Part 37

"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 an _Argonaut_ and 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."

Granthope left in a tumult of doubt. He knew little of Cayley, save that he was subtle and indefatigable with women--and that he was unscrupulous enough to have betrayed his friend to Vixley. But how far Clytie's revulsion of feeling would have carried her by this time, he dared not think. She was in a parlous state, and ripe for any extreme impulse.

The trip to Sausalito was almost intolerable. On the train to Mill Valley, his anxiety smoldered till his spirit was ashes. His mind fought all the way up the mountain track, faring to and fro, sinuously, as the line wound, in tortuous loops, gaining altitude in tempered grades. As they rose, the bay unfolded, shimmering below, curving about the peninsula of San Francisco, where, amidst the pearl-gray, the windows of the city caught, here and there, the level rays from the vivid west. The air was cool and salt. As they rounded a spur, the Pacific burst upon them, miles and miles of twinkling sparks on the dullness of the sea floor. A bank of fog hovered upon the horizon. Just above it the sun poised, then sank, bloody red, tingeing the cloud with color and sending streamers to the zenith. Still his mind urged the train to its climb. It was as if he put his shoulder to the car to impel it upward in his haste, so intense was his expectancy. So, at last, the train rolled up to the station by the Tavern.

There was a crowd waiting upon the platform, and his eyes sought here and there for Clytie. There she was, incongruous with the party--Cayley, easy, jocose, elegant--Mrs. Page, full-blown, sumptuous and glossy, abandoned to frivolity, her black hair blowing in the wind--and Gay P. Summer, jaunty, pink-and-white, immaculate in outing attire. There was another lady whom Granthope did not know. He walked rapidly up to them, calm, now, and confident, equal to the situation, whatever it might be.

Mrs. Page pounced upon him with a little scream of delight, and towed him up to the group. Clytie's narrow eyes widened in surprise, and she turned paler as she looked at him in vain for an answer to her signal of distress.

"Why, Mr. Granthope!" Mrs. Page shouted. "Did you _ever_ in your life! What fun! Aren't you a duck to come--you're _just_ the man we want! If I had _imagined_ that you could be induced to come up here, I would have let you know! But then, probably, you wouldn't have come! We needed another man so badly! I'm _so_ glad! I think you know all of us here, except Miss Cavendish, don't you? Miss Cavendish, let me present Mr. Granthope. You know I've told you about him."

Miss Cavendish smiled, looked him over with undisguised amusement, and with a gesture passed him over to Clytie. Clytie gave him a cold hand, looked him steadfastly in the eyes, then dropped hers and waited for her cue.

"It's very good of you to take me in, Mrs. Page. I hope you don't mind my inviting myself. I only just ran up for the night, and I don't want to interfere with your plans at all."

"Oh, don't say a word! We were _dying_ for another man. We're all delighted. Now we're six, you see--just right. You can flirt with the chaperon."

"Come and have a drink, first thing," said Gay P. Summer, taking upon himself seriously the conventional obligations of host. "You must be cold, Granthope, without an overcoat. We'll be back in a minute, Violet. Come on, Cayley!"

He led the way into the bar. Granthope followed with Cayley, watching for a word in private. "I want to speak to you alone," he tossed over his shoulder. Cayley nodded.

After the formalities were over, Granthope remarked: "Well, I think I'll go in and get a room, Summer. You go out and get the ladies while Cayley and I go up-stairs a minute."

Gay P., suspecting nothing, left the two men alone. Cayley took a seat on a small table and waited. Granthope lost no time in preliminaries.

"Mr. Cayley," he said, pulling out his watch, "what time does the next train go down the mountain?"

"There's one soon after nine, I believe--why?" Cayley answered.

Granthope looked at him without visible emotion and said nonchalantly, "I think you'd better take it."

A hot flush burned in Cayley's cheeks, and he drew back as if ready either to give or to receive a blow. "Did you come up here to tell me that?" he said harshly.

"I did--that amongst other things."

"Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me? If you are, I think I can accommodate you. Come outside."

"No, I came up here to avoid one. If I had met you anywhere else, I suppose you'd be knocked down, by this time." Granthope's tone was unimpassioned, matter-of-fact.

"This is getting interesting," said Cayley, now as suave as his opponent. "May I ask you to explain?"

"I had a talk with Doctor Masterson this morning. You may not be acquainted with him--he's a friend of Professor Vixley's, whom I believe, you _do_ know."

Cayley's color went back, and his attitude relaxed from defiance to something less assertive.

"He told me a few things about you, Mr. Cayley," Granthope went on firmly. "I don't intend to repeat them. But what I do intend is that you shall make whatever excuses you see fit to Mrs. Page and the others, and leave here on the next train. Do you understand perfectly, or shall I go into details?"

"Oh, I won't trouble you, Granthope," Cayley drawled. "I don't think the crowd would be very amusing with you here, anyway. I'm much obliged to you for giving me the opportunity to leave, I'm sure."

He smiled, Granthope smiled, and the two separated. Cayley walked up to speak to the clerk in the office, and then sauntered toward the ladies on the porch. Granthope was given a room, and went up-stairs.

When he returned the party was talking on the veranda, and there was no chance to speak to Clytie alone. What he could do to reassure her by his glance, he did, but she was evidently so much at a loss to account for his appearance that she had placed some alarming interpretation upon it. She did not speak, but her silence was unnoticed in Mrs. Page's volubility. As they stood there, a bell-boy came out and notified Cayley that there was a telephone call for him. Cayley apologized and left to go inside. Granthope watched him with satisfaction.

Clytie moved off down the veranda a little way, and Granthope, seeing his opportunity, followed her.

He had time but to say, "It's all right, Clytie--it's all right!"

She looked up at him in wonder, and at his words life and hope came back to her and shone in her eyes. She did not understand yet, but the message was an elixir of joy to her. On the instant Gay and Miss Cavendish joined them, chattering.

"Oh, Mr. Granthope," she said, "Mr. Summer and I have been wrangling all this afternoon over a discussion, and we want your decision. You ought to know, if anybody does. Which knows most about women--the man who knows all about some woman, or the man who knows some about all women?"

Granthope laughed. "I think they'd be equally foolish. No man _knows_ anything about any woman."

"Of course that's the proper answer," said Miss Cavendish. "We're all mysteries, aren't we?"

"Even to ourselves," Clytie offered.

"Oh, yes, women understand other women, but they never understand themselves."

Gay P. Summer put in, "I don't think any man ever understands women who hasn't had sisters. I never had one."

"That's true," said Granthope. He saw his chance, and turned to Clytie. "I never had a sister, either," he said deliberately, catching her eye.

Clytie's eyebrows went up. He nodded. It was question and answer. She moved toward him a little, unnoticed, and his hand touched hers.

Mr. Summer added: "I don't care, though, I prefer to have women mysteries. It's more interesting."

Mrs. Page came up in time to hear the last words. "Oscar Wilde says that women are sphinxes without secrets," she contributed.

"I wonder if any woman is happy enough not to have a secret," Clytie said.

"I hope that yours will never make you unhappy," Granthope replied; and added: "I don't think it will." He pressed her hand again, unobserved.

At this moment, Cayley returned.

"Something doing, Mr. Cayley?" said Miss Cavendish mischievously.

"Yes, unfortunately. It's a matter of business and important. I've got to see a man to-morrow morning in the city. It's too bad, but I'll have to go down to-night, after all."

"Why, the _idea_!" Mrs. Page cried indignantly. "You'll do no such a thing! It's outrageous! We can't _possibly_ spare you, Blan; you'll spoil the party!"

"It's my loss. I've got to go, really!" said Cayley. He turned to Clytie. "I'll have to turn you over to Mr. Granthope, I'm afraid. I don't want you to miss the time, of course."

