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.