He swung aboard an O'Farrell Street car, found a seat in the corner of the open "dummy" portion, and strove with the tumult in his soul. The torturing thought of Clytie for ever lost to him coiled and uncoiled like a serpent. He did not doubt Masterson's revelation, nor could he doubt its obvious interpretation in the light of the many revelations that had been cast upon Mr. Payson's past. Yet it must be corroborated before he could wholly abandon himself to renunciation. He tried to keep from hoping.He was Clytie's half-brother! His mind wrestled with it.The car filled at the Orpheum Theater, taking on a load of merry passengers, who crowded the seats inside and out till the aisles and footboards were packed. The bell clanged as they drove through the Tenderloin, rolled round the curve into Jones Street and took the steep hill, climbing without slackening speed. It rounded two more corners, wheels creaking; and as it passed, the broad area of the Mission and South San Francisco was for a moment revealed in the gap of Hyde Street, a valley of darkness, far below, gorgeously set out with lights, like strings and patterns of jewels. At California Street a crowd of passengers, mostly Jews, overdressed, prosperous, exuberant, transferred for the Western Addition. The car went up and up, reached the summit and coasted down the dip to Pacific Street. Another rise to Union Street, where another line transferred more passengers towards the Presidio. Then, with only one or two inside, and the conductor lazily picking his teeth on the back platform, they climbed again up to the reservoir. Here a long incline fell giddily to the water and the North Beach. The car rolled to the crest, ducked fearfully, and boldly descended the slope.He was Clytie's half-brother! The thought of it was darker than the night about him.Ahead, the black stretch of water, the flash of the light on Alcatraz, and a misty constellation in the direction of Sausalito. To the left, a huge shoulder of Russian Hill swept back from the northern harbor in a wave toward the south. It was sprinkled with artificial stars—the gas-lamps, electric lights, and illuminated windows of the town. One street, directly opposite, was a line of topaz brilliants, loosely strung, scattering over the hill. Fort Point light, two miles away, flared alternately a dash of pale yellow—and short pin-pricks of red. Farther away, Point Bonita was flaming, regular as a clock, a periodic spasm of diamond radiance. Electric cars, like lighted lanterns, were painfully climbing the Fillmore Street hill. All about was a sparse settlement of wooden houses, thickening as it rose to the palaces of Pacific Avenue crowning the summit. A dark space of grass and trees lay ahead—the Black Point Military Reservation—the bugles were calling through the night.It was past eleven o'clock when Granthope ran up the steps into the Paysons' front garden, walked rapidly up the path and stood for a moment outside the door. There was a light in Clytie's workroom; he threw a handful of gravel against the pane, and waited.The curtain was drawn aside, the window raised, and Clytie looked out boldly. She saw him, waved her hand, and disappeared. A few moments later she opened the front door quietly. She wore a soft, clinging, blue silk peignoir; her arms were half bare, and her tawny hair was braided for the night. She came out with a look of alarm."Oh, Francis, what is it?""Did I frighten you, dear?""Oh, I knew it was you, immediately. But what has happened to bring you here?""Is your father at home?""No—he may be back at any moment, though. But come in!"He removed his hand from hers resolutely, though her touch thrilled him with delight. "Wait!" he commanded. "First, can you get the keys to that trunk?""Trunk?" she questioned, puzzled."Yes, the trunk you told me about—with the wedding-clothes in it—I must see it!""Now?" she asked wonderingly."Yes, immediately. Please do as I say, and don't ask why, yet. Everything depends upon it. Hurry, before your father comes!"The unusual air of command brought her to her senses. She went into the house. "Wait here in the hall; I'll get a light."She was gone but a moment, and returned with a candle in a brass candlestick. Then, without a word, she led the way up the stairs. They passed silently through an upper hall where an open door revealed a glimpse of her bed-chamber, all in white, as exquisitely kept as a hospital ward. Here she left him to get her father's keys. They came to a flight of steps, leading upward. She waited for him to go first and lift the trap-door at the top. When he had disappeared into the gloom above, she followed him, handed up the candlestick and took his hand to a place beside him.The garret stretched the full length of this wing of the house. At the far end a dim light came through a gable window, in front of which the bough of a tree waved. The candle cast wavering, widening shadows of the rafters against the sloping roof, and picked out with its light the rows of trunks, boxes and pieces of furniture on either side of the floor. It was damp and cold; there was a musty odor of old books.She led the way to the end, where, under the window a large, black trunk stood upon the floor. Granthope's heart leaped with hope. But, in another moment it stood still as death. She had handed him the key, and he had thrown open the lid. There, inside, was a smaller trunk, covered with cow-hide, with a rounded top and a lip of pinked leather, studded with brass nails. There were the letters, "F.G."He needed but one look to recognize it as Madam Grant's. But still, it was a common pattern of the old-fashioned "hair trunk" and he must be sure. The lock had been broken, and no key was needed to open it. He threw open this lid, also. Clytie bent over him holding the candle, so near that she touched his shoulder. Neither had spoken.There was the same collection of papers, letters and account-books, the same little mahogany box. How well he recalled his first sight of it all! How heavy that tray had seemed to him, as a child! Now he raised it with ease. Below, the same revelation of yellowing satin and old lace—even the same tissue paper, shredded to tatters, wrapped about the packages. The boxes of silk stockings and handkerchiefs were there as well. He thought of the package of bills that had lain in one corner—he knew the place as well as if he still saw the money. Lastly, he groped for the white vellum prayer-book. He found it, and drew it out. Opening the cover, he looked once at the fly-leaf, then handed it silently to Clytie. Written there was the name "Felicia Gerard." He turned his face away from her.She looked at the book and then at him, still bewildered."What does it mean, Francis? Tell me; I can't stand it a moment longer! This is Madam Grant's trunk, of course—I see that. But how came it here? Why should my father—"She set the candle upon a box and put her arms tenderly about his neck, her face close to his, to soothe his agitation. Her smooth cheek against his was rapture. He could feel her body, warm and soft, through her thin peignoir, and the contact inflamed him. He unclasped her arms with a sudden violent gesture and sprang up in an agony of despair."Don't touch me!" he cried. "Never again!"She looked at him, terrified at his tone. His panic passed in a wave from him to her, and was the more unbearable because she did not yet understand the cause of it."What is it? Tell me!" She faced him, and extended her hand.He retreated from her."It's Mamsy's trunk," he said, trying to control his voice. "Oh, don't you see?""I'm too frightened to think!" she cried, clasping her hands. "I can't think. Tell me quickly, or I shall faint!""Doesn't your intuition tell you?" he asked bitterly. "Why should it fail you now, when it should be stronger than ever before?""It tells me nothing, except that you are killing me with suspense. Oh, but I know you are suffering, too! Let me share it. Francis, you don't doubt my love for you, whatever happens, do you?"He caught her hand again and dashed it away."Oh, you should see!" he cried. "It's so plain, now! I am Madam Grant's son—and my father—is your father! I am your half-brother! It's all ended between us, now!""How do you know?" She was trembling. "How does this prove it? It is Felicia Grant's trunk, of course—but we knew already that my father had an interest in her—he must have bought this trunk at the auction when she died—but why does it prove you are his son? Why should you think that there was ever such a relation between them? It's horrible!""I found out to-night, an hour ago, that your father had a child by her—he has confessed it to Vixley and Madam Spoll. They got it out of him, somehow. That's how they have got a hold on him—and who else should this child be but I, who lived with her? It accounts for his tenderness for these things, for his scrap-book, his going down to the Siskiyou Hotel—everything! Oh, it's certain! It is hopeless!"She stood gazing at him, bewildered."If he had an illegitimate child it must be you, of course. But it is strange I never heard of that!""It was all so long ago—before you were born—that it happened. Madam Grant had no friends—except, perhaps, your mother—and it could have been kept a secret easily enough."She gave a low moan and sank down upon a box limply. Her eyes were fixed on the candle flame; she seemed to be studying some possible way of escape. She looked up at him once, and then down again, for his eyes were desperate. He stood watching her, and for some time neither spoke. He put his hand to his head, stroking his hair over his ear mechanically, while his mind whirled. Below a door slammed. She rose, shaking back her hair, her eyes half-closed, her hands on her breast."I understand, now," she said slowly. "It must have been that which drew me to you at first. But if you are my brother, surely I have the more right to love you! Oh, Francis, I do love you! What does it matter how, so long as you are dear to me?" She rose, and put out her hand again, but, at the touch he shrank away from her."Oh, no, I can't stand that! It's all over, that tenderness. I can't trust myself with you. It's not a brother's love I feel for you. It's so much more that you will always be a fearful temptation to me.""Can't you overcome that?" As she held the candle before her, her face had never appeared more noble; for a moment she seemed as far away from him as she had been at first, alone on spiritual heights to him inaccessible."Can you?" he asked.She dropped her eyes. "If we had found this out before, it would have been easier.""Ah, if we only had! Then you would have come into my life as a sister. How proud I would have been of you! How grateful for all you have done for me! But it is too late, now, to accept you on such terms. I have kissed you—not as a brother kisses his sister. I can never get that desire out of my blood!"She shuddered and turned away from him. "Yes, you are right, I know. I am a woman, now; you have awakened me. There is nothing for us to do but part. It is hideous to be the playthings of fate.""Well," he said grimly, "if I have made you a woman, you have made me a man! I can at least live cleanly and self-respectingly. Of course I can't see you again—not, at least, for a long time—not till we get over this—"She looked up with the veriest shadow of a smile. "Oh, I shall not get over it! There is no chance of that! Right or wrong, I shall always feel the same toward you, always long for you. Isn't that a fearful confession? Yet, how can I help it?""Then it is for me to protect you all the more. I can live so that you need not be ashamed of me. But not near you."She sat down again. Her head drooped like a heavy flower, her hands fell listlessly into her lap. A sudden draft distracted the candle and sent her shadow, distorted, to and fro upon the roof. Then footsteps were heard on the floor below, and a door slammed again. She looked up to say:"Father has come home. Shall we tell him, now?"[image]Her head drooped like a heavy flower"Must we?""I would rather wait. I can't stand anything more, yet. I want to think it out. I am too puzzled and I am fighting against this too hard, now. Let me get hold of myself first. Perhaps we can get down without his hearing us, if we wait a little while. He has gone to his room.""That's the best way, if we can. There'll be a scene—and I am not ready for that, either. I will tell him later—or you may.""No, it should be you. How can I talk to him?""I can't tell how he'll take it. I'm sure, now, that he has been looking for me—for Madam Grant's child—for some time, and Vixley was undoubtedly leading him on, promising to find his son. But now, when he knows it is I, after the way he has treated me, how will he feel?""Oh, be sure he will be kind!""It doesn't matter much. I shall not trouble him. I shall go away, of course.""Oh, I can't bear it! Ican'tgive you up! Oh, I'm sure it isn't right. I can't believe it, even yet!""Let's go down!" he said sharply. "I can't stand it any longer. My blood cries out for you! When I think that I have held you in my arms—""Yes, come! Don't speak like that or I shall forget everything else."He took the candle and lighted her down the steps, then followed her quietly. Together they crept along the hall and down the stairway to the lower hall. As they got there, the cuckoo-clock hiccoughed, five minutes before the hour.She stood for a moment looking at him, her eyes burning. Her peignoir fell in long, graceful lines, suggesting her gracile figure. One braid had fallen over her shoulder across her breast to below her waist. Her beauty smote his senses."To-morrow is Saturday," he said. "I shall come up to see your father in the afternoon. You had better be away, if you can.""I shall be away," she said dully."I'll have it out with him—settle it beyond all doubt, and then—""And then?""I shall try to show you what you have made of me. I shall not see you till we have conquered this thing!""Oh, Francis, if I could only feel that it is wrong—but Ican't. It seems so right, so natural. I shall not change. I have given myself to you, and I can not take myself back. If there is fighting against it to be done, you must do it for both of us. You must decide.""I shall take care of you, Clytie. That will be my brother's duty.""Yes," she said, drooping, "you must help me, I can't help you any more. I have done what I can, but you have passed me now, and you are the master.""I must begin now, then, and go. Good-by!"She gave him her hands, and he took them for a moment, then flung himself away before their delicacy could work on him. With a sudden smile, he turned to the door and was gone.She stood, limp and weak, watching him till the door closed. Then the cuckoo-clock broke the silence with its interminable midnight clatter, persistent, maddening.CHAPTER XXITHE SUNRISEClytie met her father, next morning, showing no trace of what she had suffered during the night. He himself had enough to think about without noticing her demeanor.On Saturday the papers had, after considerable investigation of the matter, called public attention to the doings of spiritualistic mediums in San Francisco, and were full of exposures. Vixley's record was given, and it was sensational enough to make it advisable for the Professor to leave town till the scandal blew over. Flora Flint was reported to have fled at the same time, and, it was presumed, in the same direction. Other mediums not concerned in this affair were interviewed, and pseudo-confessions extorted from their dupes. The Spiritualistic Society protested in vain that none of the mediums exposed had ever been in good standing with that body of true believers—the wave of gossip drowned its voice. San Francisco was the largest spiritualistic community in the United States, probably in the world, but, for a while at least, it would be less easy for clairvoyants and psychometrists to earn a living. This outburst was one of the periodic upheavals of reform, but the talk would soon die down and business would be resumed in perfect safety by the charlatans. There would be a new crop of dupes to cajole.Clytie and her father both avoided the subject. Breakfast passed silently, and at nine o'clock Mr. Payson left the house. Clytie went about her work automatically; answered a few letters, listlessly rearranged her jewelry in its casket, sorted the leaves of a book she had taken apart to rebind, cut the pages of a magazine, set her tools in order on the bench. From time to time she went to the front window to look out, returning to stand for minutes at a time in the center of the room, as if she had forgotten what she had intended to do. At ten o'clock she lay down upon the couch in the library and fell into a deep sleep of exhaustion, the first rest she had obtained since midnight.She was awakened by the door-bell, and had barely time to hurry into her chamber before the door was answered. There, word was brought to her that Mr. Cayley wished to see her. She bathed her eyes, smoothed her hair, put on her Chinesesa'am, and a jade necklace over her house-frock and went down to him. Her face was resolutely set, her eyes had a cold luster."How d'you do, Blan?" she said, holding out her hand to him. "I'm so glad to see you!"It was a warmer greeting than he had received for some time, but he did not appear surprised. He drew off his gloves, looking admiringly at her."I didn't feel like work, to-day, so I thought I would run out and see you.""You certainly are devoted! I shall have to reward you by being very nice."He smiled. "I'm glad you're beginning to appreciate me.""Meaning that in the dictionary sense of the word, or the common interpretation?" she said, seating herself."Both. They're the same, in my case. If I had suspected that you were going to be so amiable—""I'm always ready to be that—if you'll let me."This was enough unlike her ordinary manner toward him to make him give her a look-over for an explanation. "All right, I'll take you up," he said. "Just how amiable are you prepared to be?" He sat down opposite her."That's for you to find out!""Well. I'll try to discover the line of least resistance.""Oh, you needn't be so elaborate, Blanchard. You never really need more than half the subtlety you waste on me. I'm quite a simple person!""Still waters—" he began.She lifted her shoulders and her brows."Run cold!" he finished, and caught a smile."I wonder if Iamcold!" she said."Granthope didn't succeed in firing you?"She showed no evidence of pain except that the two lines appeared in her forehead suddenly. Then she shook her head as if to cast off some annoyance."Oh, you're quite off the track, there. Don't make it harder for yourself than necessary. What did you come to-day for? Tell me!"He laughed comfortably and said, "Reconnaissance.""I thought there was a reason. Well, reconnoiter away! Your precautions are infinite!" Her chin went up."That's one of the qualities of genius, I believe. I think in the end I shall justify my system.""You haven't produced any psychological condition yet, then?" She looked at him with her eyebrows raised. No smile."Not quite.""Hasn't it ever occurred to you that"—her eyes sought his with a quick glance, and drifted away—"that such a condition—might come without your having produced it yourself? Accidentally, so to speak?""I confess I haven't been modest enough to anticipate that.""I thought you were a diagnostician, as well as a physician!" She threw another quick look at him, withdrawing her eyes immediately."Prognosis is my specialty.""Oh, I shall take care of myself.""There's no defense like a vigorous attack.""I'm not going after you," she protested."Butisthere a psychological condition, Cly?""That's not fair. You ought to be able to tell, yourself—it's your own theory. The trouble is that you're too theoretical. You've left me quite out of the question and tried to do it all yourself."She put her head on one side with unaccustomed coquetry. There was a new glitter in her eyes which seemed to baffle him. For the first time she had the upper hand of him at his own game. He was like a man who had started to lift a heavy weight and had suddenly found it unexpectedly light. The reaction threw him over."Are you willing to help?" he asked."Ah, if you had only begun that way!""Clytie—do you mean—""Oh, I don't mean anything." She got up and took a turn about the room restlessly as she spoke. "It's my turn to be theoretical, that's all."He leaned toward her very seriously. "Clytie, I'm terribly in earnest.""I'd like more proof of it.""Would you? What proof can I give?""There you are on the other side, now, making me do more than my share. I don't intend to teach you, you know!" She walked away, her hands behind her back."Could you, if you wanted to?""Oh, I think I might show you a few things. I have my ideas—most women have, you know. Perhaps I'm not quite so cold as you think." She shut her eyes a moment and trembled. "But there's plenty of time."He let that go, gazing with curiosity at the spots of red on her cheeks. It was not a blush; the color was sustained. She never looked at him steadily, giving him only a flashing glance, now and again. Her nostrils were expanded, her head was held majestically erect. There was, indeed, plenty of time for him, and he took it coolly. He betrayed still a puzzled interest—that of a hunter whose quarry was fluttering so that he could not get in his shot."You're looking very beautiful, to-day, Cly.""To-day?" She emphasized the word.He laughed. "That's the time I put the mucilage brush in the ink-bottle! Queer how hard it is to give a girl a compliment that she'll accept.""I beg pardon—it was ungracious of me. Try me again.""No, I was clumsy. But compliments aren't my business. I'm not a palmist, you see."Again she drew back her head with a shake. "I think I told you that Mr. Granthope is my friend?" Her voice trembled a little.She walked to the fireplace and stood there, leaning her back against the mantel, tapping her heel against the fender."I told you he wouldn't last long," Cayley went on. "He's come down like the stick of a rocket. I suspected he'd be leaving town before the month was out.""Leaving town—what d'you mean?" She was keen, now."I had to go up into the Geary Building this morning, and I saw his boxes outside the door as I passed. I took it that he's leaving. You ought to know, I should think—if he's your friend!"She walked up to the window and back before answering. Then she came up to him with:"You needn't be afraid, Blanchard; I'm not going to elope with him.""That's good. It gives you a chance to elope with me!""Oh, it's all planned, then? How exciting!""I was invited up to the tavern on Tamalpais and bring a girl for over Sunday. Mrs. Page is the chaperon—she calls it a 'sunrise party.' Will you come?"She lifted her eyebrows. "Mrs. Page? Chaperon?"He smiled. "Oh, you needn't worry; she's all right. Not exactly your class, but you needn't mind that—you'll make it proper by going yourself!""You really want me to go—with Mrs. Page?""Why not?""It sounds a bit gay—you know I'm not exactly accustomed to that sort of thing—""You mustn't believe the stories you hear of her.""I'll go—and find out!" she exclaimed suddenly. "Yes, I'll go; what time does the boat go?" Her mood had grown almost eager."We can just catch the one forty-five. I'll ring them up and let them know we're coming.""No—I want to see her face when she first sees me. Mrs. Page!" she laughed to herself grimly."Cly, what's the matter with you to-day?" he demanded, turning upon her suspiciously.She opened her eyes very wide. "Why?""Oh, you're different.""So are you!" Another quick glance at him."How?""Nicer." How she drew the word out!"Really?""Why, you're actually letting me go with Mrs. Page. You never would, before." She laughed in his face, but the ring sounded metallic."Oh, well—I didn't think you wanted to. I didn't think you and she would—get on.""Oh, you'll see how we'll get on! Blanchard, you never suspected I had any spirit, I suppose?""Where did you get it?""Guess!"He dared not; but appeared to take the credit to himself. He began actually to take