Part 32

"Why, Miss Payson, Vixley can no more be trusted than a gambler! Don't you know that he's wild with Frank? Vixley's got it in for him; he is trying to ruin him! Don't you know that Frank has been trying to buy him off, just to save your father from being cheated by them? Why, Frank offered Vixley a thousand dollars to leave town, only last week. Vixley told me so himself!"

"A thousand dollars? That's impossible." Clytie's voice was still hopeless.

"I can't imagine where he got the money, but he had it with him, in cash. Vixley said so."

"How long ago was that?"

"Two weeks ago, about."

Clytie reflected. "I saw Frank on the platform at Stockton, two weeks ago. I wonder--"

"Yes, it was the day after he got back, I remember now."

"Oh!" Clytie's face lightened as if another person had come into the room. She looked away, as if to greet an unseen visitor. Her hand was raised delicately. "I see." Her voice came suddenly, definitely. Then she stared hard at Fancy. "Oh, Fancy, I'm almost frightened at it! I don't dare to believe it. Oh, if I've made a mistake in suspecting him. If I've accused him to myself unjustly, how can I ever bear it! But I saw those notes--"

"And you didn't ask him to explain them?" Fancy spoke very slowly. She did not accuse, she only wondered.

"No." Clytie's tone had dropped low, and she went on, fluttering hurriedly. "I simply went away. Oh, think of it--it was as melodramatic as a play--that's the way women do on the stage, isn't it? But you see, I _did_ know awful things about him. Fancy--he had told me, and I suspected more. There was something in the notes about my present to father, and his birthday had only just passed. That proved to me that Frank's notes had been made recently, I thought."

Fancy looked at her with a quizzical expression. "I knew a fellow once who used to call me a marmoset. I guess that's what you are, you poor dear! Why, Frank told me about your binding a book for your father the day he first came here. You must have spoken of it then."

"I did!" Clytie fairly threw out. "I remember it now! And that was _before_--before he really knew me, wasn't it! Oh, what shall I do, Fancy?" Her look was, for the moment, as helpless as a child's.

"Do?" Fancy repeated, shrugging her shoulders. "Why, the telephone wires are still working, aren't they?" She spoke a bit dryly. She had done her work, now, and relapsed into a sort of apathy.

"And I prided myself on my intuition, and on my fairness!" Clytie went on, unheeding her. "I knew that I saw in him what no one else saw--not even you, who knew him so well, and who wouldn't suspect him of anything so base as that! To think of my being the victim of such a claptrap trick!"

Fancy raised her eyebrows and watched her quietly. "What I can't understand now, is why you're wasting your time talking about it."

Clytie stared at her, her face still shadowed by her emotion. Then her smile came rapturously. She turned and ran down-stairs to the telephone.

Fancy walked to the window forlornly. There she leaned her head on her arm against the pane and shut her eyes, as if she were fatigued. It was black in the west, and the Marin shore was shrouded in the murk. The harbor was covered with dancing whitecaps. The storm was imminent. She stayed there, motionless, until Clytie's step was heard coming up, then started into life again and gave herself a shake.

"He's coming right up!" Clytie announced.

Fancy immediately looked at the blue enameled dial of her little silver watch. "Well, I must be going."

"Oh, please stay!" Clytie exclaimed, holding her tightly. "I really want you to, so! It's you who have done it all."

Fancy smiled at last, and released herself. "Yes, I've spent my life in straightening out other people's snarls," she said. "Sometime I hope some one will be able to straighten mine. But I've got a date, really."

"Oh, do tell me that you're as happy as I am," Clytie exclaimed. "I've been so selfish, I'm afraid! I don't know who he is, but I'm sure he must be fine, if you care for him. How I wish I could help you, dear!"

"The only way you could, I'm afraid, is by lending me some of your brains--and I'm afraid they wouldn't fit my noddle. He's awfully clever, and I feel like a fool when I'm with him."

"But you do really love him, don't you?" Clytie asked anxiously.