Clytie looked at Granthope, puzzled.

"_You_ shan't go, anyway, Miss Payson!" Mrs. Page insisted. "Why, we're going to get up and see the sunrise to-morrow morning! That's what we came for. _Please_ don't break up the party," she begged.

Clytie smiled subtly, and hazarded another glance at Granthope.

"I really came up to bring Miss Payson home," he said, "but of course I'll leave it to her. The fact is, I've brought her a message from her father."

"Oh!" Mrs. Page exclaimed, "I do hope it isn't bad news."

"On the contrary, it's good, I think. Nevertheless, I'll have to break it to her gently. And with your permission, I will, now."

A look at Clytie, and she walked off with him up toward the summit of the mountain.

"What can it be, Francis?" she exclaimed. "I'm all at sea. But of course I understood from what you said that it was, somehow, all right."

"Clytie," he said, "it _is_ all right--we've passed the last obstacle, I think. But it's hard to know how to tell you. If you'll let me tell it my way, I'll say that, of all the women I have ever known in my life, the two whom I have loved best were--"

"Me--and--?" She held his hand tightly.

"You and your mother."

She seemed to be in no way surprised, new as the thought was to her. It only struck her dumb for a while. Then she said:

"I must telephone to father at once. Oh, I must reassure him!"

"Shall we go back?" he asked.

She stood for a moment deliberating. Then she put her arm in his. "I've seen the stars and moon," she said, "I've seen the lightning, I've seen the false dawn. Let's stay, now, and see the sunrise!"

They walked, arm in arm, to the summit of the mountain, and sat down upon a rock to gaze at the city, far away.

There it lay, a constellation of lights, a golden radiance, dimmed by the distance. San Francisco the Impossible, the City of Miracles! Of it and its people many stories have been told, and many shall be; but a thousand tales shall not exhaust its treasury of Romance. Earthquake and fire shall not change it, terror and suffering shall not break its glad, mad spirit. Time alone can tame the town, restrain its wanton manners, refine its terrible beauty, rob it of its nameless charm, subdue it to the Commonplace. May Time be merciful--may it delay its fatal duty till we have learned that to love, to forgive, to enjoy, is but to understand!

*EPILOGUE*

It was quiet at Fulda's. The evening crowd had not yet begun to come. The Pintos, however, had arrived early, and were at their central table talking in low, repressed voices. Felix, at the front counter, looked over at them occasionally under his eyebrows, as if there were something unusual in their demeanor.

Mabel sat erect, her hands in her lap, looking straight before her, speaking only in monosyllables. Elsie's smile had diminished to a set, cryptic expression. She looked tired. Maxim leaned his heavy, leonine head upon his hand, and drew invisible sketches with his fork upon the table-cloth. Starr and Benton talked in an undertone.

"I didn't go over," said Starr, "I simply couldn't."

"Well, somebody had to see, so I went."

"Was it--bad?"

Benton shook his head. "No, lovely. Wonderful. One wouldn't think--"

Mabel looked across at them. Starr lowered his voice.

"Just ten days, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"How did you happen to hear?"

"Why, I was at the _Bulletin_ office when word was telephoned in. There was something about the description that struck me--I began to worry--then I went over with a reporter."

The door on Montgomery Street opened, and Dougal came in. He moved like a machine. His face was hard, his eyes glassy, as if he had not slept for many nights. He sat down like an automaton, pulled off his hat and let it drop carelessly to the floor.

"Where have you been?" Elsie asked him.

"I don't know. Just walking. Anywhere."

"Did you--?"

"Yes. I _had_ to. I couldn't stand it not to."

Benton, the most composed of them all, pulled himself up in his chair. "Let's have something to drink," he suggested. He called the waiter and gave his order. A bottle was brought and the glasses filled. They seemed to awake, around the table, and each one took a glass. Benton raised his. They all drank in silence. Mabel, her eyes dimmed, held up two fingers. Elsie smiled.

"That's right!" she said, and held up hers. Mabel gulped down something in her throat.

"Well," said Benton, throwing off the mood, "we might as well have dinner." He took up the menu and looked it over.

They all ordered languidly. The talk began in a desultory fashion, and the group became almost normal--all except Dougal, who stared steadily across the room to where, under a drawing was a scroll bearing the words from _Salome_: "Something terrible is going to happen,"--and Mabel, who did not speak and watched her plate. The restaurant, meanwhile, had begun to fill up. Dishes rattled, voices chattered, new arrivals appeared every few minutes.

Dougal looked up from his plate listlessly. "I saw Granthope and his wife on the Oakland boat yesterday," he said. "I guess he's going East; they had a lot of luggage."

"Did you speak to him?" Benton asked.

"No. I started to, then decided not to break up a honeymoon party. But I heard her say something queer. I've been wondering about it." He stopped, as if he had forgotten all about them there at the table. Then he continued in a slow labored voice: "It was the queer way she said it--the way she looked, somehow."

"What was it?" Starr asked.

"We were just opposite Goat Island." He paused and took a breath. "She said--"

They all waited, watching him. He tried it again. "She said--'Doesn't the water look cold!'--then she kind of shivered and said--'Let's come inside'--we were just opposite Goat Island."

Maxim repeated the words: "'The water looks cold'--Oh, God!" he exclaimed softly.

There was a silence for a moment, then Starr said:

"D'you suppose she knew?"

"How could she?" Benton asked. "Nobody knew till this noon, did they?"

Elsie spoke: "Of course she knew."

Mabel nodded her head slowly; her breast was heaving.

There was a pause for a moment. It was broken by Benton, who sat facing the door.

"There's The Scroyle!" he exclaimed. "Who's that with him?"

"Oh, that's Mrs. Page," said Elsie, narrowing her eyes.

Gay P. Summer, jimp and immaculate, with trousers creased and shiny shoes, with the latest style in mouse-colored hats, entered with his lady, and looked jauntily about for a good table. He found one near the Pintos. Having seated his partner, he leaned over toward her and whispered for a few minutes. By her immediate look in their direction, there was no doubt that he was informing her of the fame of the coterie at the central table, and boasting of his acquaintance with it. Then he arose.

"By Jove!" said Benton. "He's coming over here! What d'you think of that!"

Gay approached dapperly, bowed to all, and laid his hand on the back of Dougal's chair. Dougal leaned forward and avoided him.

"Good evening, everybody," said Gay affably. "The gang is still alive, I see!" He smiled inclusively. Nobody answered.

"I should think you'd want to find another restaurant, now," he continued. "This place is getting altogether too dead. It's only a show place now. All the life seems to have gone out of it."

"That's right," Maxim murmured.

"Funny how places run down,"--Gay was forcing it hard--"why, I know several people who won't come here any more. It isn't like it used to be, anyway, nowadays." He grew a little nervous at his apathetic reception, but went on. "Say, I've got a lady over there I'd like to introduce to you people. She's a corker. Suppose I bring her over. You need another girl."

Benton shook his head. "Not to-night, Gay. Sorry. Executive session."

Gay looked round the table, noted the two empty places and started: "But couldn't--"

"No," said Benton, "we _couldn't_. Some other time."

Gay, about to move away, looked at Dougal. "Say," he said, "what's become of Fancy Gray? Are you expecting her to-night?"

At the sound of the name Mabel dropped her head on her arms and began to cry aloud. Her shoulders worked convulsively.

Elsie put her hand round her neck. "Oh, stop, May!" she whispered. "Don't cry--please!"

Dougal looked at Mabel. His small eyes gleamed as bright and dry as crystal.

"Don't stop her, Elsie! If anybody _can_ cry, for God's sake, let them cry!"