellion, which came upon me very assertively after some ten days of abuse, of wrong living. I then ordered my day with system and regularity. I would rise at six, eat sparingly, work until noon, take a good walk to draw the blood away from my head, eat lunch, then put in another hour or so of work, and thus end a day’s labor. I refused to look at newspapers, or to read any book not necessary to my work. This steady, systematic work day by day produced good results. My story grew. I wrote with a clearer brain and a more animated spirit, more enthusiasm and greater energy, accomplishing more in a given time than I had been doing. Days grew into weeks, the few early pages into a bulky manuscript. I was bent on putting the story on paper as fast as it came from my animated brain. The correcting would come later, at leisure. I saw no one, save my landlady and the unavoidable street people. None of my friends knew what I was doing, nor did any seek me. I had not even called on the artists. I dared not even write Marion. That had as good as been forbidden; but what comfort and encouragement she would have given me had I been permitted to see her!

A whole month passed, and weeks followed the month—a month of toil surpassing in nerve exhaustion any other kind of work. I could not afford a typewriter, so the work was done in longhand, all the more laborious. And when the day’s labors were over, an ever-increasing fear would arise over the safety of the manuscript. I would lock it in my suitcase, or divide it and conceal it under the bedding. Every time I left the room I would return unnecessarily apprehensive. A careless chambermaid, a thief, or fire—and my manuscript would be gone.

Finally came days of fatigue. The strain was beginning to tell. Both body and mind were wearying. Nerves were failing; my hands would quiver, and at times my brain would swim and my eyes momentarily fail. I was becoming fazed. But the book was nearing its end. I looked upon the pile of manuscript with a sense of joy and a feeling of triumph. That pile of paper would vindicate the erstwhile wandering and uncertain Mickey. Old Carrel would be satisfied; Marion exultant. Dermit would see his advice carried out, and Edsum would come around and slap me over the back, asking for the honor of illustrating the story!

The whole thing had now come about as a ball is formed by the rushing together of smaller balls, atoms, molecules, but first a gas—in this case, my ideas, airy visuality. A mass follows, a common attraction of the correct things to bring about a desired and expected result. Thus are worlds made; so are great affairs consummated; so works genius. In my excitement and overbearing enthusiasm I saw myself a genius!

Came a great day. The work was done! I wrote Finis at the bottom of a sheet, stuck my pencil in my vest pocket and stepped to a window to look upon a very real world after weeks spent in a self-created one—a brain world. What a glory in finished labor! I felt like a victorious king home from his wars. But how tired I was! Every brain cell was tired; every hair-like nerve quivered like an aspen leaf; every muscle ached, and my eyes were red, and sore, and very tired. But it was all over, and I was glad.

But the brain current that had so swiftly swept me along was not to stop abruptly, as the physical world had, there must be a change, a relaxation of every part of my body. And it came with that night which followed the eventful day. A clear, cold night, and still. But the great city was not still. It was alive with joy, and pulsing with the spirit of abandon. San Francisco in all her riot of pleasure was afoot. Her banner of joy shot up as the sun went down; her hour of relaxation, her moment of effulgence, was at hand. And what an amazing mingling of races! And what wonderful cafes and restaurants, and places world-famed, unexcelled and unapproachable, all filled with light hearted or care-worn diners, paying well for all they got, going home broke, but uncomplaining.

I tidied up, threw on my overcoat, packed away the manuscript, and making sure of the presence of my purse, dashed out upon the noisy street and found a cafe. It was filled, as all such places were filled, with diners dressed for show. I sat down at a table immaculate with its heavily starched damask, glittering with silver and cut glass. The painted cabaret girls danced and sang, or wormed themselves languidly about the miniature stage. Music filled the air and swept outward to the street, luring people to the sensuous and sensual luxury and voluptuousness within. I dined and watched the scene with unrestrained mirth; and no one near me dreamed that I was deaf. As I had lived in my story, now would I live in real life! I would clear out the ghost of the unreal with the palpability of the real. My nerves cried for a change, and I was satisfying them. The dinner was delightful, the cabaret wantonly amusing. Through my frame tingled the vibrations of the orchestral strain. I grew in rapport with all things about me. And the wine, the now delightful, deleterious wine! I mounted rings of smoke and floated away on a wave of sound while blue eyes followed me and dimpled hands threw kisses from rosy lips…I roused myself with a start and a shudder. For the first time alcohol had worked its cunning. But I forgave myself. It was a venial sin. Recovering quickly I drew up in my chair, looked over my bill, paid and tipped the waiter and quickly passed out upon the life-overflowing streets. Then came upon me my old longing. “ The sea, the sea! I will go again to the waterfront although it be night, and dream again of far horizons, and wild winds, and shipwrecks. ” I was out with but one object, to enjoy myself and in so doing, clear my head of its frenzy, sweep away those brain-children and their haunts. The wine of life, the red wine itself, the salty sea air should clear them out!

