The Heart Line 30

The Heart Line 30

"Sully" Maxwell, arrayed in a magnificently embroidered Chinese

officer’s summer uniform—a long, flounced robe, with the imperial

dragons and their balls of fire, the rainbow border and the all-over

cloud-pattern—was helping the men to dress, chaffing each of them in

turn. He was middle-aged and prosperous-looking, typically a "man’s

man" and "hail-fellow-well-met," despite his immense fortune. He

greeted Granthope cordially, without hint of patronage, and introduced

him to the others.

 

Of two, Keith and Fernigan, Granthope had heard much. They were the

pets of a certain smartish social circle, in virtue of their cleverness

and wit. They were of the kind who habitually do "stunts" and were

always expected to make the company merry and informal. Keith was a

tall, wiry, flap-eared, smiling fellow, made up as a Chinese

stage-comedian, with his nose painted white. Fernigan, short, stout to

rotundity, almost bald, with spectacles, and a round, Irish face, was

dressed in woman’s costume, head-dress, earrings, green coat and pink

silk trousers. He was naturally droll, a wag at all times, and his

whimsical way constantly approached a shocking limit but never quite

reached it. He was speaking a good parody of the Cantonese dialect to

his partner, and making eccentric gestures.

 

Both he and Keith greeted Granthope with mock gravity, addressing him in

pidgin English. Granthope answered with what spirit he had, and, taking

his place at the mirror, placed upon his nose an enormous pair of

blue-glass spectacles, horn-rimmed. They disguised him effectually.

 

As he left the room, a man with a pointed, reddish beard entered,

dressed in long flowing robes of plum-colored silk.

 

Granthope caught the greeting: "Hello, Blan!" and turned with curiosity

to see the Mr. Cayley of whom he had heard so much. He did not,

however, wait to be introduced, but passed on.

 

The great reception-room down-stairs presented one of the most

beautiful, as well as one of the most original, of San Francisco

interiors. It was entirely of redwood, panels six feet in width all

round the walls extending up to a narrow shelf supported by carved

brackets. The low-studded ceiling was broken by a row of finely adzed

beams, carved tastefully at the ends. A feature of the reception-room

was a wide fireplace of terra cotta surmounted by a mantel, consisting

of at least a dozen combined moldings, each member of which showed a

striking individuality of detail. The place was illuminated by side

brackets in the form of copper sconces. Granthope entered, quite at his

ease, with a long, swinging, heel-and-toe stride that comported well

with his costume.

 

There were already some half-dozen persons sitting about the room, most

of whom seemed afraid to talk for fear of disclosing their identity, or

perhaps, a little too self-conscious in their garish raiment. The

silence, if it had not been painful, would have been absurd. Granthope

looked in vain for any sign of his hostess’ presence, and then

suspecting that she, too, was masked to enjoy the piquancy of the

situation, he saluted one of the ladies, sat down beside her and began a

conversation. Knowing that few were acquainted with him he had no need

to disguise his voice. He sat on a straight chair stiffly, as he had

seen Chinese actors pose at the theater, his toes turned out in opposite

directions so as to insure the proper fall of the skirt of his robe, and

disclose, through a narrow gap, the splendor of his lavender trousers.

His partner answered him in whispers.

 

As he sat talking nonsense gaily, a woman came into the room with so

perfect an imitation of the "tottering lily" walk affected by high-caste

Chinese women, that he turned his eyes upon her in delight at her

acting.

 

She was of a good height; and her white embroidered shoes, whose heels

were placed in the center of the sole, gave her nearly two inches more.

Her costume was a rainbow of subdued contrasting colors. It was evident

at a glance that every garment she wore was old, valuable and consistent

with her character of bride.

 

The smoothly coiled rolls of her black wig were decorated by numerous

gold ornaments and artificial flowers. Across her forehead was a

head-dress of gold filigree-work and kingfisher feathers; its ribbon was

tied in the back of her head and fell in fanciful ends. She wore two

coats—the outer was of yellow brocaded silk, a pastel shade, trimmed

with a wide stripe of close blue embroidery and rows of looking-glass

buttons—the inner one, shorter, was of blue and black appliquéd work in

bold, virile pattern. Below this showed her closely-pleated skirt of

old rose with a panel of gold embroidery in the center; this, as she

walked, revealed occasional glimpses of a pair of full straight green

trousers trimmed with horizontal stripes, and a flash of white silk

stockings. Necklaces she had in profusion, one of jade, one of purple

mother-of-pearl, one of white coral, one of sandalwood; and others in

graded sizes and colors. In her right hand she carried a narrow

gold-paper fan; on her left wrist was a jade bracelet, and, pulled

through it, a green silk handkerchief with a purple fringe.

 

Her entry made a sensation, as she courtesied gravely to each one in

turn. So, playing her part cleverly, she came to Granthope, who arose

and greeted her with a dignified salaam. So far they were the only ones

who had at all entered into the spirit of the occasion, and he did his

best to meet her character and play up to her elaborate salutation. He

offered his arm, then, and escorted her, with considerable manner, to a

long settee.