fire. Clytie was a revelation in this tantalizing mood. Where had her classic reserves gone? What had inspired her? Now she was like other girls—most alluringly like those he had "educated." Perhaps, after all, women were all alike, as he had long maintained, in theory. All this was evident in his pursuit of her—but even now it was a cautious chase. He made sure of every foot of the way."I wish we weren't old friends," he said. "It is a handicap, isn't it? If I didn't know you so well—""Oh, I'll show you things you never knew!" she interrupted, playing up harder and harder. "Don't be afraid of my resources. I have a trick or two up my sleeve. We'll forget we were friends and get acquainted all over. Come, be a Martian—burst a new brain cell, as I have!" She gave another dry laugh."It will be dangerous," he warned."Pooh!" She snapped her fingers at him.He seized her hand and tried to hold it."Not yet!" she said, and shook her finger fantastically.So, like a wounded bird, she lured him away from her nest. The luncheon-bell rescued her. She could not have lasted much longer. During the luncheon, she kept him skilfully at arm's length, and before they had finished, Mr. Payson came in and surprised them—and himself.When Clytie went up-stairs to prepare for the trip he put his hand cordially on Cayley's shoulder."Well, I'm glad to see you and Clytie on such good terms. It looks like old times.""I think perhaps the modern method is going to succeed," Cayley said with a satisfied smile. "Cly's been nicer than she has been for weeks. I hear Granthope's disposed of.""Oh, I guess I finished him. I gave him a piece of my mind, and her, too. Cly's got too much sense not to see through him. I hope you'll win her, Blanchard. I'm getting to be an old man, and I want to see her happily settled. This exposure has hit me pretty hard, and if Clytie had taken up with that palmist on top of that, I don't know what I'd do. Go in and get her, Blanchard—I'm glad she's consented to go off on this trip. It'll do her good. It ought to give you a good chance.""You can trust me for that! I think the time has about come to force the game. I may have something to say to you by the time we come back.""I hope so, indeed!" said the old man.Clytie came down with her bag and kissed her father affectionately. "Are you going to be at home this afternoon?" she asked him."Why, yes, I thought of it. Is there anything I can do for you?"She hesitated. "N-no, only if any one should call—never mind—only there's no knowing when we may be back," she added, looking at Cayley. "Blanchard has threatened to elope with me, you know! I'm terribly afraid he won't keep his promise, though." She took his arm and ran him down the steps madly, tossing her father a kiss from the path.Mr. Payson watched them complacently, as Clytie hurried her escort through the gate. They had plenty of time to catch the boat, and her haste was unusual. She had hinted that the clock was slow, but his watch assured him that that was not so. He shook his head.They had not been gone fifteen minutes when word was brought up-stairs to Mr. Payson that a gentleman was waiting to see him. The visitor would not give his name. The old man went down.At sight of the caller, his face set hard and grim. His shaggy brows drew over his spectacles. He stopped suddenly, but, before he could speak, Granthope had come forward."I must beg your pardon, Mr. Payson, for not sending up my name, for coming here at all, in fact; but it is absolutely necessary for me to see you this afternoon. My business is important enough to be its own apology.""Sit down, sir!" said the old man, taking a chair himself, and speaking with deliberation. "I will listen to what you have to say, but let it be brief. After our last interview it must be important, indeed, to bring you to my house after my expressed request that you should stay away."Granthope remained standing. "It is an extraordinary thing that has brought me; but if it were not as important to you as it is to me, you may be sure I wouldn't have consented to come.""Let me say right here, young man, that I suspect your business is nothing more or less than blackmail, in some form. It is what I expected. But I tell you in advance that it will be no use, and, at the first hint of extortion, I shall notify the police!"Granthope smiled. "I could hardly call it blackmail," he said. "I've never included that in my list of tricks.""What the devil is it, then? Out with it! If it's bad news, let me have it point-blank, without beating about the bush. I have seen enough of your sort to know that you wouldn't come here except for money, whatever you say. But I'm a little wiser than I was three months ago, I can tell you! I've had my lesson, and you'll get nothing out of me." He grew more and more excited over his grievance."You remember that I warned you against that gang?" Granthope interposed."Yes, and they warned me against you, too! Birds of a feather! Only I suspect you of being a little shrewder.""Mr. Payson," Granthope said earnestly, "I can't bear these insinuations! Give me a chance, at least, before you condemn me. I'll tell you in four words what I came for, before you say anything more that you will have to regret. I have good reason to believe that I am your son!"The old man rose from his chair and shook his finger in Granthope's face. "That's all I want to hear!" he thundered. "Leave my house immediately, sir! My son, are you? I thought so! Good God, wasn't it enough for Vixley and the Spoll woman to try and work that game on me, that you have to come and begin where they left off? After I had found them out, too! Do you take me for a damned fool? Why, you people don't even know when you're shown up! You get out of my house before I kick you out!" He strode to the door, lowering, and held it suggestively open.Granthope stared at him in astonishment, with no thought of moving. This was the last thing he had expected. At first his surprise was too great for his hopes to rise. He thought of nothing but the angry man in front of him, wondering why he should deny the truth so vindictively."Do you mean to say that I amnotyour son?" he said, with a queer perplexed hesitation."I ask you to leave my house, sir! Do you think I'll permit myself to discuss such a subject with you?" Mr. Payson's scorn was towering.Granthope still stared. What did it mean? He spoke again, earnestly, trying his best to keep calm. "Do you deny that you have a son, sir? I beg you to answer me.""What the devil should I deny it for? What business is it of yours?" the old man roared. "Why should you come here asking me such outrageous questions?""Mr. Payson," Granthope tried again, "I told you that I had reason to believe that I am your son. You must admit that that gives me an interest in the matter. I have never known who my parents were. You needn't be afraid of my forcing myself upon you against your will, or attempting to get money from you—that is not my motive. But I have a right, for my own sake, to know the truth, and I demand that you answer!"The old man quailed before his look and his seriousness, and began to be impressed with his sincerity. "Very well, then, I will answer you. No, sir, you are not my son, because I never had one, to my knowledge, at least. Does that satisfy you? Vixley and the Spoll woman tried that game on me and failed. Now, I'll ask you to leave me alone in peace. I have had trouble enough!" His first burst of anger having burned itself out, he weakened under the strain.Granthope was for a moment at a loss for words. He was not prepared for this denial—he must begin all over again. He stood with his hands folded for a while, and then said:"Very well, Mr. Payson. I will tell you now what I know, and you may judge of yourself whether or not I was justified in coming."The old man's countenance was irresolute; his mouth had relaxed. He faced Granthope silently."Did you ever know Felicia Grant?" said Granthope next.Mr. Payson exploded again. "Oh, you've got hold of that, have you? I thought as much. So you've been in league with that gang all along! I see; all this pretended enmity was only a part of the game! Very, clever, sir, very clever!" He began to walk up and down, bobbing his head."I lived with Madam Grant when I was a child," Granthope persisted calmly."What's that?" Mr. Payson went up to him, now, and took him by the arm. "For God's sake, man, don't lie to me!""I lived with her for three years. I was with her when she died—""You!" the old man exclaimed. He stared into Granthope's face as if he could surprise the truth from him. "If I could be sure of that!" he cried in distress. "For God's sake, don't play with me!" he implored. "I have no faith in any one any more. How can I believe you?"Granthope dropped his voice to a soothing pitch and took the old man's hand in his with a firm clasp of assurance. "My dear Mr. Payson," he said, "I can give you plenty of proof of it, if you will only listen to me. I came to her, where from I never knew, as a child of five. She took me in, and I lived with her till she died. She was like a mother to me—I would be glad to hear that she was really my mother, for I loved her. I have come to you because I thought that she must have been that, and you my father. But I would be the happiest man alive if you could assure me that there is no relationship between you and me. What I know of you, I found out through Masterson—and he may have lied, but it seemed probable that it was true. I beg you to tell me the truth, for if you are my father it means more to me than anything else in the world.""I think I can believe you now," said Mr. Payson, still with his eyes fastened on Granthope. "You seem to be honest, though I have about lost my faith in human nature. So I will be honest with you. But I can only repeat what I told you before. You are not my son. I never had a son."A wild hope sprang up in Granthope's heart; though as yet it seemed impossible. "But you knew Felicia Grant?""Yes, indeed; I knew her well.""Your picture was in her room—an old newspaper cut—"The old man grasped his hand again with both his own. "Ah, I know you are the boy, now!" he exclaimed. "I have looked everywhere for you! Thank God, I have found you before it was too late! Do you know how I have longed for you for twenty years?—for the boy who stood by Felicia through that long, terrible time, when I could do nothing—nothing? Granthope, I don't carewhatyou have been—charlatan or fakir or criminal, there's a debt I owe you, and I shall pay it! Oh, you don't know! You don't know!" He stopped and held out his hands pathetically. "Why, it was to find you that I first went to Madam Spoll! I don't know how I can apologize or make up for the way I've treated you—you, of all men in the world!""But I can't understand yet," said Granthope, touched at the old man's atonement. "I heard—from Vixley, it came—that you had acknowledged—you must forgive me—to an illegitimate son. Can you blame me for thinking that it must be I?"The old man dropped his head on his hand. "I see, now," he said drearily. "Oh, it must all come out, I suppose. I owe it to you to tell you, at least.""You need tell me nothing more than you have told," Granthope said eagerly. "I didn't come here to pry into your secrets, Mr. Payson, or to make use of them.""Oh, I know, now! But it is hard to speak. And I don't know even whether I have the right to tell or not. It's not my secret alone. But tell me first what else you know." He took a chair again and motioned for Granthope to sit down."I know that Madam Grant had a wedding trousseau that she kept in a trunk, and that the same trunk with the same contents, is now up-stairs in your garret.""How can you know that?""I saw it last night. Your daughter showed it to me.""Clytie—she showed it to you? You were here? How could that be?""It means, Mr. Payson, that I love your daughter—that we love each other. There is no time to explain how that came about, now, but I hope to prove to you that I am worthy of her. We have met often since you forbade me to come here. We were tacitly engaged, when I got this information—that you had a child—and that Felicia Grant was the mother. There was only one solution of the mystery—that I was that child, and that Clytie and I were half-brother and sister. We had to be sure before we broke off our affair, and I came up here to identify the trunk she had seen. I had to tell her what I thought was the truth, and last night we parted—for ever. You may imagine now how I long to believe what you say, yet how impossible it seems!""Clytie knows—that I had a child, by Felicia?""I had to tell her—I could not let things go on—""Ah, now I see how Madam Spoll went astray—I confessed to a child—I wanted to find the boy—she thought the two were the same—she jumped to the conclusion that I had had a son.""And you had no son?" Granthope said, still mystified."No, I had a daughter. Do you see, now? I hoped to hide it from Clytie for ever. I thought I had hidden it successfully, and it was better for her, so. But now, if she knows so much, she must, of course, be told all. It is right that she should know. Poor child! But you knew Felicia—you know that she was no common woman—that ours could have been no common affair!""I know that well. And you needn't fear for Clytie, Mr. Payson. I don't think it will be even a shock for her. It isn't as if she had known Mrs. Payson well."The old man leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "Ah, they were two wonderful women, Granthope! I could scarcely know which was the more so—which was the more magnanimous and true!" He was quiet a while, then he added: "Do you remember Felicia well?""No, not well. I was young then, and the memory has faded. But she seemed to be very beautiful to me, though her face would often grow suddenly strange. She was kind to me. She seemed to be extraordinarily well educated, too—different from any one else I have ever known."Mr. Payson rose and saying, "Wait a moment, please!" left the room. He returned after a few minutes with a small photograph, faded with age, but still clear enough to portray the features of a beautiful woman, apparently of some twenty years or so. The face was frank and open, the eyes wide apart under level brows, looking directly out of the picture. The mouth was large, but well-formed. The face had a look of candor and serene earnestness that was engaging."That was taken in 1869, when I first knew her. You can see, perhaps, how I must have felt towards her. There is enough of Clytie in that face for that, I suppose. But I doubt if you are capable of the passion I had for that woman!"As Granthope held the portrait in his hand, watching the face that grew every moment more familiar, the old man went on:"I can tell you only the outline of the story now. Felicia Gerard, when I first knew her, was working with Mrs. Victoria Woodhull—a wonderful woman—have you ever heard of her?"Granthope told him of the newspaper clipping Clytie had found, and how they had, in the library, looked up the history of Mrs. Woodhull, who had been a prominent figure in the East thirty years ago. It was more unusual, then, for women to compete with men in business affairs, but she, with her sister, had carried on a successful banking firm on Wall Street. What had interested Clytie most, however, were the stories of Mrs. Woodhull's early experience as a medium, and the fact that she had been calumniated, persecuted and ostracized on account of the false interpretation of her views upon social questions."You may imagine the effect that such a person would have upon such a spirited girl as Felicia," said Mr. Payson. "She was carried away with her enthusiasm and energy, and the conflict inspired her. I followed them from city to city, urging Felicia to marry me, but, having adopted the radical social theories of that cult, she was firm in her refusal not to bind herself or me to an indissoluble union. Well, I could get her in no other way than by accepting her as a partner who should be free to leave me the moment she ceased to love me; you may be sure that her action was inspired only by the highest ideality. We settled finally in New Orleans where, for some time, we were absolutely happy. But New Orleans was, and is, I believe, a more conservative sort of community than most American cities. People shunned us, and talked. At last, isolated and away from radical centers, she consented to a marriage ceremony, and went to work to prepare her trousseau. We were to be married in San Francisco."The old man's face had grown wistful and tender as he spoke. He pulled off his spectacles to wipe them, and looked up at Granthope with a sort of pride in the story, in the beauty and pathos of it evoked by his memories. Then he rose, and walked up and down the floor, his hands behind his back, and his mellow, unctuous voice ran on. To Granthope, who had known the woman, and loved her, the story thrilled with romance."It was curious that she insisted upon a formal wedding. It was a reaction, I suppose; she had returned to the normal instincts of womanhood. I was only too willing. Well, it was in New Orleans that the crisis came. We were living in an old Creole house on Royal Street—it had been Paul Morphy's, the chess-player—Felicia saw his spirit in the end room, where he died, one night. There was an old gallery around the courtyard and garden, with magnolia trees, where we used to sit in the evenings. Heavens! what nights we have spent there!"She had told me that her grandmother had been insane. It was Felicia's horror, her dread. The spirits had told her that she would go mad, too. That was, I suppose, the real reason why she had refused so long to marry me. But she had almost forgotten about it by this time. We were happy enough to forget everything!"Are you interested, Granthope, or does this bore you?" he added suddenly, turning. "I'm an old man, after all, and I have an old man's ways. The past is very real to me.""Go on, please!" said Granthope huskily."It happened just before Mardi Gras. We had decided to stay over, and see the fun. That Monday, when I came home, Felicia was gone. She had left a note, saying that she would never see me again—I'll show you that—and a lot of other things; they will help you to understand Clytie. It seems that day she had gone suddenly out of her head and had wandered across the street to another house, where they kept a leper girl shut up in a room on the gallery. They carried her home, raving rather wildly, and she came to her senses in an hour or so, but she was terrified by the attack. She saw that she would probably be subject to such attacks in the future; that they might become worse; that it was not fair to me to marry. I don't need to tell you, I hope, that it would have made no difference to me—I would have been glad to give my life to attending to her through thick and thin. But she didn't wait to put it to me. She left, with all her clothes, even the trousseau. She left no address, nothing by which I could trace her. That was her way, the only fair way, she thought. It must have taken some courage. It was, I think, the bravest thing I ever saw done."Let me see that photograph a minute, Granthope. What a lot of hair she had! I've seen it to her feet. Cly has fine hair, but not like her mother's. The same eyes, you see—full of dreams, but they wake up, sometimes, I tell you! You may find out, sometime. Level brows and a fullish lower lip. Do you know what that means? I do."I didn't see her again for over a year. I hunted everywhere she had ever been; Boston, Toledo, New York, everywhere! Finally I gave it up in despair, and went abroad, trying to forget part of it. There I met my wife. I married her in sheer despair; but I found out how fine she was when I told her the story. I didn't think that there were two such women in the world! I have a beautiful painting of her, done while we were in Florence, but I never dared to put it up, on account of Clytie. It didn't seem right. But you'll see it in the dining-room to-morrow, I think."Where was I? Oh, yes. We came to San Francisco for business reasons. Before I had been here a week I happened upon Felicia down-town—she had followed Mrs. Woodhull's example and had gone into business herself—real estate. She did well at it, too. But at sight of me she flew off the handle. Every time I saw her it affected her in the same way. Good God! Can you imagine what it must be to know that the only way you can help a woman you love and pity is to stay away from her? I couldn't do anything, but my wife went to see her and seemed to be able to pacify her. She found out that Felicia had a child—then a few months old. The first I knew of it, the baby was here in the house, and my wife told me that we would adopt her. No one ever knew that Clytie wasn't our own child. No one knows but you and I, to this day, I think."It was a fearful injustice to her, I suppose. Do you think she can forgive me?" The old man was pathetically humble and looked to the young man as to a guardian."Mr. Payson," said Granthope, "have you lived all this while with her and not known that? I have known her only two months, and I am sure of it!""So you think you love her, do you?" Mr. Payson looked at him curiously."I do, sir. And I think that she loves me.""Felicia's adopted boy!" the old man said to himself, "and Clytie! And to think that I had wanted her to marry Cayley!"He broke off to stand, staring at Granthope, without a word. Then he exclaimed: "By Jove! I had forgotten. Cayley was here to-day—Cly's gone off with him, up to Mount Tamalpais, to join a party there. Now I recall it—there seemed to be something between them. You are sure she cares for you?" he demanded."Last night she did—and we parted, thinking never to be able to see one another again.""And I did my best to make that match—I encouraged Blanchard all I could. I threw her at his head! I found them here at luncheon. He's been trying for years to get her to marry him. You don't think it's possible that she would do anything rash, do you?"Granthope's heart sickened. "In what way? How?""She said—what was it—the last thing. She said that he had threatened to elope with her, and perhaps they mightn't come back for some time. I thought it was a joke, but now I think of it—"Granthope sprang up. "What time did they go?" he asked."Just before you came—they took the one forty-five.""We can't reach her by telephone—they're not there yet. What time does the next train go?"Mr. Payson turned to anArgonautand looked at the time-table on the last page. "Saturdays—four thirty-five," he said."I must go after her!" Granthope cried, almost desperate. "Don't you see—don't you know women well enough to understand what a state of mind she must be in, now? After our scene last night, the despair of it would drive her to almost anything reckless, anything to make her forget! It seemed wicked, monstrous, for us to meet again—it seemed irrevocable, final. If Cayley has been pursuing her, as you say, she may accept him in sheer desperation!""Go up there," said the old man. "Go up, and tell her everything. It is better for you to tell her. Cayley will resent your appearance, but don't mind that—get rid of him at any cost. You will have to manage him. If Clytie is in love with you, I'll stand by her in whatever she says. Don't think I'm a doting fool, Granthope, that I veer with the wind, this way. I wanted her to marry Cayley, because I thought she'd never know this, and he was a man of honor and intelligence. But I didn't know that Felicia's boy was alive."
He swung aboard an O'Farrell Street car, found a seat in the corner of the open "dummy" portion, and strove with the tumult in his soul. The torturing thought of Clytie for ever lost to him coiled and uncoiled like a serpent. He did not doubt Masterson's revelation, nor could he doubt its obvious interpretation in the light of the many revelations that had been cast upon Mr. Payson's past. Yet it must be corroborated before he could wholly abandon himself to renunciation. He tried to keep from hoping.
He was Clytie's half-brother! His mind wrestled with it.
