Dark Mondays

OH, FALSE YOUNG MAN!

“Push that lighter over here, will you, Dick?” said Madame Rigby, out of the corner of her mouth.

“Right away, ma’am,” said her assistant, hopping up from his workbench. Four paces from Madame Rigby’s chair stood a squat column on casters, the top of which was surmounted by the little tin figure of a grinning devil, standing amid a heap of painted coals. “May I wind him for you?”

“Sure,” said Madame Rigby, not looking up from her task.

Dick pushed the column within her easy reach and, fitting a crank into its socket just under the devil’s left hoof, wound it three or four times. The devil shivered briskly, as though waking; then, tilting its head and winking once, it thrust its pitchfork out. There was an audible click and a tiny jet of flame danced on the centermost tine of the fork.

Dick, who had not worked for Madame Rigby very long, applauded in delight. Madame Rigby scarcely noticed; she merely leaned over until the tip of her cigarette touched the flame. Two or three puffs obscured her in smoke; when it cleared, Dick saw that she was once again preoccupied with the work before her.

“It’s looking very nice, ma’am,” he said. “Makes you wonder how so much dust could get into a sealed glass case, though, doesn’t it?”

“Mm,” she said.

The object of his admiration was a glass-fronted box, fully six feet long and eighteen inches high, resting on a wooden case of roughly the same size. It was a mechanical diorama, a set of six miniature tableaux. The style of clothing worn by the tiny manikins within made it plain the thing had been built some twenty years earlier; that, and the dust, and the faded paint.

However, all was being made new by Madame Rigby. Scene by scene, the dust was being cleaned away with diminutive sponges; the wax faces of the dolls given fresh and lifelike tints with a delicate brush. Already the first scene in the little play, He Comes A-Courting, glowed like an immortal memory.

It depicted a clock shop, with its walls lined with clocks of all descriptions, and when the scene was in motion all the little hands must have spun round and round on the dial faces, and pendulums rocked to and fro. A tiny calendar gave the month and year as January 1880. Through a rear doorway was represented an horologist’s workbench, at which a lean, old man sat, peering through a jeweler’s loupe at a gold watch. His neck was clearly jointed to permit his head to nod.

In the showroom, however, a petite beauty stood behind the counter. She wore midnight blue satin with a bustle and train, and her upswept chignon and ringlets were a glossy black, rather as Madame Rigby’s might have once been. The object of her smiling attention was the handsome young man before the counter, whose jointed arm was raised to his hat; clearly he was meant to sweep it from his head and bow to her.

Beneath the second scene was painted He Vows To Be True. Here the same little man stood in a painted representation of a front parlor, and by the action of a pin and lever in his jointed leg might well be made to kneel before the little beauty, whose hand was placed in his. His neck was cleverly jointed as well, and perhaps enabled the head to drop forward upon the beloved’s hand when he knelt, in imitation of a kiss.

It was plain that the painted furnishings behind this demonstration of affection were meant to represent a certain threadbare gentility. And what could the artist have meant to imply, by showing a lady’s boudoir so plainly through the painted arch to the rear of the room? And was that a gentleman’s waistcoat, finely embroidered, draped over the foot of the bed?

The third scene was Upon Reflection He Grows Cold, and here was another public location: an expanse of painted lawn, and in the background an admirable representation of the Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park, with the delicate tracery of its spires and glittering dome. Charming; less so was the action in the foreground, where the young man stood stiffly upright. His face was turned from the young lady, his left hand extended in a gesture of repulsion that would become more emphatic when the forearm rose and dropped, as its jointed elbow clearly permitted it to do.

The young lady’s arms were jointed too; they must permit her to raise them in a beseeching motion. She clutched a handkerchief no bigger than a postage stamp. Infinitesimal tears were painted on her pale cheeks. And could the dollmaker have really meant to present the young lady in a gown cut so loosely about the waist? What a shocking implication!

The next scene, He Seeks a Wealthy Bride, showed the little gentleman at the seaside; he wore a straw hat, and the flush of sunburn on his cheeks was very well rendered. He stood with his hands in his pockets on the gray sand, apparently one of a party. Here, seated upon a checkered cloth, were three dolls, two meant to represent a well-to-do older couple; or so one might assume from the expanse of the old man’s waistcoat with its gleaming golden watch chain, and the ostentation of the old woman’s hat, and the richness of the painted wine, cake and roast chicken in the miniature picnic basket between them. The third doll was clearly their golden-haired daughter, smiling up at the young man without expression in her great, flat blue eyes.

In the distance behind them rose Cliff House, not Sutro’s splendid castle, but the little boxy structure that had been there before it; and if one looked very carefully one might spot the tiny, woeful figure in midnight blue, standing poised on its parapet as though she were about to jump into the saw-edged wooden waves—a proceeding sure to grind her to a pinch of sad dust, were they moving back and forth on their respective tracks, as presently they were not. The artificial perspective made it difficult to ascertain the young lady’s condition, but managed to suggest a reason for her desperation.

The fifth scene was titled Oh, False Young Man! Here was the interior of a grand church, seen through its open door; perhaps Grace Church. Real painted glass had been used in the windows, and perhaps there was an electric lamp behind them when the mechanism was switched on. If so, this would backlight the tiny, tiny figures of the groom and his golden-haired bride, standing one step below the tinier minister all in black, holding an open prayerbook.

All this through the door; without, on the church steps, sat the wretched doll in midnight blue, bowed forward in a transport of grief. Her body was jointed at its unmistakable waist; when she rocked back and forward, as she must, and raised her handkerchief and lowered it, there could be no question of her particular sorrow.

The sixth and final scene was titled She Meditates upon Her Vengeance, but was represented at present by a bare and dusty void, into which gears and wires protruded. Madame Rigby had removed the little scene which once occupied the space, and it sat unrestored to her left: a graveyard by night, with a solemn moon casting blue radiance over the doll in mourning black. She stood beside an infant’s grave, with her clasped hands lifted as in prayer. A black cat, perched on one of the tombstones, arched its jointed back when in motion; perhaps its glass eyes were lit from within too. Hinges on certain of the tomb lids suggested that the spectral occupants might emerge to regard the young lady’s anguish.

