"I'm mainly curious to see what you'll do--"
"Oh, you're expecting something, then?"
"I'm watching to see. I confess I shall watch you. I said that you
interested me--that's what I mean. You're going to--well, change."
As she stood between him and the light her soft hair showed as fine and
crisp as spun glass. Her lips were sensitively curved with a flitting
smile, her eyes were dreamy again. Everything about her bespoke a high
spiritual caste, but, to Granthope, this only accented the desirability
of her bodily self--it would make her the greater prize, unlike anything
he had, so far, been able to win. He had an epicure's delight in
feminine beauty, and he knew how its flavor should be finely tinctured
by mind and soul; even beauty was not exciting without that, and of mere
beauty he had his fill. Besides, she had unexpected reserves of emotion
that he was continually tempted to arouse. But so far he had hopelessly
misplayed his part, and he longed to prove his customary skill with
women.
"Well," he said finally, offering his hand, "I hope I'll be able to
satisfy you, sooner or later. I'll come, soon, for a report!"
"Oh, my mood may have changed, by that time."
He gave her the farewell amenities and went down the path to the gate.
There he turned and saw her still watching him. He waved his hat and
went down the steps, his mind restless with thoughts of her.
Clytie remained a while in the arbor. The fog had begun to come in now
with a vanguard of light fleecy clouds riding high in the air, closing
the bay in from all sides. The massive bank behind followed slowly,
tinted with opal and rose from the setting sun. It settled down,
shutting out her sight of the water, and its cohorts were soon scurrying
past her on their charge overland from ocean to harbor. The siren at
Point Bonita sighed dismally across the channel. It soon grew too cold
to remain longer in the garden, and she went into the house shivering,
lighted an open fire in the library and sat down.
For half an hour she sat there in silence, inert, listless, lost in
thought, her eyes on the blurred landscape mystic with driving fog. The
room grew darker, illuminated only by the fitful flashes of the fire.
Her still, relaxed figure, fragile and delicate as an ivory carving, was
alternately captured and hidden by the shadow and rescued and restored
by the sudden gleam from the hearth. She had not moved when her
father's step was heard in the hall. He came in, benignly sedate. His
deep voice vibrated through the room.
"Well, Cly, dreaming again?"
She started at the sound and came out of her reverie to rise and greet
him affectionately. He put down some books and a package of papers and
lighted the chandelier, exchanging commonplaces with her--of her
bookbinding work, which she confessed to have shirked; of the weather,
with a little of old age's querulous complaint of rheumatic touches; of
the black cat, which was their domestic fetish and (an immortally
interesting topic to him) of the vileness and poisonous quality of San
Francisco illuminating gas. His voice flowed on mellifluously with
unctuous authority, as he seated himself in his arm-chair beneath the
lamp, shook out his evening paper and rattled its flapping sheets.
Clytie evinced a mild interest in his remarks, smiled gently at his
familiar vagaries, answering when replies should be forthcoming, in her
low, even, monotonously pitched tones. She questioned him perfunctorily
about the book he was writing, an absorbing avocation with him, warding
off his usual disappointment at her lack of sympathy by involving
herself in a conversational web of explanation regarding Foreign Trade
Expansion, Reciprocal Profits and The Open Door in the Orient.
"There's not much use working on it at the office," he concluded. "I'm
too liable to interruptions."
"Who interrupted you to-day?" she asked.
"Oh, there was a queer chap in this afternoon, an insurance solicitor;
Wooley, his name was. I told him I didn't want an accident policy, but
I happened to tell him about that time on the Oakland Mole, when I got
caught between two trains in the Fourth of July crush--you remember? and
he told me about all the narrow escapes he ever heard of, trying to get
me to go into his company. Funny dog he was. He kept me laughing and
talking with him for an hour. Then Blanchard came in. He says he's
coming around to-night." He hesitated and scanned her intently through
his gold-bowed glasses, under his bushy brows. "I hope you will treat
him well, Cly."
Her face grew serious and her sensitive lips quivered, as she said:
"Why do you like Mr. Cayley so much, father?"
"Why, he's a very intelligent fellow, Cly; I don't know of another young
man of his age who is really worth talking to. He knows things. He has
a broad outlook and a serious mind. He's the kind of young man we need
to take hold of political and commercial reform. I tell you, the
country is going to the dogs for lack of men who are interested in
anything outside of their own petty concerns. Why, he's the only one I
know who really seems interested in oriental trade and all its
development means to the Pacific slope. That's remarkable, considering
he isn't himself connected with any commercial enterprise. I don't know
what I'd do if I didn't have him to discuss my subject with. He seems
to be genuinely interested in it. I wish you were as much so, Cly!"
Clytie turned away, smiling somewhat ironically, an uncommon expression
for her engaging features.
"You know," she said slowly, "that I don't quite trust him."
"Why, you two have been friends long enough, you should know him better
by this time. You're intimate enough with him."
"Oh, it's only a feeling I have. You know I have my intuitions--but
what friendship there is has been of his seeking."
"He's all right, Cly," her father said dictatorially. "I haven't lived
in the West for fifty years without knowing something of men. I do want
you to learn to appreciate him. He's got a future before him and he is
certainly fond of you. You know, if anything did come of it, I would--"
Clytie arose abruptly. "I think dinner's almost ready, father, and I'm
hungry. Are you ready?"
She was imperious, holding her tawny head erect, her chin high, her
hands clasped behind her back, the willowy suppleness of her body now
grown rigid. Mr. Payson sighed resignedly, and allowed a moment's
silence to speak for him; then, finding that his daughter's attitude
continued to dominate the situation, he, too, arose, patted her cheek
and shook his head. This pantomime coaxed forth a gracious smile from
her. He took his manuscripts and left to go up to his room. Clytie
remained at the window till he returned.
They had nearly finished their dinner, when, after a casual dialogue,
she remarked, without looking at him:
"Father, do you remember anything about an old crazy woman who lived
down south of Market Street somewhere, years ago--in a cheap hotel, I
think it was?"
He started at her question and his voice, ordinarily so calm and so
mellow, quavered slightly.
"What do you mean? Who was she?" he asked earnestly.
"That's what I want to know," Clytie said, stirring her coffee.
"What do you know about her?"
"Why--I went to see her once."
"_You_ went to see her? When?"
"Then you _did_ know her!"
Mr. Payson spoke cautiously, watching his daughter. "I have heard about
her, yes, but I never knew you had been there. How in the world did
that happen? It must have been a long time ago." He stared as if he
could scarcely believe her assertion.
"Mother took me there once or twice. It's almost the first thing I
remember."
"She did? She never told me! It's strange you have never mentioned it
before."
"Perhaps I oughtn't to mention it now. I thought, somehow, that she
wouldn't want me to tell you about it."
His tone now was disturbed, anxious, pitched in a higher key.
"Why shouldn't you speak of it? What difference could it possibly make?
I remember that woman, yes. She was not old, though. Do you recall her
well? You were very young then."
"I can almost see her now. She had white hair and black eyebrows, with
a vertical line between them; she was pale, but with bright red lips.
She wore a strange red gown. I think she must have been very beautiful
at one time. Who was she, father?" Clytie sent a calm, level glance at
him.
"Oh, she was a friend of your mother's. Your mother and I used to keep
track of her and help her, that's all."
"Was she poor, then?"
"No, she wasn't. That was the queer part of it. She had considerable
ability and actually carried on a real estate business, though she was
pretty mad. She had lucid intervals, though, when she was as reasonable
as any one."
"What became of her?"
"She died, I think, of heart disease. It must have been the same year
your mother died, if I remember rightly."
"What was her name?"
Mr. Payson grew more nervous at this questioning, but he replied, "They
called her Madam Grant, I believe. How did you happen to bring up the
subject after all these years, Cly?"
