The Heart Line 16

The Heart Line 16

She explained: "I have a technical interest in bindings. I do some of

that work myself. It’s curious that I happened to be at work to-day on

an old copy of Montaigne. I’m rebinding it for my father’s birthday.

You’d never think my hands were of any practical use, would you?"

 

He laughed. "Inconsistencies like that are what baffles one most,

especially when one knows that most characters are inconsistent. But we

professionals have to go by general rules. I should expect you to be an

exception to all of them, though."

 

He watched her surreptitiously, noting her diminishing color, the

evasion of her glance, and the air of self-consciousness with which she

spoke, as they talked for a while of obvious things—the weather, the

view, and the picturesque, old-fashioned garden. She had taken the ring

and had put it upon her finger, keeping her eyes on its turquoises. Her

whole demeanor ministered to his vanity, already pleased by her frank

welcome. He was used enough to women’s interest and admiration for him

to expect it and play upon it, but this was of a shyer and more elusive

sort; it seemed to hold something more seriously considered, it baffled

him, even as he enjoyed its unction. Besides all this, too, there was a

secret romantic charm in the fact that they had shared together that

vivid experience of the past. He came back for another draught of

flattery.

 

"It was odd that you expected me, wasn’t it?" he said. "I can’t help

wondering about it."

 

She had her eyes upon the Sausalito boat, which was weaving a trailing

web of foam past Alcatraz Island. At his words, she turned to him with

the same slow seriousness as before and replied:

 

"I shouldn’t think it would seem so remarkable to you, your own power is

so much more wonderful."

 

"Perhaps so in that one case, but you know I don’t, ordinarily, claim

clairvoyance. It’s only occasionally, as the other day with you, that I

attempt it."

 

Her eyes awakened; she said earnestly, "Was I really able to bring that

out in you?"

 

He caught at the hint. "Why, what else could it be but your magnetism?

It was the more strange because I had never seen you before."

 

The glow faded, and she relaxed her nervous energy. "Ah, hadn’t you? I

wonder!"

 

"Why, had you ever seen me before that day?"

 

"I think so. At least you seem, somehow, familiar."

 

"When was it, and where, then?"

 

She seemed too puzzled to answer, or fatigued with following an

intangible thread of thought. As she spoke, slowly, intensely, her

hands made large, vague gestures, often pausing in mid air, as her voice

paused, waiting for the proper word to come. "I don’t know. It only

seems as if I had been with you—or near you, or something—I don’t know

what. It’s like a dream—or a story I can’t quite recall, only—" she did

not finish the sentence.

 

He wondered what her game could be. Fundamentally cynical, though he

never permitted it to show in his manner, he distrusted her claims to

prevision. There was, after all, nothing in Miss Payson’s words that

might not be accounted for by what he knew of the wiles of feminine

psychology. His training had taught him how much a baseless hint,

injected at the proper moment, could accomplish in the masquerade of

emotions and the crafty warfare of the sexes. That he and she had been

actors together in a past uncomprehended scene, he regarded as a mere

coincidence of which he had already made good use; he refused to connect

it with her suggestive remark, for he was sure that she must have been

unaware of his presence in Madam Grant’s room that day, so long ago. It

seemed to him more likely that, woman-fashion, she had shot into the air

and had brought down an unsuspected quarry. And yet, even as a

coincidence, he could not quite dismiss the strangeness of it from his

mind.

 

He was preparing to turn it to a sentimental advantage, when Clytie, who

had relapsed into silence, suddenly aroused herself with one of those

impulsive outbursts which were characteristic of her.

 

"There is something about it all that is stranger still, I think!"

 

Her golden brows had drawn together, separated by two vertical lines, as

she gazed at him. Then with a little jet of fervor, she added:

 

"I’m afraid I know too much about you, Mr. Granthope! It’s somewhat

embarrassing, really. It doesn’t seem quite fair, you know."

 

"I’m not quite sure that I understand."

 

"Oh, you know! You must know!"

 

He laughed. "Really, Miss Payson, it’s very flattering, of course—"

 

"Oh, no, it’s not in the least flattering."

 

"I wish you’d explain, then." He leaned back, folded his arms and

waited indulgently. So long as he could keep the conversation personal,

he was sure of being able to manage her, and further his own ends. It

amused him.

