The Heart Line 18

The Heart Line 18

"Well, Cly, dreaming again?"

 

She started at the sound and came out of her reverie to rise and greet

him affectionately. He put down some books and a package of papers and

lighted the chandelier, exchanging commonplaces with her—of her

bookbinding work, which she confessed to have shirked; of the weather,

with a little of old age’s querulous complaint of rheumatic touches; of

the black cat, which was their domestic fetish and (an immortally

interesting topic to him) of the vileness and poisonous quality of San

Francisco illuminating gas. His voice flowed on mellifluously with

unctuous authority, as he seated himself in his arm-chair beneath the

lamp, shook out his evening paper and rattled its flapping sheets.

 

Clytie evinced a mild interest in his remarks, smiled gently at his

familiar vagaries, answering when replies should be forthcoming, in her

low, even, monotonously pitched tones. She questioned him perfunctorily

about the book he was writing, an absorbing avocation with him, warding

off his usual disappointment at her lack of sympathy by involving

herself in a conversational web of explanation regarding Foreign Trade

Expansion, Reciprocal Profits and The Open Door in the Orient.

 

"There’s not much use working on it at the office," he concluded. "I’m

too liable to interruptions."

 

"Who interrupted you to-day?" she asked.

 

"Oh, there was a queer chap in this afternoon, an insurance solicitor;

Wooley, his name was. I told him I didn’t want an accident policy, but

I happened to tell him about that time on the Oakland Mole, when I got

caught between two trains in the Fourth of July crush—you remember? and

he told me about all the narrow escapes he ever heard of, trying to get

me to go into his company. Funny dog he was. He kept me laughing and

talking with him for an hour. Then Blanchard came in. He says he’s

coming around to-night." He hesitated and scanned her intently through

his gold-bowed glasses, under his bushy brows. "I hope you will treat

him well, Cly."

 

Her face grew serious and her sensitive lips quivered, as she said:

 

"Why do you like Mr. Cayley so much, father?"

 

"Why, he’s a very intelligent fellow, Cly; I don’t know of another young

man of his age who is really worth talking to. He knows things. He has

a broad outlook and a serious mind. He’s the kind of young man we need

to take hold of political and commercial reform. I tell you, the

country is going to the dogs for lack of men who are interested in

anything outside of their own petty concerns. Why, he’s the only one I

know who really seems interested in oriental trade and all its

development means to the Pacific slope. That’s remarkable, considering

he isn’t himself connected with any commercial enterprise. I don’t know

what I’d do if I didn’t have him to discuss my subject with. He seems

to be genuinely interested in it. I wish you were as much so, Cly!"

 

Clytie turned away, smiling somewhat ironically, an uncommon __EXPRESSION__

for her engaging features.

 

"You know," she said slowly, "that I don’t quite trust him."

 

"Why, you two have been friends long enough, you should know him better

by this time. You’re intimate enough with him."

 

"Oh, it’s only a feeling I have. You know I have my intuitions—but what

friendship there is has been of his seeking."

 

"He’s all right, Cly," her father said dictatorially. "I haven’t lived

in the West for fifty years without knowing something of men. I do want

you to learn to appreciate him. He’s got a future before him and he is

certainly fond of you. You know, if anything did come of it, I would—"

 

Clytie arose abruptly. "I think dinner’s almost ready, father, and I’m

hungry. Are you ready?"

 

She was imperious, holding her tawny head erect, her chin high, her

hands clasped behind her back, the willowy suppleness of her body now

grown rigid. Mr. Payson sighed resignedly, and allowed a moment’s

silence to speak for him; then, finding that his daughter’s attitude

continued to dominate the situation, he, too, arose, patted her cheek

and shook his head. This pantomime coaxed forth a gracious smile from

her. He took his manuscripts and left to go up to his room. Clytie

remained at the window till he returned.

 

They had nearly finished their dinner, when, after a casual dialogue,

she remarked, without looking at him:

 

"Father, do you remember anything about an old crazy woman who lived

down south of Market Street somewhere, years ago—in a cheap hotel, I

think it was?"

 

He started at her question and his voice, ordinarily so calm and so

mellow, quavered slightly.

 

"What do you mean? Who was she?" he asked earnestly.

 

"That’s what I want to know," Clytie said, stirring her coffee.

 

"What do you know about her?"

 

"Why—I went to see her once."

 

"_You_ went to see her? When?"

 

"Then you _did_ know her!"

 

Mr. Payson spoke cautiously, watching his daughter. "I have heard about

her, yes, but I never knew you had been there. How in the world did

that happen? It must have been a long time ago." He stared as if he

could scarcely believe her assertion.

 

"Mother took me there once or twice. It’s almost the first thing I

remember."

 

"She did? She never told me! It’s strange you have never mentioned it

before."

 

"Perhaps I oughtn’t to mention it now. I thought, somehow, that she

wouldn’t want me to tell you about it."

 

His tone now was disturbed, anxious, pitched in a higher key.

 

"Why shouldn’t you speak of it? What difference could it possibly make?

I remember that woman, yes. She was not old, though. Do you recall her

well? You were very young then."

 

"I can almost see her now. She had white hair and black eyebrows, with

a vertical line between them; she was pale, but with bright red lips.

She wore a strange red gown. I think she must have been very beautiful

at one time. Who was she, father?" Clytie sent a calm, level glance at

him.

 

"Oh, she was a friend of your mother’s. Your mother and I used to keep

track of her and help her, that’s all."

 

"Was she poor, then?"

 

"No, she wasn’t. That was the queer part of it. She had considerable

ability and actually carried on a real estate business, though she was

pretty mad. She had lucid intervals, though, when she was as reasonable

as any one."

 

"What became of her?"

 

"She died, I think, of heart disease. It must have been the same year

your mother died, if I remember rightly."

 

"What was her name?"

 

Mr. Payson grew more nervous at this questioning, but he replied, "They

called her Madam Grant, I believe. How did you happen to bring up the

subject after all these years, Cly?"

 

It was her turn to be embarrassed. "Well—I’ve recalled that scene

occasionally, and wondered about it—it has always been a mystery I

couldn’t explain, and I never dared talk about it. Of course, it’s only

one of those vivid early pictures of childhood, but it has always seemed

very romantic."

 

"It was a strange situation," Mr. Payson replied. "She was a very

unfortunate woman and I was sorry for her. I never would have permitted

you to go, if I had known, of course, but perhaps your mother knew

best." He dropped his chin upon his hand. "Yes, I’m glad you went,

now. What impression did she make on you?"

 

"I only remember thinking how beautiful she must have been."

 

"Yes," Mr. Payson’s voice was almost inaudible. He pushed his chair

back, rose and went into the library. Clytie followed him.

 

"Are you going out to-night, father?"

 

"Yes, I’ve got some business to attend to."

 

"In the evening?" she raised her brows.

 

"Oh, I’m only looking up something—for my book." He turned away to

avoid her gaze.

 

"Oh!" She sat down and took up a book without questioning him further.

Soon after, the front doorbell rang and Mr. Cayley was shown in by the

Chinese servant.

 

Blanchard Cayley was well known about town, for he had a place in many

different coteries. By his birth he inherited a position in a select

Southern set that had long monopolized social standing and looked

scornfully down upon the upstart railroad aristocracy and that _nouveau

riche_ element which was prominent chiefly through the notoriety

conferred by the newspapers. Blanchard Cayley’s parts gained him the

entrée, besides, to less conventional circles, where his wit and

affability made him a favorite. He belonged to two of the best clubs,

but his inclinations led him to dine usually at French or Italian

restaurants, where good-fellowship and ability distinguished the

company. He wrote a little and knew the best newspaper men and all the

minor poets in town. He drew a little, and was familiar with all the

artists. He accounted himself a musical critic and cultivated

composers. He knew San Francisco like a rat, knew it as he knew the

intricacies of French forms of verse, as well as he knew the

architecture of music and the history of painting. He had long ceased

his nocturnal meanderings "down the line" from the Hoffman Bar to Dunn’s

saloon, but he occasionally took a post-graduate course, of sorts, to

see whether, for the nonce, the city was wide open or shut. He had

discovered the Latin Quarter, now well established as a show-place for

jaded pleasure-seekers, and had played _bocce_ with the Italians in the

cellars of saloons, before the game was heard of by Americans. He had

found the marionette theater in its first week, traced every one of

Stevenson’s haunts before the Tusitala had died in Samoa, knew the

writings of "Phoenix" almost by heart, and had devoured half the

Mercantile Library. Tar Flat and the Barbary Coast he knew as well as

the Mission and North Beach, and as for Chinatown, he had ransacked it

for queer jars, jade and hand-made jewelry, exhausting its possibilities long before San Franciscans had realized the presence, in that quarter, of anything but an ill-smelling purlieu of tourists’ bazaars.