"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.
"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?"