The Heart Line 15

The Heart Line 15

She turned to a bunch of flowers, and, taking them up, smelled them

thoughtfully, for a while. Mr. Payson settled back in his seat.

 

As the medium commenced again, Granthope arose with his faint, cynical

smile and walked quietly out. He found Mr. Spoll at the table by the

door.

 

"Well, I guess he’s on the hook." The palmist buttoned his cape and

lighted a cigarette.

 

"Trust Gertie for that," said Spoll; "she’ll land him all right, see if

she don’t. Good night!"

 

Granthope turned up his collar and walked out into the street.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER IV*

 

*THE PAYSONS*

 

 

Mr. Oliver Payson lived on a half-deserted street on the northerly slope

of Russian Hill, in a quarter of the town which, at one time, promised

to become a favored, if not an aristocratic residential district. But

the whim of fashion had fancied in succession Stockton Street, Rincon

Hill, Van Ness Avenue, Nob Hill, and had now settled upon the Western

Addition and the Presidio Heights. The old North Beach, with its

wonderful water and mountain view, nearer the harbor and nearer the

business part of the city, had long been neglected. The few old

families, who in early days settled on this site, still remained; and,

with the opening of new cable-car lines, found themselves, not only

within a short distance of down-town, but at the same time almost as

isolated as if they had dwelt in the country, for this part of the city

is upon none of the main routes—few frequent the locality except upon

some special errand.

 

One side of the street was still unbuilt upon; on the southern side

stood three houses, each upon its fifty-vara lot, comfortably filling

the short block. That occupied by the Paysons was an old frame

structure of two stories, without attempt at ornamentation, except for

its quaint, Tudoresque pointed windows and a machicolated wooden

battlement round the flat roof. It stood on a gentle slope, surrounded

by an old-fashioned garden, which was hedged in, on either side, by rows

of cypress and eucalyptus trees, protecting it from the trade winds,

which here blow unhampered across the water.

 

In front, a scene ever-changing in color as the atmospheric conditions

changed, was ranged in a semi-circular pageant, the wild panorama of San

Francisco Bay, from Point Bonita and Golden Gate in the west, past the

Marin County shore with Sausalito twinkling under the long, beautiful

profile of Mount Tamalpais, past Belvedere with its white villas,

Alcatraz and Goat Island floating in the harbor, to the foot-hills

behind Oakland and Berkeley, where, in the east, Mount Diablo’s pointed

peak shimmered in the blue distance.

 

In the second story of this house Clytie had a bookbinding room, where

she spent most of her spare time. It was large, bare, sunny,

impregnated with the odor of leather skins, clean and orderly. A sewing

frame and a heavy press stood behind her bench and upon a table were

neatly arranged the pages of a book upon which she was working.

Carefully placed in workmanlike precision were her knives, shears, glue

pot and gas heater and a case of stamping irons in pigeonholes.

 

She was, this afternoon, in a brown gingham pinafore, with her sleeves

rolled up, seated before the table, her sensitive hands moving deftly at

the most delicate operation connected with her craft. Upon a square of

heavy plate glass, she laid a torn, ragged page, and, from several old

fly leaves, selected one that matched it in color. She cut a piece of

paper slightly larger than the missing portion, skived the edges, and

pasted it over the hole or along the frayed margin. The work was

absorbing and exacting to her eyes; to rest them, she went, from time to

time, to the window and looked out upon the bay.

 

The water was gray-green streaked with a deeper blue. In the "north

harbor" two barks lay at anchor in the stream and ferry-boats plied the

fairway. In and out of the Gate there passed, at intervals, tugs with

sailing ships bound out with lumber or in with nitrates, steamers to

coast ports, or liners from overseas, rusty, weather-beaten tramps,

strings of heavy-going barges, lusty little tugs, lumber schooners

wallowing through the tide rip, Italian fishing smacks, lateen-rigged

with russet sails, saucy launches, and, at last, the magnificent bulk of

a white battleship sliding imperiously into the roadstead along the

waterfront.

 

At four o’clock Clytie’s mind seemed to wander from her occupation, and

now, when she ceased and looked out of the window, her abstracted gaze

was evidently not directed at what she saw. Her mental vision, rather,

seemed alert. Her slender golden eyebrows drew closer together, her

narrow, sharp nostrils dilated; her lips, half open, inhaled deep,

unconscious breaths. The pupils of her eyes contracted like a cat’s in

the light. Then she shook herself, passed her hand over her forehead,

shrugged her shoulders and resumed her work.

