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."

"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.

"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!"