Fancy nodded gravely. "I guess yes. As much as I can love anybody. I'm afraid of him. That's one sign, isn't it?"

"And you can't tell me who he is?"

"Not yet."

"Fancy, when you're married, I'll give you a wedding."

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

She turned to go, but hesitated a moment, as if she could hardly make up her mind to ask the question, yet couldn't go without asking it. "Miss Payson," she said finally, "did you tell Frank that I had been here?"

"Of course I did!"

"What did he say?"

"He said that it was like you. That you always played fair."

"Good-by!" Fancy said, and suddenly breaking through the reserve that had so far constrained her, she laid her cheek for a moment to Clytie's.

Clytie kissed her. The two walked down-stairs arm in arm. At the front door Fancy paused and said:

"Take my advice, Miss Payson, and don't explain. Never explain. If you once get into that habit you're lost. It only wastes time. Get right down to business and stay there. Your head belongs on his shoulder, remember that. All Frank will want to know is what you're going to do next. Keep him guessing, my dear, but never explain! Now, I'm going to try and get home before it rains."

She turned up her collar, gave a quick toss to her head, and walked rapidly down the garden path. At the gate she turned, gaily gave a mock-military salute, a relic of her old vaudeville manner, then ran down the steps.

Clytie watched her till she had disappeared. Then she went up-stairs and changed her frock.

Fancy's sage advice was wasted. There were explanations, a torrent of them, when Francis Granthope came, explanations voluble, apologetic, impetuous, half-tragic, semi-humorous. The equilibrium of Clytie's mind was completely overturned and its readjustment came only after a prolonged talk. Every trace of the priestess, the princess, the divinity was gone forever, now. She was more like a mother rejoicing at the restoration of a lost child, for whose absence she blamed her own neglect and carelessness. It was all too delightful for Granthope to wish to cut it short. He was hungry for her.

He, too, had his explanations and his news. For two weeks his hands had been tied. Clytie had disappeared from his ken, and he had had no way of tracing her, for it was useless to telephone to the house or to ask of her father. There had been nothing for it but to wait in the hope that whatever had caused the interruption would come right of itself. He had never really felt sure of Clytie--her acceptance of him had seemed too wonderful to be true, a fortune to which he was not really entitled, and which he might lose any instant. Whether or not Vixley or Madam Spoll had effected the separation, he had no way of determining.

He told then of his trip to Stockton where, by establishing his identity by means of the finger-prints, he had succeeded in obtaining possession of the money he had deposited there so many years ago. This had amounted, with interest, to several thousand dollars. He had gone immediately to Vixley to seal the bargain they had made, but the Professor had absolutely refused to accept any payment for leaving town. Indeed, he had hinted that he had schemes on foot which would bring him an income that Granthope could not hope to rival. How matters stood between Mr. Payson and the mediums, neither Granthope nor Clytie knew. They had not yet heard of the materializing seance, and the situation was, so far as they knew, the same as before. It was agreed that there must be another attempt to rescue Mr. Payson, and this time through Doctor Masterson, who was probably venal.

Granthope, meanwhile, however, had perfected his plans. He had sufficient money, now, to warrant his devoting himself to the study of medicine, a project he had so long contemplated that, with the start he had already made, would make it possible for him to practise in two or three years. He had, therefore, abandoned all idea of going upon the stage. Clytie approved of this with considerable relief. The prospect of reviving gossip by Granthope's appearance as an actor had caused her much dread. They had already been much talked about. Society had discussed them until it had grown tired. Nothing was sensational enough to last long as an object of curiosity in San Francisco, and a half-dozen other affairs had caused them to be almost forgotten.

After this first flurry of talk, in which she had come down from that lofty spiritual altitude where she had dwelt for the last two weeks, she was sheer woman, thrilling to his words and to the sense of his nearness. As they had progressed in intimacy her maternal instinct had asserted itself more and more frankly towards him. She had treated him at times almost as if he were a boy whose education she was fondly directing. She had lost some of that feeling, now, in virtue of her mistake; she was curiously humble.

He, too, had somewhat changed. Before Clytie's direct gaze he had lost something of his power; he had been afraid of her. In this readjustment the normal phase of courtship was restored, and, feeling his way with her, delicately perceptive as he always was with women, he began to notice that she would willingly resign the scepter--she would gladly be mastered if he would but put forth his power. She was learning to be a woman; she would be conquered anew.

He was to learn all this slowly, however; so slowly that, at every manifestation of her inclination he had a moment's pause for the wonder of it, tasting the flavor of her condescension, marveling at his own conquest. To him, as to all lovers, his sweetheart had been a woman different from all her sex. He was now to find that she was not one woman but two--that in her the subtly refined spirit of his vision shared her throne with that immemorial wild creature of primal impulse who is the essence of sex itself; who, subdued or paramount, dwells in all women, saints and sinners alike. He had, in virtue of his victory, merged those two warring elements in her soul into one. She had come into her birthright, not lost it. She seemed a little frightened by the metamorphosis, but there was a triumph of discovery, too; he reveled in its manifestation, but he was still timorous before the new, splendid, potent being he had invoked. There was an intoxicating excitement, now, as he saw in her traces of every woman he had known. It was as if, after exploring a strange land and meeting its people, he had at last come upon the queen who combined all the national characteristics and fused them with the unique distinction of royalty.

They had, also, as yet, a whole lovers' language to manufacture, metaphors to weave into their talk, words to suggest phrases, phrases to stand for moods and emotions. But such idioms are untranslatable--they will never bear analysis. For love is a subjective state, whose objective manifestations are ridiculous. No one can see a kiss--it is a state of being.

But into this relation they entered, as children go to play, making their own rules of the game, establishing their own sentimental traditions as lovers use. With such vivid imagination as both possessed the pastime became deliciously intricate; it had pathos and comedy, wind and dew and fire. They spoke in enigmas, one's quick intuition answering the other--there were flashes so quick with humor that a smile was inadequate in satisfying its esoteric message. An observer would have seen Clytie, her eyes alight, her pose informed with gracile eagerness, waking from her gentle languor to inspired gesture--Granthope pacing the room, erect, virile, dark, sensitive in every fiber to her presence, flinging a whimsical word at her, or with a burst of abandon pouring himself out to her to her delight. There was an intellectual stimulation as well as an emotional pressure in their intercourse that forbade any monotony of mood. There was a tensity of feeling that broke, at times, into waves of laughter; but there were moments, too, when the sudden realization of their relation, with all its doubts, its unknown paths, and secret, fatal web of circumstance, impelled them to make sure, at least, of the moment, and to defy the future with an expression of their present happiness. So they came down, and so they went up. From height to depth, from shadow to light he pursued her. He chased, but she was ready enough to be caught! She held a hand to him and helped him up; they met in delightful solitudes of thought; they walked together through the obvious. That he should so follow her, that she could understand, there was wonder enough, even without that other diviner communion. It was a lovers' play-day, now; there was time enough for the lovers' ritual and the worship at the shrine. For this day was the untellable, impossible delights of wonder. They took repossession of their kingdom, no longer jeoparded by doubt.

It was Clytie, who, at last, grew more bold, more definite. She rose and put her two hands on Granthope's shoulders, smiling at him with pride in her possession.

"I can't wait any longer," she exclaimed. "I've suffered enough. Before anything else comes between us, let's settle it so that nothing can separate us. You see, my instinct has triumphed after all. I'm sure of you--indeed, I always have been. I must speak to father to-morrow, and, if you like--" She hesitated, in a sudden, maidenly access of timidity.

"We'll be married--instantly? Dare you?" He crushed her impetuously in his arms, not even this time without a wonder that she should permit him, not quite daring even yet to believe that she was more than willing.

She freed herself with an expression that should have reassured him. "There's nothing, now, to be gained by waiting, is there?"

"Nothing, if you can live on what I can provide."

She laughed at the very absurdity of it. "It may be hard, but I think I can manage father," she went on. "He's too fond of me really to oppose what I'm set on."

"I only wish I could do something to assure him, to propitiate him," said Granthope. "My position has been so undignified that I've had no chance. I have been meeting you surreptitiously, and I suppose he suspects me of being after your money."

"While the truth is, I'm after yours!"

"I wonder if, after all, it _is_ mine?" he said thoughtfully. "I have never been able to find any heirs of Madam Grant--and her last message to me seemed to be that I should have what she left."

"Oh, it's yours, I'm sure!" she said.

"I long so to know about her! If I could once convince your father of my sincerity there's much I'd like to ask him."

"Father is a strange man. He is often unreasonable and prejudiced in his judgment and treatment of people, but there's a warm vein of affection underneath it all. There's something hidden, something almost furtive, even in his attitude toward me, sometimes, that I can't understand. I happened on a queer evidence of his emotional side only a little while ago. There is a big trunk up-stairs in our garret where my mother's things are stored. It's always kept locked; I've never seen the inside of it. Well, I started to go up into the attic for something, and as I was half-way up the steps where I could just see into the loft, I heard a noise up there. Father was on his knees, in front of that trunk. He was examining something in his hand. There was a tenderness and a pathos in his posture--I got only one glimpse of him before I went down again. You know my mother died when I was about five years old--soon after that day at Madam Grant's. He never seems to want me to talk about my mother at all; he evades the subject whenever I mention her. I think that he must have been very fond of her, and it's still painful to discuss her."

"Have you ever asked him about that clipping about Felicia Gerard?"

"Why, he's as reserved about her, too. Isn't it. strange? But I'm sure that she was Madam Grant--there's a mystery about her I can't fathom. Do tell me more about her. You don't know how queer it seems that I have actually seen her."

He gave her all he knew of the strange, mad woman's life--it was not much, as he had been so young then--his straying into her rooms, her adoption of him, his education, his loneliness, his love. She warmed to him anew as he told the story.

"Ah, that's the part of you I know and love the best!" she exclaimed. "How good you were to her! If anything could make me love you more, it would be your devotion to that poor, lonely, ravaged soul. It seems as if you have served me in serving her, and I would like to think that I could pay you back, by my love, for all you gave her. It stirs me so to think of her pain and her despair!"

"Let's make a pilgrimage!" he said impulsively. "I haven't been inside the Siskiyou Hotel since I was a child, though I've passed there often enough. It's a pretty disreputable place now, I'm afraid."

"Oh, yes!" Clytie caught up with his eagerness. "Think of seeing that place again, where we first met! It will be a celebration, won't it! How long is it? I don't quite dare think."

"Twenty-three years!"

"And all that time we've been coming together--"

"It was a wide curve my orbit traced, my dear!"

"It's one of the mysteries of life that while we seem to be going away from each other, we're as really coming together. But we'll travel the rest of the course together, I'm sure!"

They set out, forthwith, on their quest for what had been. It had begun to rain, but their spirits were unquenchable by the storm. The excursion was, indeed, an adventure. Granthope himself felt his fancy aroused at the thought of the revisitation of the old home. It had a double charm for him now, as the spot where the two women who had most affected his life had been.

He left her under the shelter of an awning while he went into the saloon to interview the bartender who rented the rooms in the building. The man had heard of Madam Grant, though it was so long since she had lived there. There were still stories told of her wealth and her eccentricities, as well as of her occult powers. The rooms had even, at one time, been reported to be haunted, but they had always been let easily enough. At present they were occupied by some Russians. Yes, Granthope might go up; perhaps they would let him in.

They ascended the narrow, dingy stairs together. The wall was grimy where many dirty elbows had rubbed the plastering; the rail was rickety and many balusters were missing. Granthope rapped at the door in the hall with a queer, sick feeling of familiarity, though it was as if he had read of the place in some story rather than a place he had used to inhabit.

