The Heart Line 17

The Heart Line 17

"I am sure, too, that you could help me, if you would."

 

"How?" He tried to pull himself together.

 

"Merely by being honest with me."

 

He raised his eyebrows.

 

"Oh, I know that’s a good deal to ask," she laughed.

 

"Of me?"

 

"Of any one."

 

"I’ll try, Miss Payson," he said, not too seriously. "But you’ve

frightened me. I don’t dare think too hard about anything, you’re such

a witch."

 

She released him graciously and keyed down to an easier tone.

 

"You must forgive me if I’ve been too frank, Mr. Granthope, but this

interview is almost like a first meeting, and you know how much one is

apt to say in such a situation. Let’s not continue the discussion—I’m

embarrassed enough already. I know I shall regret what I’ve said.

We’ll talk of something pleasanter. Tell me about that pretty girl in

your office."

 

"Oh!" he exclaimed, and his tone was as if he had said, "Aha!" He

wondered if it were possible that, after all, it was only this which had

moved her to speak.

 

Clytie frowned, but if she read his thought, she let it go unchallenged.

 

"She’s an original little thing; I like her," she added.

 

"You do?" he said mischievously exaggerating his surprise.

 

"Yes, I do. Don’t think I’m trying to patronize her, but she’s a

dear—and she’s very pretty."

 

"Do you think so? I shall have to tell her that. She’s pretty enough,

at least, to have been on the stage. She was in vaudeville for a couple

of years. I first got acquainted with her at the Orpheum. I’ve known

her a long time. She’s a great help and a great comfort to me, and a

very clever girl."

 

"How long has she been your assistant?"

 

"Two years."

 

"And you haven’t fallen in love with her yet?"

 

Granthope was relieved. He was sure now that she was, if not jealous,

suspicious of his relations with Fancy. It was not the first time he

had encountered such insinuations.

 

"Oh, not in the least," he said. "I can give you my word as to that. I

don’t think it ever occurred to me—though I’d do anything in the world

for her."

 

"And I suppose you’re as sure of her immunity?"

 

"Why, of course," said Granthope, and in his tone there was the ring of

masculine assurance.

 

Clytie smiled and shook her head. "There are some things men never can

know, no matter how clairvoyant they are," she said, looking away.

 

He did not follow this up, but arose to leave. "I’m afraid you have a

very poor opinion of me, Miss Payson," he said, "but I do feel

complimented by your frankness. Perhaps I shall merit it—who knows?"

It was his turn to address the distance, and, in spite of his

consciousness of an histrionic effect, his own words sounded curiously

in his ears; they seemed premonitory. He shook himself free from her

influence again. She had controlled the situation from the first word;

he had only made a series of mistakes. It all confirmed his first

estimate of her: that she was very well worth his while, but that her

capture would be difficult.

 

Clytie, too, had arisen. Her mood had lightened, and her sense of humor

had returned. "I hope I haven’t been either tragic or absurd," she

said, smiling. "I’m not always so serious, Mr. Granthope. The next

time I meet you I’ll probably be more conventional."

 

"Then I may see you again?"

 

"I doubt if you can help it."

 

"I shall certainly not try to!" Then he paused. "You mean—?"

 

"Yes!"

 

There was something delightful to him in this rapid transfer of wordless

thought. It again established an intimacy between them. That she

acknowledged such a relation by anticipating another meeting, an

inevitable one, charmed him the more. He might win, after all, with

such assistance from her. Her power of intuition aroused his

curiosity—he longed to experiment with it. She was a new plaything

which he had yet to learn to handle. Before, he had dominated her

easily enough; he might do so again.

 

"Miss Payson," he said, "won’t you come down to my studio again

sometime? I’d like to make a more careful examination of your hand, and

perhaps I can help you in developing your psychic sense."

 

"Oh, no, thank you. Really, I can’t come again—I shall be pretty busy

for a while—I have to go to the Mercantile Library every afternoon,

looking up material for my father’s book—and, after all, I got what I

wanted."

 

"What did you want?"

 

"Partly to see you."

 

He bowed. "Curiosity?"

 

"Let’s call it interest."

 

"You had no faith, then, in my palmistry?"

 

"Very little."

 

"Yet you acknowledge that I told you some things that were true?"

 

"Haven’t I told you several things about yourself, too?"

 

"I’d like to hear more."

 

"Oh, I’ve said too much, already."

 

"Let’s see. That I am more or less of a villain—"

 

"But a most interesting one!"

 

"That I have met you before—"

 

"Not perhaps ’met’—"

 

"That Fancy Gray is in love with me—"

 

"Oh, I didn’t say that!"

 

"But you suspect it?"

 

"If I did, it was impertinent of me. It’s none of my business."

 

"Well, you won’t come again—you’ve quite satisfied your curiosity by

seeing me?"

 

"Quite. I’ve confirmed all my suspicions."

 

"What were they?"

 

Clytie laughed. "Really, you’re pushing me a little too hard, Mr.

Granthope. I’d be glad to have you call here, sometime, if you care to.

But my psychic powers are quite keen enough already. They rather

frighten me. I want them only explained. As I say, it’s embarrassing,

sometimes. I hate to speak of what I feel—it’s all so groundless and it

sounds silly."

 

"You know more, then, than you mention?"

 

"Oh, much!"

 

"About me, for instance?"

 

"Yes. But it’s vague and indefinite. It needn’t worry you."

 

"Even though you disapprove?"

 

She laughed again. "You may take that as a compliment, if you like."

 

He nodded. "It is something that you care."

 

"I’m mainly curious to see what you’ll do—"

 

"Oh, you’re expecting something, then?"

 

"I’m watching to see. I confess I shall watch you. I said that you

interested me—that’s what I mean. You’re going to—well, change."

 

As she stood between him and the light her soft hair showed as fine and

crisp as spun glass. Her lips were sensitively curved with a flitting

smile, her eyes were dreamy again. Everything about her bespoke a high

spiritual caste, but, to Granthope, this only accented the desirability

of her bodily self—it would make her the greater prize, unlike anything

he had, so far, been able to win. He had an epicure’s delight in

feminine beauty, and he knew how its flavor should be finely tinctured

by mind and soul; even beauty was not exciting without that, and of mere

beauty he had his fill. Besides, she had unexpected reserves of emotion

that he was continually tempted to arouse. But so far he had hopelessly

misplayed his part, and he longed to prove his customary skill with

women.

 

"Well," he said finally, offering his hand, "I hope I’ll be able to

satisfy you, sooner or later. I’ll come, soon, for a report!"

 

"Oh, my mood may have changed, by that time."

 

He gave her the farewell amenities and went down the path to the gate.

There he turned and saw her still watching him. He waved his hat and

went down the steps, his mind restless with thoughts of her.

 

Clytie remained a while in the arbor. The fog had begun to come in now

with a vanguard of light fleecy clouds riding high in the air, closing

the bay in from all sides. The massive bank behind followed slowly,

tinted with opal and rose from the setting sun. It settled down,

shutting out her sight of the water, and its cohorts were soon scurrying

past her on their charge overland from ocean to harbor. The siren at

Point Bonita sighed dismally across the channel. It soon grew too cold

to remain longer in the garden, and she went into the house shivering,

lighted an open fire in the library and sat down.

 

For half an hour she sat there in silence, inert, listless, lost in

thought, her eyes on the blurred landscape mystic with driving fog. The

room grew darker, illuminated only by the fitful flashes of the fire.

Her still, relaxed figure, fragile and delicate as an ivory carving, was

alternately captured and hidden by the shadow and rescued and restored

by the sudden gleam from the hearth. She had not moved when her father’s step was heard in the hall. He came in, benignly sedate. His deep voice vibrated through the room.