The car filled at the Orpheum Theater, taking on a load of merry passengers, who crowded the seats inside and out till the aisles and footboards were packed. The bell clanged as they drove through the Tenderloin, rolled round the curve into Jones Street and took the steep hill, climbing without slackening speed. It rounded two more corners, wheels creaking; and as it passed, the broad area of the Mission and South San Francisco was for a moment revealed in the gap of Hyde Street, a valley of darkness, far below, gorgeously set out with lights, like strings and patterns of jewels. At California Street a crowd of passengers, mostly Jews, overdressed, prosperous, exuberant, transferred for the Western Addition. The car went up and up, reached the summit and coasted down the dip to Pacific Street. Another rise to Union Street, where another line transferred more passengers towards the Presidio. Then, with only one or two inside, and the conductor lazily picking his teeth on the back platform, they climbed again up to the reservoir. Here a long incline fell giddily to the water and the North Beach. The car rolled to the crest, ducked fearfully, and boldly descended the slope.
He was Clytie's half-brother! The thought of it was darker than the night about him.
Ahead, the black stretch of water, the flash of the light on Alcatraz, and a misty constellation in the direction of Sausalito. To the left, a huge shoulder of Russian Hill swept back from the northern harbor in a wave toward the south. It was sprinkled with artificial stars—the gas-lamps, electric lights, and illuminated windows of the town. One street, directly opposite, was a line of topaz brilliants, loosely strung, scattering over the hill. Fort Point light, two miles away, flared alternately a dash of pale yellow—and short pin-pricks of red. Farther away, Point Bonita was flaming, regular as a clock, a periodic spasm of diamond radiance. Electric cars, like lighted lanterns, were painfully climbing the Fillmore Street hill. All about was a sparse settlement of wooden houses, thickening as it rose to the palaces of Pacific Avenue crowning the summit. A dark space of grass and trees lay ahead—the Black Point Military Reservation—the bugles were calling through the night.
It was past eleven o'clock when Granthope ran up the steps into the Paysons' front garden, walked rapidly up the path and stood for a moment outside the door. There was a light in Clytie's workroom; he threw a handful of gravel against the pane, and waited.
The curtain was drawn aside, the window raised, and Clytie looked out boldly. She saw him, waved her hand, and disappeared. A few moments later she opened the front door quietly. She wore a soft, clinging, blue silk peignoir; her arms were half bare, and her tawny hair was braided for the night. She came out with a look of alarm.
"Oh, Francis, what is it?"
"Did I frighten you, dear?"
"Oh, I knew it was you, immediately. But what has happened to bring you here?"
"Is your father at home?"
"No—he may be back at any moment, though. But come in!"
He removed his hand from hers resolutely, though her touch thrilled him with delight. "Wait!" he commanded. "First, can you get the keys to that trunk?"
"Trunk?" she questioned, puzzled.
"Yes, the trunk you told me about—with the wedding-clothes in it—I must see it!"
"Now?" she asked wonderingly.
"Yes, immediately. Please do as I say, and don't ask why, yet. Everything depends upon it. Hurry, before your father comes!"
The unusual air of command brought her to her senses. She went into the house. "Wait here in the hall; I'll get a light."
She was gone but a moment, and returned with a candle in a brass candlestick. Then, without a word, she led the way up the stairs. They passed silently through an upper hall where an open door revealed a glimpse of her bed-chamber, all in white, as exquisitely kept as a hospital ward. Here she left him to get her father's keys. They came to a flight of steps, leading upward. She waited for him to go first and lift the trap-door at the top. When he had disappeared into the gloom above, she followed him, handed up the candlestick and took his hand to a place beside him.
The garret stretched the full length of this wing of the house. At the far end a dim light came through a gable window, in front of which the bough of a tree waved. The candle cast wavering, widening shadows of the rafters against the sloping roof, and picked out with its light the rows of trunks, boxes and pieces of furniture on either side of the floor. It was damp and cold; there was a musty odor of old books.
She led the way to the end, where, under the window a large, black trunk stood upon the floor. Granthope's heart leaped with hope. But, in another moment it stood still as death. She had handed him the key, and he had thrown open the lid. There, inside, was a smaller trunk, covered with cow-hide, with a rounded top and a lip of pinked leather, studded with brass nails. There were the letters, "F.G."
He needed but one look to recognize it as Madam Grant's. But still, it was a common pattern of the old-fashioned "hair trunk" and he must be sure. The lock had been broken, and no key was needed to open it. He threw open this lid, also. Clytie bent over him holding the candle, so near that she touched his shoulder. Neither had spoken.
There was the same collection of papers, letters and account-books, the same little mahogany box. How well he recalled his first sight of it all! How heavy that tray had seemed to him, as a child! Now he raised it with ease. Below, the same revelation of yellowing satin and old lace—even the same tissue paper, shredded to tatters, wrapped about the packages. The boxes of silk stockings and handkerchiefs were there as well. He thought of the package of bills that had lain in one corner—he knew the place as well as if he still saw the money. Lastly, he groped for the white vellum prayer-book. He found it, and drew it out. Opening the cover, he looked once at the fly-leaf, then handed it silently to Clytie. Written there was the name "Felicia Gerard." He turned his face away from her.
She looked at the book and then at him, still bewildered.
"What does it mean, Francis? Tell me; I can't stand it a moment longer! This is Madam Grant's trunk, of course—I see that. But how came it here? Why should my father—"
She set the candle upon a box and put her arms tenderly about his neck, her face close to his, to soothe his agitation. Her smooth cheek against his was rapture. He could feel her body, warm and soft, through her thin peignoir, and the contact inflamed him. He unclasped her arms with a sudden violent gesture and sprang up in an agony of despair.
"Don't touch me!" he cried. "Never again!"
She looked at him, terrified at his tone. His panic passed in a wave from him to her, and was the more unbearable because she did not yet understand the cause of it.
"What is it? Tell me!" She faced him, and extended her hand.
He retreated from her.
"It's Mamsy's trunk," he said, trying to control his voice. "Oh, don't you see?"
"I'm too frightened to think!" she cried, clasping her hands. "I can't think. Tell me quickly, or I shall faint!"
"Doesn't your intuition tell you?" he asked bitterly. "Why should it fail you now, when it should be stronger than ever before?"
"It tells me nothing, except that you are killing me with suspense. Oh, but I know you are suffering, too! Let me share it. Francis, you don't doubt my love for you, whatever happens, do you?"
He caught her hand again and dashed it away.
"Oh, you should see!" he cried. "It's so plain, now! I am Madam Grant's son—and my father—is your father! I am your half-brother! It's all ended between us, now!"
"How do you know?" She was trembling. "How does this prove it? It is Felicia Grant's trunk, of course—but we knew already that my father had an interest in her—he must have bought this trunk at the auction when she died—but why does it prove you are his son? Why should you think that there was ever such a relation between them? It's horrible!"
"I found out to-night, an hour ago, that your father had a child by her—he has confessed it to Vixley and Madam Spoll. They got it out of him, somehow. That's how they have got a hold on him—and who else should this child be but I, who lived with her? It accounts for his tenderness for these things, for his scrap-book, his going down to the Siskiyou Hotel—everything! Oh, it's certain! It is hopeless!"
She stood gazing at him, bewildered.
"If he had an illegitimate child it must be you, of course. But it is strange I never heard of that!"
"It was all so long ago—before you were born—that it happened. Madam Grant had no friends—except, perhaps, your mother—and it could have been kept a secret easily enough."
She gave a low moan and sank down upon a box limply. Her eyes were fixed on the candle flame; she seemed to be studying some possible way of escape. She looked up at him once, and then down again, for his eyes were desperate. He stood watching her, and for some time neither spoke. He put his hand to his head, stroking his hair over his ear mechanically, while his mind whirled. Below a door slammed. She rose, shaking back her hair, her eyes half-closed, her hands on her breast.
"I understand, now," she said slowly. "It must have been that which drew me to you at first. But if you are my brother, surely I have the more right to love you! Oh, Francis, I do love you! What does it matter how, so long as you are dear to me?" She rose, and put out her hand again, but, at the touch he shrank away from her.
"Oh, no, I can't stand that! It's all over, that tenderness. I can't trust myself with you. It's not a brother's love I feel for you. It's so much more that you will always be a fearful temptation to me."
"Can't you overcome that?" As she held the candle before her, her face had never appeared more noble; for a moment she seemed as far away from him as she had been at first, alone on spiritual heights to him inaccessible.
"Can you?" he asked.
She dropped her eyes. "If we had found this out before, it would have been easier."
"Ah, if we only had! Then you would have come into my life as a sister. How proud I would have been of you! How grateful for all you have done for me! But it is too late, now, to accept you on such terms. I have kissed you—not as a brother kisses his sister. I can never get that desire out of my blood!"
She shuddered and turned away from him. "Yes, you are right, I know. I am a woman, now; you have awakened me. There is nothing for us to do but part. It is hideous to be the playthings of fate."
"Well," he said grimly, "if I have made you a woman, you have made me a man! I can at least live cleanly and self-respectingly. Of course I can't see you again—not, at least, for a long time—not till we get over this—"
She looked up with the veriest shadow of a smile. "Oh, I shall not get over it! There is no chance of that! Right or wrong, I shall always feel the same toward you, always long for you. Isn't that a fearful confession? Yet, how can I help it?"
"Then it is for me to protect you all the more. I can live so that you need not be ashamed of me. But not near you."
She sat down again. Her head drooped like a heavy flower, her hands fell listlessly into her lap. A sudden draft distracted the candle and sent her shadow, distorted, to and fro upon the roof. Then footsteps were heard on the floor below, and a door slammed again. She looked up to say:
"Father has come home. Shall we tell him, now?"
[image]Her head drooped like a heavy flower
[image]
[image]
Her head drooped like a heavy flower
"Must we?"
"I would rather wait. I can't stand anything more, yet. I want to think it out. I am too puzzled and I am fighting against this too hard, now. Let me get hold of myself first. Perhaps we can get down without his hearing us, if we wait a little while. He has gone to his room."
"That's the best way, if we can. There'll be a scene—and I am not ready for that, either. I will tell him later—or you may."
"No, it should be you. How can I talk to him?"
"I can't tell how he'll take it. I'm sure, now, that he has been looking for me—for Madam Grant's child—for some time, and Vixley was undoubtedly leading him on, promising to find his son. But now, when he knows it is I, after the way he has treated me, how will he feel?"
"Oh, be sure he will be kind!"
"It doesn't matter much. I shall not trouble him. I shall go away, of course."
"Oh, I can't bear it! Ican'tgive you up! Oh, I'm sure it isn't right. I can't believe it, even yet!"
"Let's go down!" he said sharply. "I can't stand it any longer. My blood cries out for you! When I think that I have held you in my arms—"
"Yes, come! Don't speak like that or I shall forget everything else."
He took the candle and lighted her down the steps, then followed her quietly. Together they crept along the hall and down the stairway to the lower hall. As they got there, the cuckoo-clock hiccoughed, five minutes before the hour.
She stood for a moment looking at him, her eyes burning. Her peignoir fell in long, graceful lines, suggesting her gracile figure. One braid had fallen over her shoulder across her breast to below her waist. Her beauty smote his senses.
"To-morrow is Saturday," he said. "I shall come up to see your father in the afternoon. You had better be away, if you can."
"I shall be away," she said dully.
"I'll have it out with him—settle it beyond all doubt, and then—"
"And then?"
"I shall try to show you what you have made of me. I shall not see you till we have conquered this thing!"
"Oh, Francis, if I could only feel that it is wrong—but Ican't. It seems so right, so natural. I shall not change. I have given myself to you, and I can not take myself back. If there is fighting against it to be done, you must do it for both of us. You must decide."
"I shall take care of you, Clytie. That will be my brother's duty."
"Yes," she said, drooping, "you must help me, I can't help you any more. I have done what I can, but you have passed me now, and you are the master."
"I must begin now, then, and go. Good-by!"
She gave him her hands, and he took them for a moment, then flung himself away before their delicacy could work on him. With a sudden smile, he turned to the door and was gone.
She stood, limp and weak, watching him till the door closed. Then the cuckoo-clock broke the silence with its interminable midnight clatter, persistent, maddening.
CHAPTER XXI
THE SUNRISE
Clytie met her father, next morning, showing no trace of what she had suffered during the night. He himself had enough to think about without noticing her demeanor.
On Saturday the papers had, after considerable investigation of the matter, called public attention to the doings of spiritualistic mediums in San Francisco, and were full of exposures. Vixley's record was given, and it was sensational enough to make it advisable for the Professor to leave town till the scandal blew over. Flora Flint was reported to have fled at the same time, and, it was presumed, in the same direction. Other mediums not concerned in this affair were interviewed, and pseudo-confessions extorted from their dupes. The Spiritualistic Society protested in vain that none of the mediums exposed had ever been in good standing with that body of true believers—the wave of gossip drowned its voice. San Francisco was the largest spiritualistic community in the United States, probably in the world, but, for a while at least, it would be less easy for clairvoyants and psychometrists to earn a living. This outburst was one of the periodic upheavals of reform, but the talk would soon die down and business would be resumed in perfect safety by the charlatans. There would be a new crop of dupes to cajole.
Clytie and her father both avoided the subject. Breakfast passed silently, and at nine o'clock Mr. Payson left the house. Clytie went about her work automatically; answered a few letters, listlessly rearranged her jewelry in its casket, sorted the leaves of a book she had taken apart to rebind, cut the pages of a magazine, set her tools in order on the bench. From time to time she went to the front window to look out, returning to stand for minutes at a time in the center of the room, as if she had forgotten what she had intended to do. At ten o'clock she lay down upon the couch in the library and fell into a deep sleep of exhaustion, the first rest she had obtained since midnight.
She was awakened by the door-bell, and had barely time to hurry into her chamber before the door was answered. There, word was brought to her that Mr. Cayley wished to see her. She bathed her eyes, smoothed her hair, put on her Chinesesa'am, and a jade necklace over her house-frock and went down to him. Her face was resolutely set, her eyes had a cold luster.
"How d'you do, Blan?" she said, holding out her hand to him. "I'm so glad to see you!"
It was a warmer greeting than he had received for some time, but he did not appear surprised. He drew off his gloves, looking admiringly at her.
"I didn't feel like work, to-day, so I thought I would run out and see you."
"You certainly are devoted! I shall have to reward you by being very nice."
He smiled. "I'm glad you're beginning to appreciate me."
"Meaning that in the dictionary sense of the word, or the common interpretation?" she said, seating herself.
"Both. They're the same, in my case. If I had suspected that you were going to be so amiable—"
"I'm always ready to be that—if you'll let me."
This was enough unlike her ordinary manner toward him to make him give her a look-over for an explanation. "All right, I'll take you up," he said. "Just how amiable are you prepared to be?" He sat down opposite her.
"That's for you to find out!"
"Well. I'll try to discover the line of least resistance."
"Oh, you needn't be so elaborate, Blanchard. You never really need more than half the subtlety you waste on me. I'm quite a simple person!"
"Still waters—" he began.
She lifted her shoulders and her brows.
"Run cold!" he finished, and caught a smile.
"I wonder if Iamcold!" she said.
"Granthope didn't succeed in firing you?"
She showed no evidence of pain except that the two lines appeared in her forehead suddenly. Then she shook her head as if to cast off some annoyance.
"Oh, you're quite off the track, there. Don't make it harder for yourself than necessary. What did you come to-day for? Tell me!"
He laughed comfortably and said, "Reconnaissance."
"I thought there was a reason. Well, reconnoiter away! Your precautions are infinite!" Her chin went up.
"That's one of the qualities of genius, I believe. I think in the end I shall justify my system."
"You haven't produced any psychological condition yet, then?" She looked at him with her eyebrows raised. No smile.
"Not quite."
"Hasn't it ever occurred to you that"—her eyes sought his with a quick glance, and drifted away—"that such a condition—might come without your having produced it yourself? Accidentally, so to speak?"
"I confess I haven't been modest enough to anticipate that."
"I thought you were a diagnostician, as well as a physician!" She threw another quick look at him, withdrawing her eyes immediately.
"Prognosis is my specialty."
"Oh, I shall take care of myself."
"There's no defense like a vigorous attack."
"I'm not going after you," she protested.
"Butisthere a psychological condition, Cly?"
"That's not fair. You ought to be able to tell, yourself—it's your own theory. The trouble is that you're too theoretical. You've left me quite out of the question and tried to do it all yourself."
She put her head on one side with unaccustomed coquetry. There was a new glitter in her eyes which seemed to baffle him. For the first time she had the upper hand of him at his own game. He was like a man who had started to lift a heavy weight and had suddenly found it unexpectedly light. The reaction threw him over.
"Are you willing to help?" he asked.
"Ah, if you had only begun that way!"
"Clytie—do you mean—"
"Oh, I don't mean anything." She got up and took a turn about the room restlessly as she spoke. "It's my turn to be theoretical, that's all."
He leaned toward her very seriously. "Clytie, I'm terribly in earnest."
"I'd like more proof of it."
"Would you? What proof can I give?"
"There you are on the other side, now, making me do more than my share. I don't intend to teach you, you know!" She walked away, her hands behind her back.
"Could you, if you wanted to?"
"Oh, I think I might show you a few things. I have my ideas—most women have, you know. Perhaps I'm not quite so cold as you think." She shut her eyes a moment and trembled. "But there's plenty of time."
He let that go, gazing with curiosity at the spots of red on her cheeks. It was not a blush; the color was sustained. She never looked at him steadily, giving him only a flashing glance, now and again. Her nostrils were expanded, her head was held majestically erect. There was, indeed, plenty of time for him, and he took it coolly. He betrayed still a puzzled interest—that of a hunter whose quarry was fluttering so that he could not get in his shot.
"You're looking very beautiful, to-day, Cly."
"To-day?" She emphasized the word.
He laughed. "That's the time I put the mucilage brush in the ink-bottle! Queer how hard it is to give a girl a compliment that she'll accept."
"I beg pardon—it was ungracious of me. Try me again."
"No, I was clumsy. But compliments aren't my business. I'm not a palmist, you see."
Again she drew back her head with a shake. "I think I told you that Mr. Granthope is my friend?" Her voice trembled a little.
She walked to the fireplace and stood there, leaning her back against the mantel, tapping her heel against the fender.
"I told you he wouldn't last long," Cayley went on. "He's come down like the stick of a rocket. I suspected he'd be leaving town before the month was out."
"Leaving town—what d'you mean?" She was keen, now.
"I had to go up into the Geary Building this morning, and I saw his boxes outside the door as I passed. I took it that he's leaving. You ought to know, I should think—if he's your friend!"
She walked up to the window and back before answering. Then she came up to him with:
"You needn't be afraid, Blanchard; I'm not going to elope with him."
"That's good. It gives you a chance to elope with me!"
"Oh, it's all planned, then? How exciting!"
"I was invited up to the tavern on Tamalpais and bring a girl for over Sunday. Mrs. Page is the chaperon—she calls it a 'sunrise party.' Will you come?"
She lifted her eyebrows. "Mrs. Page? Chaperon?"
He smiled. "Oh, you needn't worry; she's all right. Not exactly your class, but you needn't mind that—you'll make it proper by going yourself!"
"You really want me to go—with Mrs. Page?"
"Why not?"
"It sounds a bit gay—you know I'm not exactly accustomed to that sort of thing—"
"You mustn't believe the stories you hear of her."
"I'll go—and find out!" she exclaimed suddenly. "Yes, I'll go; what time does the boat go?" Her mood had grown almost eager.
"We can just catch the one forty-five. I'll ring them up and let them know we're coming."
"No—I want to see her face when she first sees me. Mrs. Page!" she laughed to herself grimly.
"Cly, what's the matter with you to-day?" he demanded, turning upon her suspiciously.
She opened her eyes very wide. "Why?"
"Oh, you're different."
"So are you!" Another quick glance at him.
"How?"
"Nicer." How she drew the word out!
