The Heart Line 10

The Heart Line 10

His eyes glanced again at the mole on her cheek. Then, as if electrified

by the sudden kindling and intensification of her personality, his

subconscious mind finished its work without the aid of reason. As a

bubble might separate itself from the bottom of the sea and ascend,

quivering, to the surface, his memory unloosed its secret, and it rose,

to break in his mind. The mole—_he had seen it before_—where? Like a

tiny explosion the answer came—_upon the cheek of the little girl who

visited them that day_, twenty-three years ago, at Madam Grant’s—the day

she died. It reached him with the certainty of truth. It did not even

occur to him to doubt its verity. In a flash, he saw what sensational

use he could make of the intelligence. Another idea followed it—an old

trick—perhaps it would work again.

 

"Would you mind taking off that ring?" he asked.

 

She drew off a simple gold band set with three turquoises. He laid it

upon the cushion, turning it between his fingers as he did so. In a

single glance he had read the inscription engraved inside. His ruse was

undetected; her eyes had roved about the room. He turned to her again.

 

"You are twenty-seven years old. You have a lover, or, rather, a man is

making love to you. I do not advise you to marry him. You have

traveled a good deal and will take another journey within a year.

Something is happening in connection with a male relative that worries

you. It will not be settled for some time. Are there any questions you

would like to ask?"

 

"I think you have answered them already," she replied.

 

He leaned back, to shake his hands and pass them across his forehead,

theatrically. Another bubble had broken in his consciousness. "Oliver

Payson!"—the name came sharply to his inner ear like a voice in a

telephone. Oliver Payson—he recalled now where he had seen the

name—_upon the newspaper cut pinned to the door of Madam Grant’s

bedroom_. Like two drops of quicksilver combining, this thought fused

with that suggested by the mole on the girl’s cheek. "Clytie

Payson"—this name came to him, springing unconjured to his mind. He

determined to hazard a test of the inspiration. He simulated the

typical symptoms of obsession, trembled, shuddered and writhed in the

professional manner. Then he said:

 

"Would you like a clairvoyant reading? I think I might get something

interesting, for I feel your magnetism very strongly."

 

She assented with an alacrity she had not shown before. Her eyes opened

wider, she threw off her lassitude, awakening to a mild excitement.

 

"Let me take your hands again—both of them. This is something I don’t

often do, but I’ll see what I can get."

 

He shut his eyes and spoke monotonously:

 

"I see a name—C, l, y—"

 

The girl’s hands gave an involuntary convulsion.

 

"—t, i, e. Is that it? Clytie! Wait—I get the name—"

 

Beneath slightly trembling lids, a fine, sharp glance shot out at her

and was withdrawn again. It was as if he had stolen something from her.

 

"Payson!"

 

The girl withdrew her hands suddenly; she drew in her breath swiftly,

paling a little.

 

"That’s my name, Clytie Payson! It’s wonderful! Go on, please!"

 

She gave him her gracilent, dewy hands again, and he thrilled to their

provocative spell. He took advantage of her distraction to enjoy them

lightly. When he spoke there was no hesitation in his voice.

 

"I don’t understand this! I don’t know who these people are, or where

they are, and it seems ridiculous to tell it. But there is a fearfully

disordered room with the sun coming in through dirty, broken windows.

The floor is covered with rubbish, there’s no furniture but a few old

boxes. I see two women and a little girl. They are in old-fashioned

costumes."

 

Clytie’s face was pale, now, and she watched him breathlessly.

 

"One of the women has white hair and vivid black eyebrows. She talks

wildly sometimes; sometimes she’s quite calm. The other woman is

middle-aged and has a soft voice. The little girl is dressed in blue;

she is sitting on a box listening. The crazy woman is kissing her."

 

He shook himself, shuddered and opened his eyes, to find Miss Payson

gazing upon him, her hand to her heart.

 

"It’s strange!" she said.

 

"It sounds nonsensical, I suppose," he said, "but that’s just what I

get. Can you make anything of it?"’

 

"It’s all true!" said Clytie. "That very thing happened to me when I

was a little girl—so long ago, that I had almost forgotten it."

 

"You remember it, then?"

 

"Yes, it all comes back to me—though I have wondered vaguely about it

often enough. It was when I was four years old and I went with my

mother to call on this strange, crazy woman—if she were crazy! I never

knew. I never dared speak to father about it. He never knew that we

went, I think. I had an idea that he wouldn’t have liked it, had he

known."

 

"And your mother?"

 

"She died—the same year, I think. We left San Francisco, father and I,

soon after, and we lived abroad for several years. I didn’t even

remember the scene until long afterward, when something brought it up.

Then it was like a dream or a vision."

 

"Do you know, Miss Payson, I feel that you have very strong mediumistic

powers; I can feel your magnetism. I think that you might develop

yourself so as to be able to use your psychic force."

 

She took it seriously.

 

"Yes, I think I do have a certain amount of capacity that way. I can

never depend upon it, though, but my intuitions are very strong and

occasionally rather strange things have happened to me."

 

It amused him to see how quickly she had fallen into the trap he had set

for her. Experience had taught him it was a common enough assertion for

women to make, and he was cynically incredulous. He was a little

disappointed, too; as, in his opinion, it discounted her intelligence.

Nevertheless, he found in it a way to manipulate her.

 

"Perhaps I might help you to develop it," he suggested, "although I’m

not much of a clairvoyant myself; I claim only to be a scientific

palmist."

 

"I think you are wonderful," Clytie asserted, giving him a glance of

frank admiration. "This test alone would prove it. You see, having

some slight power myself, I’m more ready to believe that others have

it."

 

He waived her compliment with apparent modesty.

 

"Women are more apt to be gifted that way—it isn’t often I attempt a

psychic reading. What is written in the palm I can read; as a physician

diagnoses a case from symptoms in the pulse and tongue and temperature,

so I read a person’s character from what I see in the hand. I have been

particularly interested in yours, Miss Payson, and perhaps I have been

able to give you more than usual. I hope I may have the opportunity of

seeing you again; I’m quite sure I can help you, or put you in the way

of assistance."

 

She arose and slowly drew on her gloves, her mind full of the

revelation. He watched every motion with delight. Her brief mood of

irradiation had given place to her customary languor, and her fragile

loveliness, emphasizing the opposite to every one of his virile, ardent

traits, allured him with the appeal of one extreme to another. Most of

all, her mouth, wayward with its ravishing smile, enchanted him. It was

controlled by no coquetry, he knew, and it moved him the more for that

reason. Yet she seemed loath to go and moved slowly about the room.

She stopped to point with a sweeping gesture at one side of the

velvet-hung wall.

 

"It’s rather too bad to hide the windows, isn’t it?"

 

He smiled at her divination, doubtful of its origin.

 

"You have a very good sense of direction, haven’t you?"

 

She appeared to notice his incredulity, but not to resent it.

 

"Indeed, I have very little," she said; then, giving him her hand with a

quick impulse of cordiality, she smiled, nodded and turned to the

anteroom.

 

He glanced at the table, saw her ring, and made a motion toward it.

Then it occurred to him that it might be used as an excuse for seeing

her again and he followed her out.

 

In the reception-room, Fancy was yawning; seeing them, she brought her

hand quickly to her mouth and raised her eyebrows at Granthope. He made

no sign in reply. Clytie walked up to her impulsively and held out her

hand.

 

"I do hope I’ll see you again, sometime," she said.

 

Fancy laughed. "I do, too. You’re the only one who’s ever really

appreciated me. You make me almost wish I was a lady." By her tone,

there was some old wound that bled.

 

"You’re that, and better, I’m sure," Clytie answered softly; "you’re

yourself!"

 

She turned to leave. Granthope, who had watched the two women, amused,

opened the door for her, received her long, steady glance, her quiet,

low "Good morning," and bowed her out.

 

As soon as she had fairly left, he turned quickly to Fancy. "Where’s

Philip?"

 

"In the back room, I suppose." Fancy looked surprised.

 

"Go and get him, please; tell him to find out where this girl lives, and

all he can about her."

 

"Say, Frank—" Fancy began, rising.

 

"Hurry, please! I don’t want him to miss her. She’s a good thing!"

 

"She’s _too_ good, Frank, that’s just it!"

 

"That’s why I want her. I don’t catch one like that every day. Why,

she’s worth all the rest put together." He looked impatiently at her.

 

Fancy shrugged her shoulders and sailed airily out of the room.

 

Granthope stood for some time, his hands thrust into the pockets of his

velvet coat, gazing abstractedly at the red wall of his reception-room.

Then he took up the telephone and called for Madam Spoll’s number.