All this was being replaced, however, by a new final scene: the shabby front parlor once again, and the doll in midnight blue seated by a cradle containing a peanut-sized bundle in swaddling clothes. The doll held in her hand the finely embroidered waistcoat, last seen forgotten on the foot of the bed. Her face had been painted with a distinct expression of bitter regret. Madame Rigby, reaching in with a pair of long-nosed pliers, threaded a wire between the doll’s foot and the cradle’s front rocker and twisted its end to fasten it in place.

“That’ll do it,” she muttered, and felt under the scene’s floor for the wire’s other end. She tugged experimentally; the doll’s foot tapped, and the cradle rocked to and fro.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying so, ma’am, but I’m awfully glad you’re taking out the old ending,” said Dick. “It’s just too unbearably sad.”

Madame Rigby cocked an eye at him. “You think so, do you?” she said, as she slid the new scene into place. “What a lot you men find unbearable.”

“I guess that’s true, ma’am,” said Dick, abashed. He opened the front of the lower case for her, in order that she might connect the wires into the greater mechanism. A second’s careful work with the pliers, and it was done. Madame Rigby leaned back; Dick closed up the case, felt in his pocket for a slug nickel, and dropped it in the coin slot on the left side.

Six little curtains dropped, like window shades. Then each one rose in succession, revealing the respective scenes properly lit and animated. The tiny drama played out to its tragic end. The lamps extinguished themselves; the curtains dropped once more.

“You men,” repeated Madame Rigby, with a hoarse chuckle, and added a word seldom heard in polite society. Dick blushed and hung his head; then attempted a witticism to restore his composure.

“Why, it’s true we’re not perfect creatures. Maybe you’ll improve on the original design with Mr. Waxwork, over there.”

“Ahhh! You bet,” said Madame Rigby. She smiled, and pushed herself up from the bench, and went to a cabinet at the far end of the workroom. It was plain that if she had ever once resembled the doll in midnight blue, the years had made alterations; she was thickset now, bespectacled, gray-haired. But there was a certain vigorous pleasure in her step as she approached the cabinet and threw it open. She beamed with pride at what was disclosed within, and Dick caught his breath.

Anyone seeing the occupant of the cabinet for the first time might be excused for thinking they beheld a living youth, interrupted perhaps on his way to the bath, for he was loosely draped in a sheet. Every limb, every hair and eyelash, were perfect counterfeits; the human form was here presented with a degree of perfection unknown since Praxiteles. Yet this was no marble image of snow. The bloom of robust health was in the image’s cheeks, his thick hair was black and glossy as a raven’s wing. His eyes were a dark blue—one might almost say a midnight blue—and gleamed as though with intelligence and ready wit.

“Gracious, ma’am! When did you put in those eyes? He had ’em closed, last time I peeped in the cabinet!” said Dick.

“So you peeped, did you?” Madame Rigby scowled at him. “You’re a regular Pandora! The eyes are lenses, you see? There’re little shutters in his head, on timers. You must have stolen your look at night.”

“Yes, ma’am. It was when I’d come up to turn off the lights, before going out to dinner.”

“Well, mind I don’t catch you prying where you’re not asked again; or I’ll fire you, and I mean business, mister! That young wise-ass from the Polytechnic College thought he knew a trick or two Eudora Rigby didn’t; but I guess I showed him,” she said. She took a last pull on her cigarette, dropped it to the floor and crushed it out with her foot.

“Oh, no, ma’am, I’d never presume!” Dick protested. “It was only that I felt such an admiration of your work! I’ve never seen anything to beat this fellow.”

“Haven’t you?” Madame Rigby looked at him sidelong. “Well, here’s an eyeful for you!”

She pulled the sheet away, and laughed heartily when Dick turned scarlet with embarrassment.

“Oh, my hat!” Dick averted his gaze; then, unable to resist, looked again on the figure’s generous perfection with a certain horrified envy.

“The human form improved,” said Madame Rigby, in complacent satisfaction. There came a rap on the door, and she swiftly covered the figure once more and shut the cabinet. “That’ll be the moving van fellows! Let ’em in.”

Dick obeyed, and two hulking men in overalls and brogans stepped into the room, removing their caps.

“ ’Morning, ma’am. We’re here to see Mr. Rigby, about his exhibition?” said the elder of the two.

“That’s Madame Rigby, and it’s my exhibition, my good man,” said she, tapping her foot briskly. She waved her hand at the crates piled against the wall. “This all goes to Cliff House. Fourth floor, Gallery Hall, see? I’ll want you today and Thursday too. Make it snappy!”

Thursday evening Madame Rigby returned to the hotel where her workshop was presently housed. She was followed by Dick, who was drooping with exhaustion, having worked all day at setting up the exhibits. She unlocked the door, entered, and stood looking around her in satisfaction at the absence of packing crates.

“Now we’ll see, by God,” she said. She went to the table and rolled herself a cigarette, and the obliging little devil lit it for her.

“Oh, no!” said Dick. “We’ve gone and forgotten Mr. Waxwork!”

He went cautiously to the cabinet and opened it. There stood the figure as before, but with its eyes closed. As Dick watched, however, some inner mechanism reacted to the light of the street lamp falling upon the face; the eyes flew open, and appeared to view Dick’s consternation with gentle amusement.

“I haven’t either forgotten him,” said Madame Rigby. “Why, he’s the main attraction, boy!”

“But we’ll have to hire another van to get him out to Cliff House,” said Dick.

“Tut-tut! A cab will do perfectly well,” said Madame Rigby, smiling as she exhaled smoke through her nose.

“I suppose. Still… that’ll be some job for you and me, carrying him up all those stairs. He must weigh a couple of hundred pounds,” said Dick.

“Two hundred and nine,” said Madame Rigby. “But we won’t be carrying him, you fool. He’ll walk up on his own, as easily as you or I.”

“Walk!” cried Dick, delighted and astonished. “Why, you don’t mean he’s an automaton too? Like your spinet-playing girl, or the two little boys that write and draw? Or the old Turk who deals cards?”

“Ah! Those? Toys, all of them,” said Madame Rigby, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Early lessons. No more complicated than clocks. This fellow’s the real goods. My masterwork, and no fooling. And he’ll do the job—you’ll see.”

“Holy Moses,” said Dick. “What will he do, ma’am?”