"Really?"
"Why, you're actually letting me go with Mrs. Page. You never would, before." She laughed in his face, but the ring sounded metallic.
"Oh, well—I didn't think you wanted to. I didn't think you and she would—get on."
"Oh, you'll see how we'll get on! Blanchard, you never suspected I had any spirit, I suppose?"
"Where did you get it?"
"Guess!"
He dared not; but appeared to take the credit to himself. He began actually to take fire. Clytie was a revelation in this tantalizing mood. Where had her classic reserves gone? What had inspired her? Now she was like other girls—most alluringly like those he had "educated." Perhaps, after all, women were all alike, as he had long maintained, in theory. All this was evident in his pursuit of her—but even now it was a cautious chase. He made sure of every foot of the way.
"I wish we weren't old friends," he said. "It is a handicap, isn't it? If I didn't know you so well—"
"Oh, I'll show you things you never knew!" she interrupted, playing up harder and harder. "Don't be afraid of my resources. I have a trick or two up my sleeve. We'll forget we were friends and get acquainted all over. Come, be a Martian—burst a new brain cell, as I have!" She gave another dry laugh.
"It will be dangerous," he warned.
"Pooh!" She snapped her fingers at him.
He seized her hand and tried to hold it.
"Not yet!" she said, and shook her finger fantastically.
So, like a wounded bird, she lured him away from her nest. The luncheon-bell rescued her. She could not have lasted much longer. During the luncheon, she kept him skilfully at arm's length, and before they had finished, Mr. Payson came in and surprised them—and himself.
When Clytie went up-stairs to prepare for the trip he put his hand cordially on Cayley's shoulder.
"Well, I'm glad to see you and Clytie on such good terms. It looks like old times."
"I think perhaps the modern method is going to succeed," Cayley said with a satisfied smile. "Cly's been nicer than she has been for weeks. I hear Granthope's disposed of."
"Oh, I guess I finished him. I gave him a piece of my mind, and her, too. Cly's got too much sense not to see through him. I hope you'll win her, Blanchard. I'm getting to be an old man, and I want to see her happily settled. This exposure has hit me pretty hard, and if Clytie had taken up with that palmist on top of that, I don't know what I'd do. Go in and get her, Blanchard—I'm glad she's consented to go off on this trip. It'll do her good. It ought to give you a good chance."
"You can trust me for that! I think the time has about come to force the game. I may have something to say to you by the time we come back."
"I hope so, indeed!" said the old man.
Clytie came down with her bag and kissed her father affectionately. "Are you going to be at home this afternoon?" she asked him.
"Why, yes, I thought of it. Is there anything I can do for you?"
She hesitated. "N-no, only if any one should call—never mind—only there's no knowing when we may be back," she added, looking at Cayley. "Blanchard has threatened to elope with me, you know! I'm terribly afraid he won't keep his promise, though." She took his arm and ran him down the steps madly, tossing her father a kiss from the path.
Mr. Payson watched them complacently, as Clytie hurried her escort through the gate. They had plenty of time to catch the boat, and her haste was unusual. She had hinted that the clock was slow, but his watch assured him that that was not so. He shook his head.
They had not been gone fifteen minutes when word was brought up-stairs to Mr. Payson that a gentleman was waiting to see him. The visitor would not give his name. The old man went down.
At sight of the caller, his face set hard and grim. His shaggy brows drew over his spectacles. He stopped suddenly, but, before he could speak, Granthope had come forward.
"I must beg your pardon, Mr. Payson, for not sending up my name, for coming here at all, in fact; but it is absolutely necessary for me to see you this afternoon. My business is important enough to be its own apology."
"Sit down, sir!" said the old man, taking a chair himself, and speaking with deliberation. "I will listen to what you have to say, but let it be brief. After our last interview it must be important, indeed, to bring you to my house after my expressed request that you should stay away."
Granthope remained standing. "It is an extraordinary thing that has brought me; but if it were not as important to you as it is to me, you may be sure I wouldn't have consented to come."
"Let me say right here, young man, that I suspect your business is nothing more or less than blackmail, in some form. It is what I expected. But I tell you in advance that it will be no use, and, at the first hint of extortion, I shall notify the police!"
Granthope smiled. "I could hardly call it blackmail," he said. "I've never included that in my list of tricks."
"What the devil is it, then? Out with it! If it's bad news, let me have it point-blank, without beating about the bush. I have seen enough of your sort to know that you wouldn't come here except for money, whatever you say. But I'm a little wiser than I was three months ago, I can tell you! I've had my lesson, and you'll get nothing out of me." He grew more and more excited over his grievance.
"You remember that I warned you against that gang?" Granthope interposed.
"Yes, and they warned me against you, too! Birds of a feather! Only I suspect you of being a little shrewder."
"Mr. Payson," Granthope said earnestly, "I can't bear these insinuations! Give me a chance, at least, before you condemn me. I'll tell you in four words what I came for, before you say anything more that you will have to regret. I have good reason to believe that I am your son!"
The old man rose from his chair and shook his finger in Granthope's face. "That's all I want to hear!" he thundered. "Leave my house immediately, sir! My son, are you? I thought so! Good God, wasn't it enough for Vixley and the Spoll woman to try and work that game on me, that you have to come and begin where they left off? After I had found them out, too! Do you take me for a damned fool? Why, you people don't even know when you're shown up! You get out of my house before I kick you out!" He strode to the door, lowering, and held it suggestively open.
Granthope stared at him in astonishment, with no thought of moving. This was the last thing he had expected. At first his surprise was too great for his hopes to rise. He thought of nothing but the angry man in front of him, wondering why he should deny the truth so vindictively.
"Do you mean to say that I amnotyour son?" he said, with a queer perplexed hesitation.
"I ask you to leave my house, sir! Do you think I'll permit myself to discuss such a subject with you?" Mr. Payson's scorn was towering.
Granthope still stared. What did it mean? He spoke again, earnestly, trying his best to keep calm. "Do you deny that you have a son, sir? I beg you to answer me."
"What the devil should I deny it for? What business is it of yours?" the old man roared. "Why should you come here asking me such outrageous questions?"
"Mr. Payson," Granthope tried again, "I told you that I had reason to believe that I am your son. You must admit that that gives me an interest in the matter. I have never known who my parents were. You needn't be afraid of my forcing myself upon you against your will, or attempting to get money from you—that is not my motive. But I have a right, for my own sake, to know the truth, and I demand that you answer!"
The old man quailed before his look and his seriousness, and began to be impressed with his sincerity. "Very well, then, I will answer you. No, sir, you are not my son, because I never had one, to my knowledge, at least. Does that satisfy you? Vixley and the Spoll woman tried that game on me and failed. Now, I'll ask you to leave me alone in peace. I have had trouble enough!" His first burst of anger having burned itself out, he weakened under the strain.
Granthope was for a moment at a loss for words. He was not prepared for this denial—he must begin all over again. He stood with his hands folded for a while, and then said:
"Very well, Mr. Payson. I will tell you now what I know, and you may judge of yourself whether or not I was justified in coming."
The old man's countenance was irresolute; his mouth had relaxed. He faced Granthope silently.
"Did you ever know Felicia Grant?" said Granthope next.
Mr. Payson exploded again. "Oh, you've got hold of that, have you? I thought as much. So you've been in league with that gang all along! I see; all this pretended enmity was only a part of the game! Very, clever, sir, very clever!" He began to walk up and down, bobbing his head.
"I lived with Madam Grant when I was a child," Granthope persisted calmly.
"What's that?" Mr. Payson went up to him, now, and took him by the arm. "For God's sake, man, don't lie to me!"
"I lived with her for three years. I was with her when she died—"
"You!" the old man exclaimed. He stared into Granthope's face as if he could surprise the truth from him. "If I could be sure of that!" he cried in distress. "For God's sake, don't play with me!" he implored. "I have no faith in any one any more. How can I believe you?"
Granthope dropped his voice to a soothing pitch and took the old man's hand in his with a firm clasp of assurance. "My dear Mr. Payson," he said, "I can give you plenty of proof of it, if you will only listen to me. I came to her, where from I never knew, as a child of five. She took me in, and I lived with her till she died. She was like a mother to me—I would be glad to hear that she was really my mother, for I loved her. I have come to you because I thought that she must have been that, and you my father. But I would be the happiest man alive if you could assure me that there is no relationship between you and me. What I know of you, I found out through Masterson—and he may have lied, but it seemed probable that it was true. I beg you to tell me the truth, for if you are my father it means more to me than anything else in the world."
"I think I can believe you now," said Mr. Payson, still with his eyes fastened on Granthope. "You seem to be honest, though I have about lost my faith in human nature. So I will be honest with you. But I can only repeat what I told you before. You are not my son. I never had a son."
A wild hope sprang up in Granthope's heart; though as yet it seemed impossible. "But you knew Felicia Grant?"
"Yes, indeed; I knew her well."
"Your picture was in her room—an old newspaper cut—"
The old man grasped his hand again with both his own. "Ah, I know you are the boy, now!" he exclaimed. "I have looked everywhere for you! Thank God, I have found you before it was too late! Do you know how I have longed for you for twenty years?—for the boy who stood by Felicia through that long, terrible time, when I could do nothing—nothing? Granthope, I don't carewhatyou have been—charlatan or fakir or criminal, there's a debt I owe you, and I shall pay it! Oh, you don't know! You don't know!" He stopped and held out his hands pathetically. "Why, it was to find you that I first went to Madam Spoll! I don't know how I can apologize or make up for the way I've treated you—you, of all men in the world!"
"But I can't understand yet," said Granthope, touched at the old man's atonement. "I heard—from Vixley, it came—that you had acknowledged—you must forgive me—to an illegitimate son. Can you blame me for thinking that it must be I?"
The old man dropped his head on his hand. "I see, now," he said drearily. "Oh, it must all come out, I suppose. I owe it to you to tell you, at least."
"You need tell me nothing more than you have told," Granthope said eagerly. "I didn't come here to pry into your secrets, Mr. Payson, or to make use of them."