A Jewess opened the door, her sleeves rolled to the elbows, her face plump and good-natured. She smiled pleasantly.

"Would you mind our coming in to look at your rooms?" he asked.

"What for?" she said.

"Why, I used to live here when I was a child, and I'd like to show this lady the place."

"If you want to, you can, I suppose. It ain't much to look at now, though. We have to take what we can get, down here."

Her curiosity was appeased by the coin which Granthope slipped into her hand, and she sat down to her sewing phlegmatically, looking up occasionally with little interest.

The place was, of course, much changed. The windows were washed, the floor scrubbed and partly covered with rag rugs. It was well furnished and well aired. Granthope pointed but the little chamber where Madam Grant had slept, where his own bed had been, and, finally, the closet from which he had first spied upon her. Clytie looked about silently, much moved, and trying to bring back her own recollections of the place.

"If I close my eyes, I can almost see it as it was," she said. "I can almost get that strange feeling I had when I came here. If I could be here for a while alone I think I could see things. I'd like to go into the closet again. Let's see if the crack is still in the door."

It was still there. She asked permission to go inside, and the Jewess rather uncomfortably agreed. The place was filled with clothing; it was close and odorous; the shelves were filled with boxes, rags and household belongings. Clytie went in rather timidly.

"Go over where I sat in the front room, that day," she said. "I want to look through the crack, as you did. I'd like to be locked in, too, but the key is gone."

She closed the door on herself while Granthope walked to the bay-window and looked idly out. It was such a strange sensation, being in the old place again, that for some moments he lost himself in a reverie; then, turning and not seeing Clytie, he walked rapidly to the door and opened it.

She stood there, leaning back against the wall of clothing with a wondering, far-away expression, her eyes staring, her face white, her breath coming fast through her parted lips. He took her hand, thinking that she was fainting, and led her out. She recovered herself quickly and drew him into the front room.

"I saw my father while I was in there," she whispered. "He was looking about the room furtively, as if searching for something. What can it mean? I'm afraid something has happened to him--I'm alarmed about it. I must go right home and see if anything's the matter. I had a strange feeling, like a pain, at first, in the dark, and I was frightened. Then I saw him. Come, let's go away!"

She went up to the Jewish woman and shook hands with her, thanking her for the courtesy. The old lady patted Clytie's hand approvingly.

"That's funny, what everybody wants to see my room for," she said, "but I don't care when I get a dollar every time, do I? Last week they was an old gentleman here, like you was, to see it!"

"What was he like?" Granthope inquired.

"Oh, he was bald-head, with a spectacles and some beard."

Granthope and Clytie exchanged glances.

"He must have been down here for something," she said. "I can't make it out. I'm afraid that there's some trouble. It worries me."

*CHAPTER XIX*

*FANCY GRAY ACCEPTS*

The rain had come in a vigorous downpour, washing away the mantle of dust that had so long lain over the city. The storm finally settled down to a steady pelting of heavy drops, lightened occasionally to mild, drizzling showers, only to be resumed with greater violence toward night. Every one was glad for the flushing the town received. There was a novelty and excitement about the rain, a relief after the parched, monotonous months of cloudless skies. Men and women walked the streets smiling, the women especially; for that free, fearless gaiety, the almost abandoned good nature of San Francisco girls, was not to be quenched.

On Thursday evening, Fancy Gray, to all appearance her old, gay self, smiling as if she had never a care in the world, went down to Fulda's to dine with Blanchard Cayley.

In a city of restaurants, Fulda's restaurant was unique. The Pintos had discovered the place, and by their own efforts had made it. Maxim and the artists of the quarter had gained Fulda's consent to a new scheme of decoration, a plan so mad and impudent that the room was now a show-place for visitors. The walls were covered with cartoons and sketches as incongruously placed, perhaps, as the embossed pictures on a bean-pot, but what was lacking in art was made up for by a bizarre, esoteric humor that was the perpetual despair of the uninitiated.