“Let’s start him up, and I’ll show you,” said Madame Rigby. She went to a side table, where there stood a decanter of some colorless liquid. Drawing a long funnel from a drawer, she took it with the decanter to her creation, and tapped gently at his mouth. He parted his lips; Dick had a glimpse of white teeth and pink tongue, rather than the hollow of steel frame and silk lining he had expected. Madame Rigby thrust the funnel in, and poured the liquid down the automaton’s gurgling throat—or down a pipe, Dick supposed, into some unseen tank.

“Invented this fuel myself,” said Madame Rigby proudly. “One part cod-liver oil, one part Paris Lilacs parfum, and eight parts gin. He’ll run a week on a bellyful of this.”

“I should say he would,” said Dick. “I think I would too.”

“There now, my darling; that’ll set you up,” said Madame Rigby, with a tenderness in her voice Dick had never before heard. “Your day has come at last! Time to make Mama proud of you.”

She withdrew a curious long key from her reticule, and thrust it up the automaton’s left nostril. She turned it smartly. There was a click, and she withdrew the key. Dick half-expected to see the figure shiver with disgust, and clutch his nose; but he only began to breathe, or rather to go through the motions of breathing.

“Watch this, now,” said Madame Rigby, extending her hand in front of the automaton. She waved it from side to side; the figure turned its head as though following her movement with its eyes. Loudly and distinctly she said: “Your name, sir?”

The automaton blinked once, and when it opened its mouth Dick clearly heard the hiss of air being drawn in; the next moment a voice sounded, proceeding presumably from some bellows and reed mechanism in the chest.

“Jack Rigby, at your service,” said the thing, moving its lips in flawless imitation of the motions of speech. For all his delight, Dick felt a chill run down his spine. The more so when Madame Rigby laughed, triumphant, and the automaton drew its lips back from its teeth in a smile, as though politely sharing in the jest.

“Ha, ha, ha!” it said. “Very good.”

“Now, my boy,” said Madame Rigby, “step down!”

Jack Rigby, to use his own name, bent his head as though to judge the distance from the cabinet to the floor. Then with only the slightest unsteadiness, he stepped down from the cabinet.

Dick staggered backward, and collapsed in a dead faint.

When he came to himself again, Madame Rigby was forcing a stinging liquid down his throat. For a moment he had the dreadful fancy she had transformed him into an automaton, and was filling him with fuel; but it was only brandy. Madame Rigby was laughing again, and Jack was smiling and nodding along.

“Well, aren’t you the delicate lily!” she said. “Does my boy frighten you?

“Nothing of the kind!” insisted Dick, sitting up hastily. “I-it’s a shock, that’s all; I never expected him to do anything like that. Why, it’s like witchcraft!”

“Witchcraft?” Madame Rigby looked scornful. “Well, I should think not! This is the year 1900, after all, young man. There’s no hocus-pocus nonsense to my Jack; just hard work and practical engineering. Haven’t I labored at my trade these twenty years, and learned from all the clockmakers and dollmakers and mechanics in Bavaria and Paris? Jacky proceeds out of all they’ve done, only I’ve gone them all one better. Me! Eudora Rigby.”

“But… this isn’t like a clock,” said Dick, shivering. “You’ve made a thing that thinks like a man.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Madame Rigby. “Any more than a music box really sings, or a loom makes up its pattern as it goes along. He’s got leaves of metal in him, you see, thousands of ’em, tiny, and each one has a pattern of holes in it that tells him something to do. And inside those ears there’s mechanism that takes sounds and reads ’em as patterns. When it picks up a pattern it knows, why, it matches it up to one of its own, and gives him something to do in reply.”

“I think I see,” said Dick. “Didn’t it take a long while for you to punch all those little patterns, though?”

“Ages,” Madame Rigby admitted. “That was why I hired on that boy from the Polytechnic; I had too much to do. He sat there for two solid years, working out all the commands.”

“Well, this beats anything I’ve ever seen,” said Dick. “Yes, sir! That is to say, yes, ma’am.”

“Mind him a moment,” said Madame Rigby, going into her private chambers. “I’ll go fetch him some britches.”

Dick, much to his consternation, was left alone with Jack. He put on as bold a face as he could muster, and said loudly:

“Say! Think we’ll get any rain?”

Jack turned his head slightly when Dick spoke, as though to better hear him. He drew breath, smiled and said:

“Perhaps.”

“But there isn’t a cloud in the sky!”

“That’s true.”

“I might as well have said, do you reckon we’ll get ice and snow in July!”

“Tell me what you think.”

“He’s got an empty phrase to suit any occasion,” said Madame Rigby, returning with a suit of men’s clothing under her arm. “Help me get him dressed, now.”

This proved much easier than dressing the other automata in the exhibit, for Jack, while unable to respond to an order as complex as Dress yourself, was nonetheless able to lift or extend his limbs when told to, and could follow a specific order such as Button your shirt. Presently he stood, fully clothed, in a suit of smart modern cut; the waistcoat he wore with the suit, however, was out of fashion. Twenty years ago it had been the latest thing, to be sure, and its fancy embroidery was still bright.

“Ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so, this fellow’s going to make you millions,” said Dick in awe.

“Think so? Maybe,” said Madame Rigby. “Say, did you mail those invitations to the exhibition, like I told you?”

“I sure did, ma’am,” said Dick. “Did that first thing Monday morning.”

“Including the one to Congressman Gookin?”

“Yes indeed, ma’am. I think he’s already replied; it came in the morning post, but I haven’t had time to look through your correspondence today—”

Madame Rigby hurried to the table by the door, where her unopened mail sat in a basket. She picked up the letters and shuffled through them. One in particular she pulled out, and held up to the gaslight.

“That’s not his hand,” she said, frowning.

“I guess he has a secretary, ma’am,” said Dick.

“Oh! Sure he would, nowadays,” said Madame Rigby. She tore open the envelope and held up the letter, peering at it. Then she whooped with laughter. Jack smiled again and said, “Ha, ha ha!”

“What’s he say, ma’am?” said Dick, edging away from Jack.

“He says he’ll come!” cried Madame Rigby. “I knew he would. I asked him whether he might oblige us by saying a few words when the exhibition’s opened. He wouldn’t pass up a chance to stump for votes, not Fremont T. Gookin. The old son of a bitch is running for re-election, see?”

Dick winced at her language. “Yes, ma’am. I saw plenty of his banners up in Portsmouth Square, when I was posting handbills.”

