Part 36

"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.

"But _is_ there 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 am _not_ your 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 care _what_ you 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.