I was caught in the human current sweeping Market Street, and carried along toward the ferry, a drop in that stream that seemed flowing to the sea. On with the gay and hurrying crowd, on with this human flood, this chattering, pulsing, aimless flood of humanity, block after block! As we neared the waterfront I managed to break away as a strong swimmer breaks away from the engulfing flow of the channel. I turned to my right and passed along Embarcadero, with its sordid, dangerous surroundings. Leaving the sidewalk, I drew across the wide street and followed closer to the water, passing along the docks.

Here and there rough hands were landing belated cargoes, and here and there other groups were finishing the loading of ships that should sail with the next outgoing tide. As I had entered lightly into the gaieties along Market Street, so did I become grimly absorbed here in the sturdy, bustling men and the work they were doing. I delight in contrasts, and this night was full of such offerings. The feverish, moneyed, care-free people in the cafes, and here the toiling riff-raff of humanity. There, the weak-limbed, insatiate, beclothed and beribboned; here, the big, heavy-boned, steel-muscled, shirtless, tar-and-dirt covered dogs of toil, creatures of every clime and creed, and of no creed and clime, ocean born and ocean tossed.

I passed on, yet not without a feeling of insecurity, for the place was tough and foul. Across the street lights flashed from countless bars and noisy halls, in and out of whose doors passed sailors and all-forsaken, and girls of the street hanging on the arms of their escorts. And some would drift across to my side, and I must look upon the painted faces blighted by suffering, or, with some, still retaining a faint bloom, the fast-fading tinge of a health that was no more.

Far down the forest of rigging I beheld a monster from Japan upon whose sides and decks lights played. I hurried on to get a closer view of this leviathan. Close to the liner was a “ three-sticker. ” Instantly something about this smaller vessel drew my attention from the liner. As I came nearer there entered my mind a new and strange feeling.

Vague outlines and forms from a long past day rose before me, imperfect images and lazy recollections. I became as one awakening from a strange dream and trying to recall and reconstruct the images that have been passing in the subconscious mind. I paused and rubbed my eyes. Was it the result of my weeks of brain work, of fancy-play? I gazed with a strange wonder at every visible part of this trim craft. There were other sailing ships up and down the waterfront; why had this one so strongly and strangely impressed me while other ones had not even called forth much more than a passing look? Yes, there was something unusual, uncanny, and, in a way, familiar, about this bark. I moved on, but not without repeatedly rubbing my eyes, for I yet could not quite rid myself of the capricious idea that my head was not quite back to normalcy. Now I was near enough to discern clearly her figurehead. My jaws dropped. That carved figure of Triton was not an accident. My father’s ship had carried just such a head! Shading my eyes from the many glaring lights, I rushed up as I caught sight of some dimly seen letters. Closer. I stopped in my tracks, my jaw fell and my arms half rose. There, in plain view I read—Seamew II!

Maybe my eyes popped out. I don’t know. I do know they swelled, and I could feel the cold sweat clamming my brow. There, before my wondering eyes was a perfect copy of my father’s lost ship, and bearing its name! Forgetting everything else for the instant, I rushed alongside the vessel and over the gangplank, landing on the forward deck. The watch rushed up and laid a rough hand upon me, letting loose, I daresay, a hurricane of language, and giving me a rough shaking to boot.

“ Who owns this ship? ” I cried, breaking away from the sailor’s grasp. But he again laid hold, and more roughly than before, while several sailors from the port watch rushed over and lent a hand. The next moment I was being soundly pummeled and dragged across to the port side. I expected to be flung overboard into the dark water, when I was yanked up and shoved against the gunwale, the sailors all the while swearing at me. I cried aloud, and this brought an officer hurrying up the companionway. The sailors let go as the officer came up, and as I caught a full view of his face I yelled for joy, and leaping forward landed pell-mell in the arms of the astonished old salt, almost toppling him over.

“ Danny—Danny! It’s you, Danny Merlin! Do you know me? ”

No; he didn’t know me. I was no longer the twelve-year-old lad he had fished up out of the reach of a shark. I was fat and chubby, then: now I was slim and some taller, and undoubtedly my face revealed the strain I had been undergoing.

“ It’s I, Danny, Mickey—Michael Dunmore! What are you standing there for? No, you don’t know me. ” I laughed for joy, and I laughed at his comical expression and attitude of bewilderment.

When I had thus explained Danny’s mouth flew wide open, his eyebrows rose to their limit; his arms shot forth and drew me in with a bear-like hug that all but made me cry with pain. The wind rushed from my lungs as those rough, but dear, old arms tightened about me. Tears gushed from my glad eyes, and I kept crying, almost deliriously, “ Danny, Danny, Danny! ” Thrusting me forth to get a full view of me as if to assure himself of my identity, and being satisfied, he turned to those over-dutiful sailors, and I am sure, blew a regular nor’wester, sending them shivering to their respective watches, or their bunks, leaving the old sailor and me masters of the ship and drunk with joy!