Jack said, “You don’t say!”

“Listen to my pretty boy!” Madame Rigby said. “Well, this calls for a celebration. Come on, Dick; I’ll treat you to dinner at the Poodle Dog.” She grabbed up her hat and cape once more.

“What about him?” inquired Dick, turning out the lights.

“Why, he’ll stand guard; he never complains, my Jacky,” said Madame Rigby.

On Saturday morning, the long, sandy drive below Cliff House was crowded with buckboards and carriages. Above, a steady stream of people was dismounting from the streetcars that came and went. They milled about before the main entrance, where a sign had been strung up before the door:

Shortly before noon an impressive object came rattling up the Great Ocean Highway. It resembled a stagecoach, but was notable in that no horses galloped before it. The coachman, wearing goggles and a cap, drove from a small compartment in the front of the carriage; two men perched on the upper seats at the back, clutching their hats as the automobile accelerated to take the hill at a run. Within could be seen an imposing-looking gentleman of middle age, with a young lady seated beside him.

Many in the assembled crowd assumed this to be Mr. Rigby, and applauded at his grand arrival. No sooner had the automobile pulled up before the entrance, however, than they were disabused of this notion; for the two men behind the coach leaped down, bawling:

“Re-elect Congressman Fremont T. Gookin!”

One of them reached down and withdrew a bundle of painted canvas, and they hurried in through the arches; a moment later they could be glimpsed above on the outer deck, where they spread out a banner reading:

Congressman Gookin himself had meanwhile dismounted from the automobile, and extended his hand to the young lady, who stepped down, looking around her rather sullenly.

“Honestly, Papa!” she murmured. “That really is the height of bad manners.”

“Hush, Evangeline,” said her father. “There’s a reporter for the Morning Call! Smile; and pray don’t say anything objectionable.” He drew off his hat and waved it at the throng. “Well met, citizens!”

There were scattered cheers. With his daughter on his arm he strode within, smiling and nodding to one and all. Just to the left of the entrance was a reception room with a bar, where more members of the press were assembled. Congressman Gookin flashed them a broad smile.

“Gentlemen! What a grand day, is it not? I wonder if you could tell me whether Mr. Rigby has arrived?”

The reporter for the Examiner coughed meaningfully.

“Madame Rigby,” said she, stepping forward. Congressman Gookin turned to regard her.

“Oh! Like Madame Tussaud? Oh, I see! I hope you’ll pardon me, madame; entirely unintentional oversight,” he said. “Fremont T. Gookin, your servant. May I introduce my daughter, Evangeline?”

“What a pretty child,” said Madame Rigby. “You know, my dear, your papa’s quite forgotten me! Haven’t you, Congressman? Or is it possible the name Eudora Rigby has not quite faded from memory?”

Congressman Gookin opened his mouth to make some gracious rejoinder, and halted. He looked at Madame Rigby with recognition; horror came into his face. Before he could recover himself, Madame Rigby grinned, and urged forward the young man whose arm she held.

“And do let me present my son, Jack Rigby.”

“How do you do, young man,” stammered Congressman Gookin. Jack cocked his head slightly, smiled and said:

“Very pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

Congressman Gookin’s distracted gaze traveled over the youth’s features, which bore a certain resemblance to his own; then he noticed the embroidered waistcoat, and the color quite fled from his cheeks. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped away cold sweat.

“Madame—please—”

“I think you had a few words to say to the gentlemen of the press?” said Madame Rigby.

“Why—yes, I have—” Congressman Gookin fumbled in his coat pocket and brought out a paper containing the notes for the speech he had prepared. In doing so he disengaged his arm from that of his daughter, and Madame Rigby was quick to lean forward and take her hand.

“Miss Evangeline, wouldn’t you like a private tour of the exhibition, before we let in the public? Jack! Take her arm, there’s a good boy. Dick, you go with ’em, show Jack the way.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dick said, stepping away from the bar.

“But—” said Congressman Gookin, looking around wildly. Madame Rigby took his arm.

“Now, now, Congressman dear, I’m sure we’re all anxious to hear what you have to say,” she said, looking around at the reporters. “Aren’t you, boys?”

And in fact Congressman Gookin had prepared a fine speech, full of references to the New Century, and Progress, and American Capability. He had hired his automobile especially for the occasion, and had meant to laud American inventors in several clever references to it; he had even done a little research on the history of clockwork automata, and worked up an elaborate metaphor involving the American industrial worker as a proud engine propelling forward the American economy. This was designed to lead to an impassioned appeal for re-election, on the grounds that Progress would cease unless he, Congressman Gookin, were permitted to continue his efforts on its behalf.

It was a rather long speech, and this was unfortunate, for several journalists present noticed that Congressman Gookin stuttered on not a few occasions throughout. He seemed to have difficulty concentrating; several times his eyes tracked nervously to the door through which his daughter had vanished with the two young gentlemen. Madame Rigby stood by the door with her arms crossed, smiling at him the entire time.

Meanwhile, a floor above, Jack Rigby strolled along with Miss Evangeline on his arm, and Dick followed behind them, scarcely able to contain his mirth.

“These are the tableaux, miss,” said Dick, pointing to a row of cases. “They’re mostly her older pieces. This, here, is the Visit to the Circus; allow me to demonstrate.”

He dropped a slug nickel into the coin slot, whereupon Miss Evangeline was treated to the sight of a three-ring circus in miniature coming to life. Little trapeze artists swung to and fro, a lion tamer raised his whip before a snarling beast that lifted and dropped its head, and a magician made a crystal ball appear and disappear.

“Oh, everything moves,” exclaimed Evangeline, and gazed up at Jack. “Isn’t that clever!”

“Charming,” agreed Jack.

“And this one’s the Message from the Sea,” said Dick, trying to catch Evangeline’s eye, for he thought she was quite a pretty girl. She glanced at the tableau instead, as it whirred into motion. It depicted a ballroom. On a dais on one corner, musicians sat, and rocked to and fro as though playing their various instruments. Real beveled mirrors were set in the wall, the better to reflect the naval officers and their ladies who waltzed round and round, on a circular track, to a music-box waltz. Beyond, in a painted harbor lit by a white moon, great warships rode the sea surge, going slowly up and down; in the foreground a ship’s boat rocked too, full of sailors who rested on their oars. A tiny midshipman bearing a sword no longer than a toothpick was halfway up the terrace steps, waving; in his raised hand was a sealed dispatch.

“That is too, too romantic,” said Evangeline to Jack, with a sigh. “Whatever do you suppose is in the message?”

“Tell me what you think,” said Jack.

“Oh, I suppose—perhaps war’s been declared, and all those gallant seamen must leave their sweethearts broken hearted,” said Evangeline. “And yet, their love shall burn the more fiercely for being cruelly separated.”

“Indeed,” said Jack.

“Do you want to see the automatons?” said Dick, a trifle sulkily. “There’s a peach over here—Professor Honorius. He’ll write you out a personal message.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Evangeline. “I declare, Mr. Rigby, your mama is a woman of most remarkable talents!”

“Ah, well,” said Jack.

“You don’t think so? But then I find that parents and children seldom appreciate one another as they ought,” said Evangeline. “My papa, for example, seems incapable of regarding me as anything other than an ornament to his arm during election time. My thoughts and feelings are quite inconsequential to him.”

“Dear, dear,” said Jack.

“Here,” said Dick, stopping beside a glass case wherein sat, large as life, a whimsical old gentleman in the robe and mortarboard of a schoolmaster. His right arm, pen in hand, rested on a small writing-table. “You have to stand in front of him for it to work.”

He took Evangeline’s elbow and steered her to a spot directly in front of the case. He had assumed she would let go of Jack’s arm in the process, but she held tight and Jack followed like an obliging fellow, close at her side.

“Not sure he’ll get the message right, if there’s two of you,” grumbled Dick, but he felt in his pocket for another slug and dropped it in the coin slot.

Professor Honorius raised his head and turned it from side to side, as though peering before him. Then his left hand lifted a pair of spectacles to his eyes, and he looked straight ahead at Evangeline and Jack. He nodded, smiling. As he did so, a card dropped into a small tray on the writing-table.

Professor Honorius lowered his spectacles and turned his face to the writing-table, seeming to look down on the card. His right arm lifted, reached across to an inkwell, whose cap opened for him; he dipped the pen and then, slowly but with perfect articulation of his fingers, wrote upon the card.

“Well, I never!” said Evangeline.

“Very true,” said Jack.

The message having been written, Professor Honorius raised his hand. A peg rose under one side of the tray, tilting the card outward and down a chute; it dropped through the front of the case, and fell to the floor. Jack’s head lowered, and his eyes seemed to focus on the white pasteboard.

“Allow me,” said Jack. With a graceful motion he bent at the waist, and picked up the card. He presented it to Evangeline with a slight bow. She read the card. She blushed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Dick, leaning past Jack to see what was on the card, read:

“My goodness, what a delightful thought!” said Evangeline to Jack.

“Please,” said Jack. “Tell me about yourself.”

Which Evangeline proceeded to do, as Dick led them along the row of automata, past the Turk who dealt cards and the other Turk who smoked a hookah, past the clown whose little dog balanced on a ball, and they might have been blank walls for all that Evangeline paid the slightest attention to them. She spared not even a glance at the remarkable replica of Vaucanson’s Excreting Duck. When Dick set the Grand Orchestrion playing, blaring out “Wellington’s Victory” so loudly the glass cases all rattled, she merely raised her voice to be heard. The whole while, Jack seemed to follow her words with interest and sympathy. “Ah,” and “Well, well,” and “Do tell!” and “How very interesting,” in no way exhausted his vast repertory of responses.

Presently applause downstairs indicated that Congressman Gookin had staggered to the end of his speech, and a moment later the waiting crowd was let in to climb the stairs to the exhibit hall. Madame Rigby walked at the forefront, firmly clasping Congressman Gookin’s arm. The congressman looked sick and faint, as though he would rather be anywhere else. Madame Rigby had the air of a smiling tigress.

“Well, Jack, have you entertained the young lady properly?”

“I’ll have to think about that,” said Jack.

“Oh, Jack dear, don’t be silly! Madame, he’s too modest; I’m having the most wonderful time!” said Evangeline.

“How very nice. Now, Congressman, I’ve something special to show you,” said Madame Rigby. “The oldest piece in the exhibit, the first one I ever built.”

She pulled him with her to the lovers’ tragedy in six acts. Dick slouched after them, having given up any attempt to draw Evangeline’s notice. Dutifully he dropped a slug in the coin slot, and the first little curtain rose on the scene in the clockmaker’s shop. Congressman Gookin regarded it with a face as waxen as the manikin’s.

Dick, well used to the little play by now, found himself watching its audience instead. He observed Congressman Gookin’s pallor, and the light of baleful joy on Madame Rigby’s face. Suddenly the full import of what Dick beheld dawned on him. He looked uncertainly from one face to the other, and then at the tableau.

“Oh!” he exclaimed under his breath. Shaken with disgust, he left the exhibit hall and went downstairs to the bar, where he fortified himself with a whiskey. In doing so, he missed the congressman’s rapid exit, pulling a protesting Evangeline with him.

“Well, well, listen to this,” said Madame Rigby, tipping ash from her cigarette. She read from a sheet of scented letter-paper:

My very dear Jack, I am scarcely able to express my pleasure at meeting you Saturday, but even less able to express my indignation and outrage. You may well wonder why! In the Automobile I expressed to Papa my intention to invite you to my Birthday Soiree, and to my shock and horror he positively forbid it! We had quite a Row and the Consequence is, I have canceled the entire affair. Which will end up costing a Great Deal I am sure, as the caterer’s deposit cannot be refunded at such short notice, but as it is my fortune anyhow, or will be, I do not care.

“In any case I shall certainly not let such an Unfair Prejudice as Papa’s stand in the way of my further acquaintance with your gracious self. He is all Affability when there is a Reporter anywhere nearby, but quite another person in Private. Be that as it may, we are not in Ancient Rome and I am free to take the streetcar anywhere I like. It is my intention to visit you at the Exhibition tomorrow, and indeed any day that I am able, when we may continue our Interesting Conversations.

“Unless—perhaps I am too Forward? But surely you do not think so. Do reply by return post and tell me that you share my Enthusiasm for our continued friendship. Yours Affectionately, Miss Evangeline Gookin.

Madame Rigby tossed the letter down on her workbench and took a long pull on her cigarette.

“Her fortune anyhow, is it? ‘Or will be’. Now, I wonder if the family fortune wasn’t settled on the child? How unfortunate for the congressman! Where’s my writing-case, Dick? Jack’s got to write her straight back, just as she asked him to.”

“You don’t mean he writes, too?” said Dick, fetching her the case.

“Oh, I reckon I could modify him to do it; but what need, when his own dear mama knows exactly what he’ll say?” said Madame Rigby. She took out a sheet of paper and a reservoir pen of her own design, and paused.

“Now, let’s see. ‘My dear little girl—’ Just so old Fremont Gookin used to begin! But, no; this is Jacky’s first letter, and he’s a gentleman. He wouldn’t make so bold.” Madame Rigby began to write, reading aloud as she went.

“ ‘My very dear Miss Gookin; painful as I find the report of your father’s unreasoning dislike, it is difficult to express my corresponding joy at your kind regard and your desire to continue our acquaintance.’ ”

“Ma’am, don’t you think—” said Dick.

“Hush, boy. ‘Especially since it will, sadly, be of such a brief duration; for, you know, we will be returning to Paris when the Exhibition closes at the end of the month.’ ”

“Ah,” said Dick.

“ ‘So I will be delighted to spend my brief interlude here as much in your fair company as possible. Please do meet me at the Exhibition tomorrow, the Twelfth; I shall linger amongst the cases, disconsolate until you come.’ There!” Madame Rigby signed for Jack with a flourish. “Just you run this out to the post box, Dick.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Dick, smiling uneasily. “You know, it’s a fine joke; but do you think you can keep it up for a month? What if Jack’s exposed for what he really is?”

“Exposed! Why, let him be,” said Madame Rigby. “Can you think of better publicity for us? It’s the grandest joke that’s ever been played; and the longer we can keep it going, the bigger the story will break. Then we’ll see the money rolling in. I’ve planned this hoax for twenty years, sonny; no matter what may befall, I’ll come out of it a winner. And you’ll stick with me and win too, if you’ve any brains.”

Dick saw before him the prospect of a trip to Paris, France, with all he might learn from Madame Rigby there, and the mansion on Nob Hill that might one day be his if he became a master mechanic. He swallowed hard and said:

“It does seem a little hard on Miss Evangeline, is all.”

Madame Rigby’s eyes glinted. “Hard? Well, she’ll survive it. A few rude shocks are liable to do such a spoiled beauty good.”

The exhibition was a success. It was favorably written up in the Examiner, the Chronicle and the Morning Call. Only the Examiner quoted from Congressman Gookin’s speech at any length, so it is unlikely his efforts did much to sway the forthcoming election.

But San Franciscans took the streetcar out to Cliff House in great numbers. There they stood in line to file up the stairs to the gallery, and gladly spent their bright nickels to make the acquaintance of Professor Honorius, or to marvel at the detail and perfection of the Excreting Duck. Not a few of the gentler sex shed a tear over the sorrows of the little black-haired doll in midnight blue. Dick worked for two hours each evening after the gallery closed, emptying the machines; he never failed to retrieve at least two buckets’ worth of nickels, which were satisfyingly heavy when rolled up in brown paper and taken to the bank next morning.

Though Miss Evangeline Gookin visited the exhibition on very nearly a daily basis, she spent no coin, and scarcely looked again at the scenes mecaniques. All her time was spent with Jack, walking round and round the fourth-floor porch outside the exhibition. The sun shone, the salt-gray sea roared and surged around Seal Rock, the booming wind streamed her hair out and brought her the squeals of bathers far down Ocean Beach; it is unlikely Evangeline noticed any of this, so caught up was she in her conversations with Jack.

She thought him quite the kindest and most thoughtful youth she’d ever met. He never interrupted her, as every other boy of her acquaintance did; never told her that her opinions were silly, never scoffed at her tastes in Literature or Art, never boasted, never grew impatient, never attempted to change the topic under discussion to Sports, and never, never in word or deed suggested anything immoral.

Indeed, Jack seemed to like nothing more than to listen to her, chastely holding her hand all the while. Evangeline supposed that this was because he was a pure and chivalrous person, though she had to admit to herself that Jack’s behavior might have been a little more ardent, had Madame Rigby not loitered continually in the near distance. But this too was entirely proper; and Madame Rigby played the smiling chaperone on the several occasions they took tea in the ladies’ parlor next to the Gallery Hall. And if Jack’s hands were a little cold, Evangeline never wondered at it; for the porch at Cliff House, exposed as it was to the full force of the wind off the Golden Gate, ranked just above Alaska in January on any list of the world’s chilliest places to court a lover.

It must be admitted that sometimes Evangeline found Jack’s conversation a little vague and absent-minded. His letters to her (for they wrote each other often) were another matter, however. He wrote in a witty, dashing style, and used the courtliest expressions of love she had ever heard. Had Evangeline known that their source and origin was a bundle of yellowed deception written by Congressman Gookin himself, harbored in the bottom of Madame Rigby’s trunk these twenty years, she would have recoiled in horror; but she didn’t know, and so continued to treasure Jack’s correspondence.

The closing day of the exhibition drew inexorably nearer. If Jack’s letters and manner remained serene, Evangeline was increasingly wretched to contemplate that she might shortly be deprived of his company forever.

“Whew! I want a brandy,” said Madame Rigby, throwing down her hat and gloves. “I’d forgotten how cold the wind blows out there. Dick, take Jack to the water closet; he drank three cups of tea today. I wonder he hasn’t leaked.”

Dick rose, shuddering, and guided Jack to the lavatory. Fortunately, he was not obliged to assist Jack further at this point; as he slouched in the doorway, he blessed his predecessor, the nameless fellow from the Polytechnic who had worked out all Jack’s more detailed masculine commands. One terse phrase was all that was required for Jack to make the necessary adjustments to his trousers before draining off approximately twenty-four ounces of stale tea, after which he buttoned himself once more and turned with a beaming face to receive his next order. Taking Jack by the shoulder, Dick walked him to his cabinet and thrust the key up his nose before shutting him away for the night.

“Lordy! Here’s another letter from Miss Evangeline,” said Madame Rigby. “Well, well! Are these tear-stains I see? Jack, you rogue, what have you been up to?”