It was her turn to be embarrassed. "Well--I've recalled that scene
occasionally, and wondered about it--it has always been a mystery I
couldn't explain, and I never dared talk about it. Of course, it's only
one of those vivid early pictures of childhood, but it has always seemed
very romantic."
"It was a strange situation," Mr. Payson replied. "She was a very
unfortunate woman and I was sorry for her. I never would have permitted
you to go, if I had known, of course, but perhaps your mother knew
best." He dropped his chin upon his hand. "Yes, I'm glad you went,
now. What impression did she make on you?"
"I only remember thinking how beautiful she must have been."
"Yes," Mr. Payson's voice was almost inaudible. He pushed his chair
back, rose and went into the library. Clytie followed him.
"Are you going out to-night, father?"
"Yes, I've got some business to attend to."
"In the evening?" she raised her brows.
"Oh, I'm only looking up something--for my book." He turned away to
avoid her gaze.
"Oh!" She sat down and took up a book without questioning him further.
Soon after, the front doorbell rang and Mr. Cayley was shown in by the
Chinese servant.
Blanchard Cayley was well known about town, for he had a place in many
different coteries. By his birth he inherited a position in a select
Southern set that had long monopolized social standing and looked
scornfully down upon the upstart railroad aristocracy and that _nouveau
riche_ element which was prominent chiefly through the notoriety
conferred by the newspapers. Blanchard Cayley's parts gained him the
entree, besides, to less conventional circles, where his wit and
affability made him a favorite. He belonged to two of the best clubs,
but his inclinations led him to dine usually at French or Italian
restaurants, where good-fellowship and ability distinguished the
company. He wrote a little and knew the best newspaper men and all the
minor poets in town. He drew a little, and was familiar with all the
artists. He accounted himself a musical critic and cultivated
composers. He knew San Francisco like a rat, knew it as he knew the
intricacies of French forms of verse, as well as he knew the
architecture of music and the history of painting. He had long ceased
his nocturnal meanderings "down the line" from the Hoffman Bar to Dunn's
saloon, but he occasionally took a post-graduate course, of sorts, to
see whether, for the nonce, the city was wide open or shut. He had
discovered the Latin Quarter, now well established as a show-place for
jaded pleasure-seekers, and had played _bocce_ with the Italians in the
cellars of saloons, before the game was heard of by Americans. He had
found the marionette theater in its first week, traced every one of
Stevenson's haunts before the Tusitala had died in Samoa, knew the
writings of "Phoenix" almost by heart, and had devoured half the
Mercantile Library. Tar Flat and the Barbary Coast he knew as well as
the Mission and North Beach, and as for Chinatown, he had ransacked it
for queer jars, jade and hand-made jewelry, exhausting its possibilities
long before San Franciscans had realized the presence, in that quarter,
of anything but an ill-smelling purlieu of tourists' bazaars.
He had "discovered" women as well--women, for the most part, whose
attractions few other persons seemed to appreciate. His last find was
Clytie Payson--a much more valuable tribute to his taste than any
heretofore. He had devoted himself assiduously to her, and it was his
boast that he could remember the hat she wore when he first saw her, ten
years before. His pursuit of her had been eccentric. Cayley was
mathematical and his methods were built upon a system. During the first
years of their acquaintance he alternated months of neglect with
picturesque arrivals on nights so tempestuous and foul that his presence
would be sure to be counted as a flattering tribute, and would outweigh,
with his obvious devotion, the previous languor of his pursuit. This
was a fair sample of the subtlety of his psychological amours, for
Blanchard Cayley was not of the temperament to run across the room and
kiss a girl with verve and ardor. He led, however, an intense mental
life; there he was a creature of enthusiasms and contempts, capable of
no intermediate emotion.
What else was true of his character it would be necessary to determine
from the several ladies of his choice whom he kept carefully apart,
recipients of his subdivided confidence. Blanchard Cayley did not
introduce female contemporaries.