 

In all this pantomime she had preserved a serious __EXPRESSION__, the

repressed, almost inanely impassive, set face of a Chinese lady of rank;

but when at last she was seated, she turned full upon him and smiled

under her mask.

 

The effect upon Granthope was a sudden thrill of overpowering delight.

He was deliciously weakened by the revelation. His breath came

suddenly, with a swift intake—the blood rioted through his veins.

 

She wore a much wider mask than the others, so that nothing but her

mouth and chin was shown. But that mouth was so tempting, with its

ravishing, floating smile, and that smile so concentrated in its

limitation to a single feature, that it turned his head. The lips were

narrow and bright; the blood seemed about to ooze through the skin. The

upper one was curved in a tantalizing bow between the drops of soft

shadow at the corners. The cleft above seemed to draw her lip a little

upward to disclose a line of small, perfect, regular teeth of a

delicate, bluish white translucence, which, parting, showed a narrow

rosy tongue. The lower lip was that delicious fraction of an inch

lesser than the upper one which, in profile, gave her a touch of

youthful, almost boyish, wistfulness. Her round, firm chin showed, from

the same point of view, a classic right angle to her throat, where the

line swept down the proud column of her neck, there to swing tenderly

outward toward her breast.

 

He could not take his eyes from her, but he had not the will to restrain

his staring. The spell was irresistible; he drank her deep and could

not get enough. For these whirling moments he was at the mercy of the

attraction of sex, impersonal, yet distilled to an intoxicating essence.

Had it not been for her mask hiding the upper part of her face, had her

eyes corrected this almost wanton loveliness with some reserve or with

the effect of a more intellectual character, had his glance even been

given a chance to wander over equally enchanting components of that

__EXPRESSION__, he undoubtedly would not have been so moved by the sight of

her laughing, tempting mouth. But that, faultlessly formed, exquisitely

sexed, whimsically provocative, had for him, with the rest of her face

hidden, an original and freshly flavored delight. In the spectrum of

her beauty the violets and blues of her spirit, the greens and orange of

her mind were for the nonce inhibited; only the vibrant red rays of her

physical personality smote him, burning him with their radiance. But

there was, he felt, no malice behind that smile, though it was

mischievous; there was nothing wanton there, though in this guise her

lips seemed abandoned and inviting. There was, in their flexed contour,

in the engaging mobility of their poise, no consciousness of anything

sensually appealing. It was, rather, as if he gained some secret aspect

of the woman beneath and behind all conventions of morality, of modesty,

and of discretion. So far, indeed, she seemed, in a way, without a

personality. She was Woman smiling at him. The vision was too much for

him.

 

She bent toward him and her lips whispered:

 

"How do you do, Mr. Granthope? Why are you staring so? I thought of

course you knew me—but I really believe you don’t."

 

Even then he did not recognize her, and was profoundly embarrassed.

That he should fail to remember such a mouth as that! He took her hand

which had been concealed in her long sleeve and looked at it. She had

glued long false nails of celluloid to her little fingers, completing

the picture of a Chinese lady of quality. At the first sight of her

palm, at the first touch of it, even, he knew her, and, with a rush, a

dozen thoughts bewildered him. This was she whom he had been able so to

influence, to cajole. He had, in a way, a claim to this comeliness.

She had favored him, had confessed her interest in him. They were,

besides, bound by a secret tie. He might hope for more of her, perhaps.

She was already somewhat in his power; he had, at least, the capacity to

sway her. She, alluring, delightful, might perhaps be gained, and in

some way, won. She had known him at a glance—there was her prescience

again! She had welcomed him, in assurance of her favor. What then was

possible? What dared he not hope for? A great wave of desire overcame

him.

 

Meanwhile he answered, distracted and unready:

 

"You knew me then? I thought I was pretty well disguised."

 

"Oh, you’ve forgotten how hard it is to deceive me. I should never try

it, if I were you. Of course I knew you! I should know you if you had

covered your head in a sack."

 

He stammered, and he was not often confused enough to stammer. "I don’t

know how to tell you how beautiful you are, Miss Payson."

 

She spoke low and slowly, with a wayward inflection, "Oh, I’m so sorry."

Then she added, "I scarcely dared speak to you, you are so magnificent."

 

"I would need to be, to be worthy of sitting beside you," he replied,

his wits floating, unmanageable.

 

"Did you get my note?"

 

"Yes, I want to thank you for it."

 

"I hope you’ve forgiven me."

 

"Of course, I was only flattered by your frankness."

 

"It’s so easy to be frank with you," she said. "You see, I’m perfectly

myself with you, even _en masque_. I doubt if any of my friends would

know me as I am with you."

 

"But I’ve seen a new ’you’ that I haven’t known before."

 

"Then she owes her existence to your presence. But how am I different?

Tell me."

 

"You take my breath away. You say such charming things to me that it

deprives me of the power of answering you—anything I could say seems

ineffective and cheap. You get ahead of me so. Really, you’ll have to

be positively rude to me before I can summon presence of mind enough to

say anything gallant."Again her lips curved daintily. Her voice was dulcet: