The Heart Line 19
He had "discovered" women as well—women, for the most part, whose
attractions few other persons seemed to appreciate. His last find was
Clytie Payson—a much more valuable tribute to his taste than any
heretofore. He had devoted himself assiduously to her, and it was his
boast that he could remember the hat she wore when he first saw her, ten
years before. His pursuit of her had been eccentric. Cayley was
mathematical and his methods were built upon a system. During the first
years of their acquaintance he alternated months of neglect with
picturesque arrivals on nights so tempestuous and foul that his presence
would be sure to be counted as a flattering tribute, and would outweigh,
with his obvious devotion, the previous languor of his pursuit. This
was a fair sample of the subtlety of his psychological amours, for
Blanchard Cayley was not of the temperament to run across the room and
kiss a girl with verve and ardor. He led, however, an intense mental
life; there he was a creature of enthusiasms and contempts, capable of
no intermediate emotion.
What else was true of his character it would be necessary to determine
from the several ladies of his choice whom he kept carefully apart,
recipients of his subdivided confidence. Blanchard Cayley did not
introduce female contemporaries.
He wore a carefully trimmed, reddish, Vandyke beard, with a drooping
mustache; his hair curled a bit effeminately. Large blue eyes, the
well-developed nose of the hobbyist, hands of a sixteenth-century
gentleman, aristocratic, well-kept, soft. To-night he was in
half-dress—dinner jacket and gold studs, an inch wide stripe upon his
trousers—this under a yellow mackintosh and cricket cap, in strict
accordance with his own ideas of form.
Mr. Payson was in the library still busy with his manuscript when he
entered. The two shook hands. Blanchard’s manner had in it something of
a survival of the old school. He was never awkward, yet never
bombastic. Suave, rather, with a semi-humorous touch that relieved his
courtesy of anything solemn. He smiled, showing his teeth, saying, with
an appearance of great interest,
"Well, Mr. Payson, I see you’re still at it. How’s _The Open Door in
the Orient_?"
"Oh, getting on," said Mr. Payson. "I want to read you my last chapter
when I get a chance. I think you’ll like it."
Cayley had been successful in appearing to listen, and at the same time
pay his respects to Clytie, whose hand he did not let go without a
personal pressure in addition to the visible greeting. He kept it an
unpleasant half-second longer than had Granthope. She freed herself with
a slight gesture of discomfort. "Perhaps I’d better go up-stairs and
leave you men alone to talk it over," she suggested.
"Certainly not," said her father. "I’ll wait until some other time,
only I thought Blanchard would be interested."
"Indeed, I am," Cayley protested. "I’m very anxious to hear your
opinion about gold, too. I have something to suggest, myself. Oh!" He
delved into his breast pocket. "Here are some notes on the history of
the trade dollar, Mr. Payson. You know I was speaking of it. I’ve been
looking up the subject at the mint and at the library for you; I think
it might give you some ideas."
Mr. Payson took the paper eagerly and pushed up his spectacles to
examine it. "Thank you; thank you very much. I’ll be glad to look it
over. It’s a pleasure to find any one nowadays who’s so interested in
what is going to be a very vital question. You’ll find my cigars here,
somewhere. Cly, you go and find the box, won’t you?"
As Clytie disappeared in the direction of the dining-room, he added,
"You must humor her, Blanchard, she’s a bit skittish. Don’t force her
hand and I think you’ll bring her around."
"Thanks for the tip, but I have my idea," was the reply. "It’s only a
question of time when I shall be able to produce the psychological
condition I want."
Mr. Payson shook his head dubiously. "I don’t know. That isn’t the way
we went about it when I was young. We didn’t bother much with
psychology then. We had emotions to attend to."
"Oh, love-making is just as much a science as anything else, and there
is no reason why it shouldn’t progress. There are modern methods, you
know; it’s only a form of hypnotism." He smiled blandly.
When he and Clytie were alone—a situation she seemed to delay as much as
possible—Cayley sat down opposite her with an ingratiating, disarming
smile. He was neither eager nor impressive. He was sure of himself. It
did not, as he had said, seem to matter a great deal about her emotions;
he scarcely considered her otherwise than as a mind whose defenses he
was to overthrow in an intellectual contest. He began with elaborate
circumlocution.
"Well, I’ve discovered something."
Her delicate eyebrows rose.
"It is a curious botanical fact that there are four thousand lamp-posts
in the city of San Francisco."
"Why botanical?"
"That is just what I expected you to ask."
"Then I’ll not ask it." She was already on the defense.
"But you did!"
"Well?" She appeared to resent his tone.
"Now, see here!" He laid his right forefinger to his left palm.
"Suppose a Martian were visiting the earth. He wouldn’t at first be
able to distinguish the properties of things. So, seeing these four
thousand lamp-posts, he might consider them as a part of the Terrene
flora—queer trees."
It was like a game of chess, and it was evident that she could not
foresee his next move. The detour was too complicated. She seemed, by
her attitude, to be on her guard, but allowed him, with a nod of assent,
to proceed.
"Now, suppose you have the Martian, or let us call it the uncorrelative
point of view. Suppose you use brain-cells that have hitherto been
quiescent or undeveloped."
"I don’t exactly follow." Her attention wandered.
He probed it. "Suppose I should get up and kiss you."
She awoke suddenly.
"You see what I mean now?" he continued. "You exploded a new cell then.
You gained a new point of view with regard to me. Don’t be afraid. I’m
not going to kiss you."
"Indeed, you’re not!" Her alarm subsided; her resentment, rising to an
equal level, was drawn off in a smile at the absurdity of the
discussion.
He went on: "But you must acknowledge that I have, at least, produced a
psychological condition. I’m going to use that new cell again." He
waited for her answer.
"Dear me!" she exclaimed at last. "We’re getting very far away from the
lamp-posts. I’m quite in the dark."
He proceeded: "My character is lighted by four thousand lamp-posts
also."
"Ah, I see! You want me to regard them as botanical facts. I, as a
supposititious Martian, with this wonderful new cell, am to perceive in
you something that is not true?"
"No, for in Mars, the lamp-posts, we will suppose, _are_ vegetables—not
mechanical objects."
"A little more light from the lamp-posts, please."
"They are emotions, alive and growing. They have heat as well as light,
in spite of their subtleties. I want you to perceive the fact that my
methodical nature shows that I have a determined, potent stimulus—that I
have energy—that I am in earnest."
She seemed to sniff the danger now and stood at gaze. He went on:
"I shall keep at the attempt until you do look at me in this way—till
I’ve educated these dormant cells."
"If you are leading up to another proposal," Clytie said, "I must say I
admire your devotion to method, but it is time thrown away."
He took this calmly enough. He took everything calmly; but he did not
abate his persistence. "I’m not leading up to a proposal so much as I
am to an acceptance."
Clytie shrugged her shoulders. "You’ll be telling me you’re in love
with me next."
"Do you doubt it?"
"A half-dozen proposals have not convinced me."
"Seven," he corrected. "This is the eighth."
"How long do you intend to keep it up?"
"Until I produce in your mind a psychological condition which will
convince you that I’m in earnest, that I am sincere, that I am the man
for you. Then I shall produce an emotional reflex—it’s sure to follow.
It may come to-night and it may come next year. Sooner or later
circumstances will bring about this crystallization. Some shock may
help; it may be a simple growth. I am sure to win you in the long run.
I’m bound to have you, and I will, if I have to make a hundred attempts.
You can’t dismiss me, for I’m an old friend and you need me. I have
educated you, I have broadened your horizon. You see, I am playing with my cards on the table."
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기