Part 35

Masterson laughed, and resumed his seat, to discuss with the Professor the details of the plot. He did not seem much interested in the plans for the future, however, and seemed anxious to get away, yawning occasionally. He was now smug and confident, while Vixley seemed to have lost his nerve. The threatened newspaper revelations had cowed him. Madam Spoll was left out of the discussion; it was evident that her part of the affair was finished. Masterson left, promising his assistance if matters quieted down, and Payson could be brought under their influence again.

By dinner-time he had thought the matter over to his satisfaction, and he therefore enjoyed himself with beer and cheap vaudeville till half-past ten. Then he strolled down Geary Street and marched up to Granthope's office.

It had taken all Granthope's resolution to treat with Masterson, but it had seemed the only way, at present, to deal with the situation. Mr. Payson's part in the materializing seance had not yet transpired.

Masterson took a chair, crossed his legs and began:

"Well, Frank, I've been thinking over your proposition to-day, and I've decided that I've got to raise the ante."

"I thought that would be about your style," Granthope returned, "but I think I've offered you about all it's worth."

"Oh, it ain't only my help that's worth it, it's you that's worth it, so to speak. I'm getting on to your game, now, and I happen to know that you can afford to pay well; you see, I didn't happen to know so much about this Payson girl, as I do now. If you're tapping a millionaire's family, why, I want my share of it."

"I guess there's no use discussing the matter, then, if that's your theory. I can't possibly pay more than what I've offered."

"I'd advise you to hear me out, Frank," Masterson went on. "I said you could pay more, but I didn't say what I had to offer wasn't worth more, did I?"

"Why is it worth more now than it was this forenoon?" Granthope asked impatiently.

"It's worth more, because I've seen Vixley, and I've found out things that it's for your interest to know. I'm on the inside, now, and I'm prepared to make a better bargain."

"I see; you've sold me out, and now you want to turn over and sell Vixley out for a raise? I might have guessed that!" He turned to his desk in disgust.

"I don't care what you think. I ain't discussing high moral principles. I'm here to make a living in the quickest and most practical way. If you don't care to hear what I've got to say, I'll leave."

"How do I know you've got anything of value to me? Why should I trust you?"

"You can't expect me to tell you, and then leave it to you to make a satisfactory price, can you?"

"Oh, I don't care what you've learned. We'll call it all off." Granthope rose, as if to end the interview.

Masterson seeing his caution had gone too far became more eager. "Let's talk this thing out, Frank, man to man. Suppose I tell you half of it, and let you see whether it's as important as I say. Then we'll have a basis to figure on."

"All right, but make it brief. I'm getting sick of the business." He sat down, tilted back in his chair and waited, gazing at the ceiling.

Masterson spoke crisply, now. "Suppose I tell you that Payson has confessed that he has a son?" He shifted his cigar in his mouth and watched the bolt fall.

As the words came out, Granthope's face, which had shown only a contemptuous, bored expression, changed instantaneously. It was, for a moment, as if a sponge had been passed over it, obliterating all signs of intelligence, leaving it to blank, hopeless bewilderment. Then his mind leaped to its inevitable conclusion, the whole thing came to him in a sudden revelation; a dozen unnoticed details jumped together to form the pattern, and there it was, a problem solved: horror and despair. He was Clytie's half-brother! He sat enthralled by it for a moment--he forgot the leering scoundrel in front of him--he saw only Clytie--inaccessible for ever.

Then, still without a word, he rose like one in a dream, sought for his hat, went out the door, and ran down-stairs. As in a dream, too, Masterson's astonished, entreating, indignant exclamations followed him, echoing down the hall. Granthope paid no attention, he had no thought but for Clytie--to see her immediately, at any cost.

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?"

"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! I _can't_ give 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 I _can'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 Chinese _sa'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 I _am_ cold!" 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."