 

A little later this performance was repeated; this time, after her

momentary preoccupation, she rose more briskly, put her tools away, laid

her book carefully aside and took off her pinafore. After washing her

hands she went into her own room on the same floor. She went

down-stairs ten minutes after, in a fresh frock, her hair nicely

arranged, radiating a faint perfume of violet water. She opened the

front door and walked slowly down the path to the gate where the wall,

though but waist-high on the garden side, stood high above the sidewalk.

Here she waited, touching the balustrade delicately with her

outstretched fingers, as if playing upon a piano. The breeze loosened

the severity of her coiffure, which relaxed into slight touches of

curling frivolity about her ears and neck. Her pink frock billowed out

into flowing, statuesque folds as she stood, like a figurehead, gazing

off at the mountains. Her mouth was set into a shape not quite a smile,

a queer, tremulously subtle __EXPRESSION__ of suspense. She kept her eyes

in the direction of Hyde Street.

 

It was not long before a man turned the corner and walked briskly toward

her. He looked up at the first house on the block, searching for the

number; then, as his eyes traveled along to the next gate, he caught

sight of her. Instantly his soft felt hat swung off with a quick

flourish and he sent her a pleased smile.

 

"Here I am, Mr. Granthope!" Clytie called down to him, and on the

instant her face was suffused with pink. She had evidently expected

him, but now she appeared as agitated as if his coming had surprised

her.

 

He ran up the flight of wooden steps, his eyes holding hers all the way.

His dark, handsome face glowed; he abounded with life and spirit as he

stood before her, hand outstretched. In the other, he held a small

leather-bound book.

 

"Good afternoon, Miss Payson!" he said heartily. He shook hands eagerly,

his touch, even in that conventional greeting, consciously managed; the

grasp was sensitive and he delayed its withdrawal a suggestive second,

his dark eyes already at work upon hers. "How lucky I was to catch you

out here!" he added, as he dropped her hand.

 

"Oh, I’ve been expecting you for some time," Clytie replied, retreating

imperceptibly, as from an emotional attack, and turning away her eyes.

 

He noticed her susceptibility, and modified his manner slightly.

 

"Why! You couldn’t possibly have known I was coming?"

 

"But I did! Does that surprise you? I told you I had intuitions, you

know. You came to bring my ring, didn’t you?"

 

"Yes, of course. You really have second-sight, then?" He looked at her

as one might look at a fairy, in amusement mingled with admiration.

 

"Yes—haven’t _you_?" She put it to him soberly.

 

"Haven’t I already proved it?" His eyes, well-schooled, kept to hers

boldly, seeking for the first sign of her incredulity. Into his manner

he had tried to infuse a temperamental sympathy, establishing a personal

relation.

 

She did not answer for a moment, gazing at him disconcertingly; then her

eyes wandered, as she remarked: "You certainly proved something, I don’t

quite know what."

 

He laughed it off, saying: "Well, I’ve proved at least that I wanted to

see you again, and made the most of this excuse."

 

"Yes, I’m glad I forgot the ring. I’m really very glad to see you,

too—I half hoped I might. Won’t you come up to my summer-house? It’s

not so windy there, and we can talk better."

 

He accepted, pleased at the invitation and the implied promise it held,

and followed her up the path and off toward the line of trees. The

place was now visited by belated sunshine which compensated for the

sharp afternoon breeze. In the shelter of the cypress hedge the air was

warm and fragrant. Here was an arbor built of withe crockery crates

overgrown with climbing nasturtiums; it contained a seat looking

eastward, towards Telegraph Hill. In front stood a sun-dial mounted on

a terra cotta column, beneath a clump of small Lombardy poplars.

 

As she seated herself she pointed to it. "Did you know that this is a

sort of cemetery? That sun-dial is really a gravestone. When I was a

little girl I buried my doll underneath it. She had broken open,

letting the sawdust all out, and I thought she must be dead. It may be

there now, for all I know; I never dug her up."

 

He looked over at the shaft, saying, "A very pretty piece of symbolism.

I suppose I have buried illusions, myself, somewhere."

 

She thought it over for a moment, and apparently was pleased. "I’d like

to dig some of them up," she said at last, turning to him, with the slow

movement of her head that was characteristic of her.

 

"Haven’t you enough left?"

 

She started to reply, but evidently decided not to say what she had

intended, and let it drop there, her thought passing in a puzzling smile

as she looked away again.

 

He had laid his book beside him upon the bench, and, when her eyes came

back, she took it up and looked at it. A glance inside showed it to be

an old edition of Montaigne. She smiled, her eyes drifted to him with a

hint of approval for his taste, then she turned her interest to the

binding. As she fingered the leather, touching the tooled surfaces

sensitively, her curiosity did not escape his sharp eyes, watching for anything that should be revelatory.