She poured herself a brandy and lit another cigarette before settling down to read the latest letter. Dick sat down wearily and unwrapped a ham sandwich bought from a pushcart vendor, for he had yet to dine. He was not to enjoy his meal in peace, however. Madame Rigby perused but a few lines before she leaped to her feet and began to pace as she read, puffing out furious clouds of smoke.

“Listen to this!” she said, from the corner of her mouth. “ ‘Oh, my Beloved! You may well wonder at my Tears, or maybe the fact that my writing is so Tremulous. I am a Prisoner in my Own Room! You shall not wonder long, for here is the whole Dreadful Truth!

“ ‘Papa has found one of your Letters and for Heaven’s Sake I thought he was going to Drop Down Dead right there on the Floor from Apoplexy! Never have I heard Such Language! He has called you all kinds of Dreadful Things I will not repeat, and (Which is Worse to my Way of Thinking) your dear Mother also.

“ ‘I am Forbidden to see or speak to you Ever Again!!! And am presently Locked In on the Third Floor!!!!

“ ‘Yet, Despair Not, for the man doesn’t live who can keep Evangeline Gookin from her True Love. Hear me Patiently a Little While, for I think I see a Way we may yet be Happy.

“ ‘I am Certain the Servants will let me out To-Morrow whilst Papa goes to his Odious Campaign Meeting, for they all Detest him as much as I do, especially Daisy, whom he has Treated in a Beastly Manner I will not soil my pen with Describing. And even were they not to be bribed, what Papa does not know is that one can quite Easily climb from my Window to the little Porch above the Breakfast Room and so down the Drainpipe to the Garden, and then you know the Streetcar Tracks run right past the Corner.

“ ‘But all of this Availeth us Not but to a Temporary Reunion, unless your Passion is the Equal of mine. Darling, I really think we must Elope. You surely have seen plenty of folks do it over in France where people are less Cold-Blooded than Over Here and I bet you would have no trouble making the Arrangements. And then, what Bliss & Ecstasy awaits us!!

“ ‘Though I hope you will not come to Smoke or Drink, Jack, for I find those to be Intolerable vices. Nor go to the races. Nor take up with a lot of Objectionable fellows and stay out late much. And I do expect you will Permit me to Manage the Household Accounts. I feel my poor Mama’s Health was Considerably Wrecked by Quarreling and I don’t much think you ought to oppose a dear and loving Wife who only seeks your Happiness.

“ ‘Lest you have any Fearful Considerations—you know I am of Age, and that my late Mama’s whole Fortune was settled on me to inherit at my Marriage. So I am sure Papa Dreads any such Happy Day for me on account of he is Heavily in Debt and after the way he Carried On just now I am Determined to cut him off without one Red Cent and serve him right.

“ ‘Daisy is waiting to take this down to the Post Office so it goes right out. She always collects the mail too so she will Intercept your Reply and bring it right up. Write back Immediately, Jack Dearest, and tell me our Hearts will soon Beat as One. Your own adoring Evangeline Rigby (or so I fondly anticipate).’ ”

Dick sat appalled, his sandwich half-eaten, as Madame Rigby finished the letter and folded it carefully. Her eyes glowed with a hellish light. She dropped the end of her cigarette, stepped on it, and took a hearty drink of brandy. Setting the glass down, she said:

“Dick, I want you to go over to the Palace right now, and reserve a suite of rooms for tomorrow night. Here’s a pair of twenty-dollar gold pieces. Get the best you can.”

“Good God!” cried Dick. “You can’t mean to—”

“Why, Dick, whatever do you take me for?” said Madame Rigby. “Weren’t you listening to that poor child’s letter? She’s in deadly peril! When she’s an heiress, and her wicked father’s in debt? I imagine he’s planning her destruction even now. You don’t know him as I do! We must convey her to safety, and she can’t come here; it wouldn’t be proper.”

“Forgive me,” said Dick, abashed. He pocketed the money and ran out, and an hour later had secured a fine suite of rooms for the following evening.

Madame Rigby was not there when he returned. Suffused with feelings of dread, he peered into Jack’s cabinet. Jack opened his eyes and looked at him, as though inquiringly. Dick heard the door opening behind him, and, closing the cabinet with an air of guilt, turned to see Madame Rigby entering the room.

“Where have you been?” said Dick.

“Mailing a letter,” she replied. “Did you do as I told you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Dick. He dug in his pocket and found the receipt, which he handed to her. Madame Rigby took it eagerly, studied it a moment, and then tucked it away in her reticule.

“Now, Dick,” she said, “I’m going to be busy all day tomorrow, so you’ll have to mind the exhibition yourself. See that you telephone the moving men and engage a van for Monday.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Dick. “Shall I take Jack with me tomorrow?”

“No,” said Madame Rigby.

This filled Dick with suspicions so horrible he was scarcely able to name them even to himself; how much less, then, was he able to utter them to the composed and masterful woman who stood before him?

Long he lay awake that night in shameful torments, before falling into uneasy slumbers full of dreams of Evangeline: as a dainty and gossamer-winged butterfly trapped in the net of a squat spider, or as a tiny, jointed doll waltzing round and round in the arms of Professor Honorius, or bound in a straitjacket as she screamed, and screamed again without cease.

During the long streetcar ride the next morning, Dick was so dogged by the fantastic horrors of the previous night that he felt obliged to go straight to the bar, upon his arrival at Cliff House, and fortify himself with a stiff drink.

The whiskey braced him enough to enable him to open the exhibition for the day, but did not quiet his misgivings. As soon as the doors had been opened and visitors were filing through, Dick went back down to the bar and had another whiskey, and then another. By noon, the accumulated effects of four whiskies with a breakfast of stale pretzels had reduced Dick to a sorry condition indeed.

Unable to bear his apprehension any longer, Dick then pulled out a memorandum book and, tearing out its blank back pages, wrote in pencil a long and somewhat incoherent letter. In it he revealed as much as he understood of Madame Rigby’s melancholy history, as well as the truth of Jack’s extraordinary origins, in some detail. He ended with the earnest assurance that he disclosed these things only to spare Evangeline greater shock and humiliation.

Having acquired an envelope from the proprietor of the souvenir stand, Dick ventured out and caught a streetcar, and spent an unsteady eternity rattling across town. At last he spotted the Palace Hotel and leaped off in mid-block, under the nose of an affronted draft horse. Leaving chaos in his wake, he lurched into the vast hotel lobby and slid the envelope over the desk, with a slurred request that it might be delivered to suite 507, when the party for whom it had been reserved should check in.

Dick meant to return then to his duties at Cliff House. He may have done so; he certainly got as far as the bar there, but his next clear memory was of being at Sutro’s Baths, struggling into a woolen bathing costume that seemed to have been made for a one-legged man. The clearest memory after that was of being held upright in an ice-cold shower bath by a pair of muscular attendants.

At some point after that Dick found himself on the floor of the workshop, and made his way on hands and knees to the far wall. There he meant to pull down the window-drapes to serve as blankets, but somehow failed to do so. He attempted to get Jack to help him, but the doors of the cabinet were standing ajar; nothing was in there but the long, brass key, which seemed to have fallen to the floor and been overlooked. Dick put the key in his pocket and, weeping for the sorrow and the pity of it all, curled up and went to sleep.

“Well! You’re some pretty picture, aren’t you?” said a voice, high-up and distant and yet shockingly loud. Dick groaned and opened his eyes. He was greeted by the spectacle of a giantess looming above him, arms akimbo, smiling widely.

He lay there, stupefied, until Madame Rigby flung open the drapes and let in the light of broad noon. He flung up an arm to shield himself from its poisonous brilliance, and as he did so realized that he had failed to close down the exhibition, or to empty the coin boxes either, on the previous night.

“Oh, ma’am—I’m so awfully sorry—It won’t ever happen again!” he said.

“Why, that’s all right,” said Madame Rigby, lighting a cigarette. “By rights I ought to fire you, but I’m feeling the most extraordinary peace today. Take your time getting up, Dick; no need to hurry. We don’t sail until this afternoon.”

Dick sat up. As he did so a newsboy screamed out, very nearly under the window:

“EXTRA! Congressman Gookin dead! Fremont T. Gookin suicide suspected!”

“What?” said Dick, as the floor seemed to roll like the breakers at Ocean Beach. Madame Rigby laughed quietly.

“ ‘Suspected?’ ” she said scornfully. “Why, he had the gun in his hand. They found him stretched out in front of his dressing-room mirror. At least, that’s what the morning edition says.” She held it up for Dick to see. “Care to read for yourself? There’s no mention of anyone finding my letter, though; so I suppose he had the good sense to burn it first.”

“What letter?”

“The one I left for him, when I called in a cab for Miss Evangeline,” Madame Rigby replied. “Don’t you remember? We were going to assist her in her escape. We drove straight to the chapel.”

Dick scrambled to his feet, as memory overtook him. He cast a swift glance at Jack’s cabinet; its doors still stood open, revealing its emptiness.

“Where’s Jack?” he shouted.

Madame Rigby’s smile widened further still, giving her something of the air of a happy crocodile.

“On his honeymoon,” she said, and roared with laughter as Dick staggered backward.

“Oh—oh, heaven! You old witch! Oh, how could you?” Dick gasped. “I’ll go to the police!”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” said Madame Rigby. “Just you think for a moment about your future, mister. I can teach you all I know; the world will be your oyster. I’ve booked us a pair of berths on the Belle Etoile, and we’ll be sailing off to Paris long before that girl stops screaming.

“You can stay here, if you like; but you’ll have a real hard time convincing anyone you weren’t my accomplice. Didn’t I tell you that, whatever happened, I’d come out the winner? Well, I have.”

Jack stared at her, breathing hard. At last he said:

“But—the exhibition—Jack—”

Madame Rigby waved her hand impatiently. “Trash. I built ’em for one purpose; well, that purpose is served.” She cast a glance at the newspaper, and smiled again. “And well served too. I’ll build something new and better next time—”

The door was thrown open.

Evangeline stood on the threshold, looking pale but determined. Madame Rigby glared at her like a startled cat; but smiled nonetheless, after a moment’s silence, and drew on her cigarette.

“Why, Evangeline dear,” she said. “So sorry to hear about your papa.”

“It was scarcely a surprise,” said Evangeline coolly. “He was being blackmailed by at least three women, and with the re-election coming up their demands were becoming importunate. Or so I should judge from his bank withdrawals. I really do fear you cannot take all the credit for his untimely death.”

Madame Rigby’s smile froze.

“Miss Gookin—I had nothing to do with—” Dick began, but she stopped him with a raised hand.

“Mrs. Rigby, if you please. You haven’t asked after Jack, dear mother-in-law! And may I say I cannot thank you enough for your kindness yesterday? I confess to being a little astonished on my wedding night, but what married woman is not? I soon came to realize my good fortune. For, you see, Jack is so perfectly the sort of husband I had wanted; so patient, and understanding, and obedient. And untiring,” added Evangeline, as a lovely flush came into her cheeks.

Madame Rigby gaped at her, until the sense of her last word sank in, and dropped the cigarette. Her face empurpled with fury.

“You—he—oh—oh, that damned boy from the Polytechnic!” she shrieked.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean,” said Evangeline. “And I’ll thank you not to use such language. In any case, I did not come here to speak to you.” She turned to Dick. “Admirable as my darling husband is in so many ways, he is nonetheless a trifle forgetful. I should like to engage your services as his valet. You will be handsomely remunerated.”

Dick blinked at her.

“Don’t you dare go, you little crawling bastard!” said Madame Rigby. Evangeline spared her only a pained glance. She smiled enchantingly at Dick as she extended a hand to him.

“Recall that I am now in possession of a fortune which, if not quite as splendid as it once was, is still considerably more than it might have been had poor dear papa lived to continue stealing from it. Handsomely remunerated, sir.”

Dick seemed to wake up. He stood straight, shook his hair out of his eyes, adjusted his coat and lapels, and shook Evangeline’s hand most energetically. “Yes, ma’am!” he said.

He grabbed his hat and followed her out the door.

Madame Rigby was left alone. At length she noticed the curl of smoke rising from her forgotten cigarette. She stamped it out, cursing, and rolled herself a new one. Looking around, she spotted the little devil and wound him up. He winked and offered her a jet of flame. She leaned down to him.

“I can count on you, anyhow, Lucifer,” she murmured, sucking her smoke alight. “Can’t I?”

She went to the window and stood looking out, smoking. The smoke tasted sour. She coughed, and coughed again.