 

She busied herself with a lace handkerchief as she continued, in a low

voice, as if she were ridding herself of a disagreeable task, and always

with the slow, monotonous turning of her questing eyes toward him, and

away. "Of course I’ve heard many things about you—you’re a good deal

talked about, you know; but it’s not that at all—it’s an instinctive

knowledge I have about you. I can’t explain it. It’s a queer special

feeling—almost as if, in some way, I had the right to know. That’s why

I wanted to see you again—I hoped you’d come. I wanted to tell you."

 

"But all that certainly is flattering," he said. "I wouldn’t be human

if I weren’t pleased to hear that you’re interested, even if—"

 

She could not help breaking into smiles again, as she interrupted him.

 

"Oh, but I haven’t told you yet."

 

"Please do, then!"

 

"It sounds so foolish when I say it—so priggish! But it’s this: I don’t

at all approve of you. Why in the world should I care? I don’t know.

It isn’t my business to reform you, if you need it." Now she had

brought it out, she could not look at him.

 

Curiously enough, though he had been amused at her assumption of a

circumstantial knowledge of him, this hinted comprehension of his

character, of the duplicity of his life, if it were that, impressed him

with the existence in her mind of some quality as rare and mysterious as

electricity, a real psychic gift, perhaps. It gave him an instant’s

pause. Instinctively he feared a more definite arraignment. He began a

little more seriously, now, to match his cleverness against her

intuition; and, for the first defense, he employed a move of masculine

coquetry.

 

"You have been thinking of me, then?"

 

"Yes," she replied simply, "I have thought about you a good deal since I

was in your studio. But I suppose you’re used to hearing things like

that from women." She was apologetic, rather than sarcastic.

 

He shrugged his shoulders. He seemed to be able to make no way against

her directness. "I’ve thought not a little of you, too, Miss Payson.

You are wonderfully psychic and sensitive. I think you should develop

your power—you might be able to do extraordinary things with it. I wish

you’d let me help you. That is," he added humorously, "if I’m not too

far gone in your disapproval."

 

"Oh, the disapproval—I call it that for want of a better word—isn’t so

important as the fact that I should feel it at all, don’t you see? You

remember that you told me I was the kind of a woman who, if she liked a

man, would tell him so, freely. That is true. I would scorn to stoop

to the immemorial feminine tricks. I do like you, and in spite of what

I can’t quite explain, too. I don’t know why, either. It seems as if

it’s a part of that other feeling I’ve mentioned—that I’ve been with

you, or near you, before."

 

He leaned forward to extort more of this delicious confession from her.

"Do you mean spiritually, or merely physically near?"

 

"Oh, I don’t mean an ’elective affinity’ or anything so occult as that,"

she laughed. "Indeed, I don’t quite know what I do mean—it’s all so

vague. I can’t formulate it. It escapes me when I try. But I did

know, for instance, quite definitely, that I’d see you again. I tell

you about it only because I think that you, with your power in that way,

may be able to understand it and explain it to me."

 

He thought he saw his chance, now, and instinctively he began to pose,

letting his eyes deepen and burn on her. He nodded his head and said

impressively:

 

"Yes. I have felt it, too, Miss Payson. It’s wonderful to think that

you should have recognized me and understood me so well. No one ever

has before. We are related by some tie—I’m sure we’ve met before,

somewhere, somehow—"

 

She jumped up and stood before him, her hands tightly held, her lips

pressed together. For a moment, so, she looked hard at him; then what

there had been of anger in her gaze softened to something like sadness

or pity.

 

"_That’s_ what I meant!"

 

He misunderstood her remark and her attitude and went still farther

astray from her meaning.

 

"You are not like any other woman I have ever known," he said, in the

same soulful way.

 

"Why can’t you be honest with me!" she broke out. She was astonishingly

alive now; there was no trace of her former languor. He winced at

realizing, suddenly, and too late, that he had made a false step.

 

"Why do you make me regret having been frank?" she went on, with a

despairing throb in her voice. "You have almost succeeded in making me

ashamed of myself, already. _That_ is just what I disapprove of in you.

Don’t imagine that you can ever deceive me with such sentimentality. I

shall always know when you’re straightforward and simple. That’s what

I’ve been trying to make you understand—that I _do_ know!"

 

She turned slowly away from him, almost hopelessly. For a moment she

remained immobile, then before he had recovered his wits, she had

modified the situation for him. Her eyes drifted back to his as she remarked thoughtfully: