The Heart Line 29

The Heart Line 29

"That’s a good idea. I’ll do it. D’you know what year it was?"

 

"1877."

 

"How d’you know?"

 

He walked away from her carelessly, replying: "That’s the idea I got of

it. About that time."

 

"Frank," she said, "ain’t you ever got any clue to who you are, yet?

Never got any hint at all?"

 

"Never."

 

"Why don’t you go to some real sure-enough psychic? They might help.

I’ve known ’em to do wonderful things."

 

Granthope gazed at her and laughed loud. "_You?_" was all he could say.

 

She drew herself up. "Yes, _me_! Sure. Why, you don’t think I

consider they ain’t no genuine ones, even if I do fake a little, do

you?"

 

"You actually believe there’s a medium alive that can tell such things?"

 

"I’m positive of it. Why, when I begun, I give some remarkable tests

myself. I used to get names, sometimes. But there _are_ straight ones.

Not here, maybe, but in New York. You could send a lock of your hair."

 

He went up to her and clapped his hand on her shoulder, still laughing.

"You’re beautiful, my dear; you’re positively beautiful!"

 

She turned a surprised face to him. "What in the world d’you mean?"

 

He shook his head and walked away. "Preserve your illusions! It’s too

wonderful. I’ll be believing in palmistry, next I’ll believe myself in

love, after that. And then—I’ll believe I’m honest, dignified,

honorable, modest!" His tone grew, word by word, more hard and cynical.

Then he turned to her with a whimsical __EXPRESSION__: "So you believe your

doll’s alive!"

 

"I’ve no time to talk nonsense any longer!" she exclaimed, rising

ponderously. "I can’t make you out at all, Frank. Sometimes you’re

practical as insurance and sometimes you’re half bug-house. Maybe it’s

them clothes!" She regarded him carefully.

 

He bowed to her with mock courtesy, spreading his fan.

 

"Lord, you _do_ look like a fool in that Chink’s rig. Have a good time

with ’em—but keep your eyes and your ears open!"

 

She went out.

 

He was about to turn out the electric lights and leave, when he heard a

knock at the door. He opened it, and saw the little freckled-face girl

who had come to his office the day he had first met Clytie Payson. He

recognized her instantly, but she, seeing him so extraordinarily

disguised, drew back in surprise.

 

"Did you want Mr. Granthope?" he asked.

 

"Yes!" She finally made him out, but still gazed at him, somewhat

frightened. Her face was bloodless.

 

"Come in," he said kindly. "I’m Granthope. You’ll have to excuse this

costume." He set a chair for her, but she stood, timidly regarding him.

 

"I’m awfully afraid I’m bothering you, Mr. Granthope, coming so late—I

know I ought to have come in your office hours, but I couldn’t possibly

get off—and I did want to see you awfully! D’you suppose you could help

me a little, now? I thought you might be able to, you said such

wonderful things when I was here before, and I just can’t stand it not

to know, and I don’t know what to do."

 

"Do sit down. Tell me what’s the matter, my dear."

 

She crept into a chair, and sat with nervous hands, staring at him.

 

"Why, don’t you remember?" She gazed at him in alarm. "Oh, I’ve

depended so on what you said—it’s all that kept me going!"

 

"Just pardon me a moment, please." He went to his desk drawer and began

to fumble over his card catalogue. "I have a memorandum to make. Then

I’ll talk to you." He came to the card, and made a penciled note and

glanced it over. Then he returned to her and sat down. "Now tell me

all about it," he said gravely. "I remember perfectly, of course. Bill

was in the Philippines, wasn’t he? You hadn’t heard from him for some

time, and you were expecting him home on the next transport?"

 

She sat, limply huddled in her chair, gazing at him through her sad

eyes.

 

"He did come back. I couldn’t meet the boat. I missed him. And now

he’s gone!"

 

"He didn’t let you know where he went?"

 

"Oh, Mr. Granthope, it’s too awful! I can’t bear it, but I could stand

anything if I could only find him! You _must_ find him for me."

 

"I’ll do what I can, my dear. Your hand shows that it will all come out

for the best. I wouldn’t worry."

 

"Oh, but you don’t know! You don’t know how bad it is!" she moaned. "I

thought you might know. He was wounded in a battle."