He wore a carefully trimmed, reddish, Vandyke beard, with a drooping
mustache; his hair curled a bit effeminately. Large blue eyes, the
well-developed nose of the hobbyist, hands of a sixteenth-century
gentleman, aristocratic, well-kept, soft. To-night he was in
half-dress--dinner jacket and gold studs, an inch wide stripe upon his
trousers--this under a yellow mackintosh and cricket cap, in strict
accordance with his own ideas of form.
Mr. Payson was in the library still busy with his manuscript when he
entered. The two shook hands. Blanchard's manner had in it something of
a survival of the old school. He was never awkward, yet never
bombastic. Suave, rather, with a semi-humorous touch that relieved his
courtesy of anything solemn. He smiled, showing his teeth, saying, with
an appearance of great interest,
"Well, Mr. Payson, I see you're still at it. How's _The Open Door in
the Orient_?"
"Oh, getting on," said Mr. Payson. "I want to read you my last chapter
when I get a chance. I think you'll like it."
Cayley had been successful in appearing to listen, and at the same time
pay his respects to Clytie, whose hand he did not let go without a
personal pressure in addition to the visible greeting. He kept it an
unpleasant half-second longer than had Granthope. She freed herself with
a slight gesture of discomfort. "Perhaps I'd better go up-stairs and
leave you men alone to talk it over," she suggested.
"Certainly not," said her father. "I'll wait until some other time,
only I thought Blanchard would be interested."
"Indeed, I am," Cayley protested. "I'm very anxious to hear your
opinion about gold, too. I have something to suggest, myself. Oh!" He
delved into his breast pocket. "Here are some notes on the history of
the trade dollar, Mr. Payson. You know I was speaking of it. I've been
looking up the subject at the mint and at the library for you; I think
it might give you some ideas."
Mr. Payson took the paper eagerly and pushed up his spectacles to
examine it. "Thank you; thank you very much. I'll be glad to look it
over. It's a pleasure to find any one nowadays who's so interested in
what is going to be a very vital question. You'll find my cigars here,
somewhere. Cly, you go and find the box, won't you?"
As Clytie disappeared in the direction of the dining-room, he added,
"You must humor her, Blanchard, she's a bit skittish. Don't force her
hand and I think you'll bring her around."
"Thanks for the tip, but I have my idea," was the reply. "It's only a
question of time when I shall be able to produce the psychological
condition I want."
Mr. Payson shook his head dubiously. "I don't know. That isn't the way
we went about it when I was young. We didn't bother much with
psychology then. We had emotions to attend to."
"Oh, love-making is just as much a science as anything else, and there
is no reason why it shouldn't progress. There are modern methods, you
know; it's only a form of hypnotism." He smiled blandly.
When he and Clytie were alone--a situation she seemed to delay as much
as possible--Cayley sat down opposite her with an ingratiating,
disarming smile. He was neither eager nor impressive. He was sure of
himself. It did not, as he had said, seem to matter a great deal about
her emotions; he scarcely considered her otherwise than as a mind whose
defenses he was to overthrow in an intellectual contest. He began with
elaborate circumlocution.
"Well, I've discovered something."
Her delicate eyebrows rose.
"It is a curious botanical fact that there are four thousand lamp-posts
in the city of San Francisco."
"Why botanical?"
"That is just what I expected you to ask."
"Then I'll not ask it." She was already on the defense.
"But you did!"
"Well?" She appeared to resent his tone.
"Now, see here!" He laid his right forefinger to his left palm.
"Suppose a Martian were visiting the earth. He wouldn't at first be
able to distinguish the properties of things. So, seeing these four
thousand lamp-posts, he might consider them as a part of the Terrene
flora--queer trees."
It was like a game of chess, and it was evident that she could not
foresee his next move. The detour was too complicated. She seemed, by
her attitude, to be on her guard, but allowed him, with a nod of assent,
to proceed.
"Now, suppose you have the Martian, or let us call it the uncorrelative
point of view. Suppose you use brain-cells that have hitherto been
quiescent or undeveloped."
"I don't exactly follow." Her attention wandered.