"Oh, I know, now! But it is hard to speak. And I don't know even whether I have the right to tell or not. It's not my secret alone. But tell me first what else you know." He took a chair again and motioned for Granthope to sit down.
"I know that Madam Grant had a wedding trousseau that she kept in a trunk, and that the same trunk with the same contents, is now up-stairs in your garret."
"How can you know that?"
"I saw it last night. Your daughter showed it to me."
"Clytie—she showed it to you? You were here? How could that be?"
"It means, Mr. Payson, that I love your daughter—that we love each other. There is no time to explain how that came about, now, but I hope to prove to you that I am worthy of her. We have met often since you forbade me to come here. We were tacitly engaged, when I got this information—that you had a child—and that Felicia Grant was the mother. There was only one solution of the mystery—that I was that child, and that Clytie and I were half-brother and sister. We had to be sure before we broke off our affair, and I came up here to identify the trunk she had seen. I had to tell her what I thought was the truth, and last night we parted—for ever. You may imagine now how I long to believe what you say, yet how impossible it seems!"
"Clytie knows—that I had a child, by Felicia?"
"I had to tell her—I could not let things go on—"
"Ah, now I see how Madam Spoll went astray—I confessed to a child—I wanted to find the boy—she thought the two were the same—she jumped to the conclusion that I had had a son."
"And you had no son?" Granthope said, still mystified.
"No, I had a daughter. Do you see, now? I hoped to hide it from Clytie for ever. I thought I had hidden it successfully, and it was better for her, so. But now, if she knows so much, she must, of course, be told all. It is right that she should know. Poor child! But you knew Felicia—you know that she was no common woman—that ours could have been no common affair!"
"I know that well. And you needn't fear for Clytie, Mr. Payson. I don't think it will be even a shock for her. It isn't as if she had known Mrs. Payson well."
The old man leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "Ah, they were two wonderful women, Granthope! I could scarcely know which was the more so—which was the more magnanimous and true!" He was quiet a while, then he added: "Do you remember Felicia well?"
"No, not well. I was young then, and the memory has faded. But she seemed to be very beautiful to me, though her face would often grow suddenly strange. She was kind to me. She seemed to be extraordinarily well educated, too—different from any one else I have ever known."
Mr. Payson rose and saying, "Wait a moment, please!" left the room. He returned after a few minutes with a small photograph, faded with age, but still clear enough to portray the features of a beautiful woman, apparently of some twenty years or so. The face was frank and open, the eyes wide apart under level brows, looking directly out of the picture. The mouth was large, but well-formed. The face had a look of candor and serene earnestness that was engaging.
"That was taken in 1869, when I first knew her. You can see, perhaps, how I must have felt towards her. There is enough of Clytie in that face for that, I suppose. But I doubt if you are capable of the passion I had for that woman!"
As Granthope held the portrait in his hand, watching the face that grew every moment more familiar, the old man went on:
"I can tell you only the outline of the story now. Felicia Gerard, when I first knew her, was working with Mrs. Victoria Woodhull—a wonderful woman—have you ever heard of her?"
Granthope told him of the newspaper clipping Clytie had found, and how they had, in the library, looked up the history of Mrs. Woodhull, who had been a prominent figure in the East thirty years ago. It was more unusual, then, for women to compete with men in business affairs, but she, with her sister, had carried on a successful banking firm on Wall Street. What had interested Clytie most, however, were the stories of Mrs. Woodhull's early experience as a medium, and the fact that she had been calumniated, persecuted and ostracized on account of the false interpretation of her views upon social questions.
"You may imagine the effect that such a person would have upon such a spirited girl as Felicia," said Mr. Payson. "She was carried away with her enthusiasm and energy, and the conflict inspired her. I followed them from city to city, urging Felicia to marry me, but, having adopted the radical social theories of that cult, she was firm in her refusal not to bind herself or me to an indissoluble union. Well, I could get her in no other way than by accepting her as a partner who should be free to leave me the moment she ceased to love me; you may be sure that her action was inspired only by the highest ideality. We settled finally in New Orleans where, for some time, we were absolutely happy. But New Orleans was, and is, I believe, a more conservative sort of community than most American cities. People shunned us, and talked. At last, isolated and away from radical centers, she consented to a marriage ceremony, and went to work to prepare her trousseau. We were to be married in San Francisco."
The old man's face had grown wistful and tender as he spoke. He pulled off his spectacles to wipe them, and looked up at Granthope with a sort of pride in the story, in the beauty and pathos of it evoked by his memories. Then he rose, and walked up and down the floor, his hands behind his back, and his mellow, unctuous voice ran on. To Granthope, who had known the woman, and loved her, the story thrilled with romance.
"It was curious that she insisted upon a formal wedding. It was a reaction, I suppose; she had returned to the normal instincts of womanhood. I was only too willing. Well, it was in New Orleans that the crisis came. We were living in an old Creole house on Royal Street—it had been Paul Morphy's, the chess-player—Felicia saw his spirit in the end room, where he died, one night. There was an old gallery around the courtyard and garden, with magnolia trees, where we used to sit in the evenings. Heavens! what nights we have spent there!
"She had told me that her grandmother had been insane. It was Felicia's horror, her dread. The spirits had told her that she would go mad, too. That was, I suppose, the real reason why she had refused so long to marry me. But she had almost forgotten about it by this time. We were happy enough to forget everything!
"Are you interested, Granthope, or does this bore you?" he added suddenly, turning. "I'm an old man, after all, and I have an old man's ways. The past is very real to me."
"Go on, please!" said Granthope huskily.
"It happened just before Mardi Gras. We had decided to stay over, and see the fun. That Monday, when I came home, Felicia was gone. She had left a note, saying that she would never see me again—I'll show you that—and a lot of other things; they will help you to understand Clytie. It seems that day she had gone suddenly out of her head and had wandered across the street to another house, where they kept a leper girl shut up in a room on the gallery. They carried her home, raving rather wildly, and she came to her senses in an hour or so, but she was terrified by the attack. She saw that she would probably be subject to such attacks in the future; that they might become worse; that it was not fair to me to marry. I don't need to tell you, I hope, that it would have made no difference to me—I would have been glad to give my life to attending to her through thick and thin. But she didn't wait to put it to me. She left, with all her clothes, even the trousseau. She left no address, nothing by which I could trace her. That was her way, the only fair way, she thought. It must have taken some courage. It was, I think, the bravest thing I ever saw done.
"Let me see that photograph a minute, Granthope. What a lot of hair she had! I've seen it to her feet. Cly has fine hair, but not like her mother's. The same eyes, you see—full of dreams, but they wake up, sometimes, I tell you! You may find out, sometime. Level brows and a fullish lower lip. Do you know what that means? I do.
"I didn't see her again for over a year. I hunted everywhere she had ever been; Boston, Toledo, New York, everywhere! Finally I gave it up in despair, and went abroad, trying to forget part of it. There I met my wife. I married her in sheer despair; but I found out how fine she was when I told her the story. I didn't think that there were two such women in the world! I have a beautiful painting of her, done while we were in Florence, but I never dared to put it up, on account of Clytie. It didn't seem right. But you'll see it in the dining-room to-morrow, I think.
"Where was I? Oh, yes. We came to San Francisco for business reasons. Before I had been here a week I happened upon Felicia down-town—she had followed Mrs. Woodhull's example and had gone into business herself—real estate. She did well at it, too. But at sight of me she flew off the handle. Every time I saw her it affected her in the same way. Good God! Can you imagine what it must be to know that the only way you can help a woman you love and pity is to stay away from her? I couldn't do anything, but my wife went to see her and seemed to be able to pacify her. She found out that Felicia had a child—then a few months old. The first I knew of it, the baby was here in the house, and my wife told me that we would adopt her. No one ever knew that Clytie wasn't our own child. No one knows but you and I, to this day, I think.
"It was a fearful injustice to her, I suppose. Do you think she can forgive me?" The old man was pathetically humble and looked to the young man as to a guardian.
"Mr. Payson," said Granthope, "have you lived all this while with her and not known that? I have known her only two months, and I am sure of it!"
"So you think you love her, do you?" Mr. Payson looked at him curiously.
"I do, sir. And I think that she loves me."
"Felicia's adopted boy!" the old man said to himself, "and Clytie! And to think that I had wanted her to marry Cayley!"
He broke off to stand, staring at Granthope, without a word. Then he exclaimed: "By Jove! I had forgotten. Cayley was here to-day—Cly's gone off with him, up to Mount Tamalpais, to join a party there. Now I recall it—there seemed to be something between them. You are sure she cares for you?" he demanded.
"Last night she did—and we parted, thinking never to be able to see one another again."
"And I did my best to make that match—I encouraged Blanchard all I could. I threw her at his head! I found them here at luncheon. He's been trying for years to get her to marry him. You don't think it's possible that she would do anything rash, do you?"
Granthope's heart sickened. "In what way? How?"
"She said—what was it—the last thing. She said that he had threatened to elope with her, and perhaps they mightn't come back for some time. I thought it was a joke, but now I think of it—"
Granthope sprang up. "What time did they go?" he asked.
"Just before you came—they took the one forty-five."
"We can't reach her by telephone—they're not there yet. What time does the next train go?"
Mr. Payson turned to anArgonautand looked at the time-table on the last page. "Saturdays—four thirty-five," he said.
"I must go after her!" Granthope cried, almost desperate. "Don't you see—don't you know women well enough to understand what a state of mind she must be in, now? After our scene last night, the despair of it would drive her to almost anything reckless, anything to make her forget! It seemed wicked, monstrous, for us to meet again—it seemed irrevocable, final. If Cayley has been pursuing her, as you say, she may accept him in sheer desperation!"
"Go up there," said the old man. "Go up, and tell her everything. It is better for you to tell her. Cayley will resent your appearance, but don't mind that—get rid of him at any cost. You will have to manage him. If Clytie is in love with you, I'll stand by her in whatever she says. Don't think I'm a doting fool, Granthope, that I veer with the wind, this way. I wanted her to marry Cayley, because I thought she'd never know this, and he was a man of honor and intelligence. But I didn't know that Felicia's boy was alive."