 

"But he came back?"

 

"Yes." Then she burst into a hurried torrent of words. "He didn’t want

me to know. He was shot in the face—his nose was shot off—it’s

awful—some of the men told me about it. Bill was ashamed to have me see

him—he tried to make me think he wasn’t in love with me any more, so I’d

go away. But I knew better. Bill’s so proud, Mr. Granthope, you don’t

know how proud he is! He’d rather leave me than make me suffer. But

what do I care for his nose being gone? Why, Bill’s a hero! He had

more nerve than Hobson, anyway! Just because he was the only man in his

company that dared to go through a swamp, under fire, to save his

lieutenant—and he brought him in on his back, Bill did! Why, Bill’s

father was killed at Antietam, but Bill’s luck was a heap worse than

that! He has to live without a face and be despised and sneered at

because he did his duty! Oh, if I can only find him, I’ll give him

something that will make him forget. Don’t I love him all the more for

it? He’s tried to sacrifice his whole life and happiness only for

me—just to save me from suffering when I look at him. D’you know many

men who’d do that for a girl? I don’t!"

 

She broke down and sobbed convulsively. The story seemed to Granthope

like a scene from a play, and his inability to comfort her smote him

while she fought to restrain her tears.

 

"And you can’t find out where he is?"

 

"No. The company was mustered out, and Bill just naturally disappeared.

Nobody knows where he is. I’ve asked all his officers, and all the men I

could find."

 

He took her hand and looked at it soberly for a moment.

 

"It will all come out right, my dear. You trust me. There’s your line

of fate as clean as a string. I see trouble in it, but only for a

little while. You’ll be married, too. You must have patience and wait,

that’s all. Suppose you come back and see me in a week or so, and tell

me if you’ve heard any news of him. Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can find

out myself. There’s a cross in your hand—that’s a good sign. Bill

still loves you, and he won’t let you suffer long."

 

He felt the pitiful emptiness of his words, but he had been too affected

by her narrative to give her the smooth banalities that were always

ready to his tongue. She got up and looked at him through her tears.

 

"You have helped me, Mr. Granthope. Somehow I knew you could. I’ll be

in again sometime. How much is it, please?"

 

"My dear girl, when you come again, you can thank the young lady whom

you saw here before. Don’t thank me."

 

She looked at him silently, then she took his hand and shook it very

hard. "You mean that lady with red hair who sits at the desk?"

 

"Yes."

 

"I liked her when I saw her. She was nice to me. Is—is she Mrs.

Granthope?"

 

Granthope shook his head and smiled.

 

The girl blushed at her indiscretion. "I kind of thought—she seemed to

be, well, fond of you. I mean, the way she looked at you, I didn’t know

but what you were married. I hope you’ll excuse me." She was visibly

confused, and evidently had said much more than she had intended.

 

"My dear," Granthope replied, "she’s far too good for me!"

 

The girl shook her head slowly, as she rose to go. A smile struggled to

her face as if, for the first time, she noted the incongruity of the

palmist’s costume, then, with a grateful look she went out.

 

As soon as he had left, Granthope sat down at the desk and wrote a note

upon a memorandum pad. It read:

 

 

Fancy—

 

To-morrow morning please go down to the ticket office at the Ferry, and

see if you can find out where a soldier, with his nose shot off, bought

a ticket to, about ten days ago.

 

 

He rose, yawned, stared thoughtfully at the cast; for a few moments,

then snapped his fingers and walked to the window. His cab was waiting.

He went down-stairs, got into the vehicle and drove off.

 

 

The Maxwells lived at Presidio Heights, in one of the newer residences

of the aristocratic Western Addition, a handsome brick house decorated

with Romanesque fantasies in terra cotta, behind a bronze rail guarded

by heraldic griffins. Granthope walked up under the lantern-hung awning

five minutes before the hour and was shown to a room up-stairs.

 

Here there were several men waiting and adjusting their garments. All

but one were in Chinese costume; this was a fat, red-faced man, with a

white mustache. He was in evening dress, and kept exclaiming:

 

"I won’t make a damned fool of myself for anybody. It’s all nonsense!"e was obviously embarrassed at being the only nonconformist.