The Heart Line 32

The Heart Line 32

All trace of her annoyance had gone from her now, and that unnamable,

untamed spirit, usually dormant in her, had retaken possession of her

body. She was more jubilantly alive than he had thought it possible for

her to be. He dared not attribute her animation to his presence,

however, gladly as he would have welcomed that compliment. It was the

spell of masquerade, no doubt, that had liberated an unusual mood,

emboldening her to show those nimble flashes of gallantry. At any rate,

that revelation of her under-soul was a piquant subject for his mind to

think on; there was an evidence of temperament there which tinctured her

fragile beauty with an intoxicating suggestion. It was a sign of

unexpected depths in her, a promise of entrancing surprises.

 

For the first time in his life he lacked the audacity to woo a woman

boldly. There had never been enough at stake before to make him count

his chances. There had been everything to win, nothing to lose. Women

had solicited his favor, but there was something different in Clytie’s

approaches toward familiarity. She spoke as with a right-royal and

secure from suspicion, with a directness which of itself made it

impossible for him to take advantage of her complaisance. He was put,

in spite of himself, upon his honor to prove himself worthy of her

confidence. There was, besides, a social handicap for him in her

assured position—he could see what a place she held by the treatment she

received from every one—while he was in his novitiate at such a

gathering, newly called there, his standing still questionable. But,

most of all, to make their powers unequal, was his increasing fear of

her as an antagonist with whom he could not cope intellectually. He,

with all his clever trickery and his practical knowledge of psychology,

was like a savage with bow and arrow; she, with her marvelous intuition,

like a goddess with a bolt mysteriously and dangerously effective.

 

Already his instinct accepted this relation, but his brain was still

stubborn, seeking a refuge from the truth. He was to have, even as he

sat there with her, another manifestation.

 

Clytie sat at his left hand. Mrs. Page, at his right, had been assigned

to the bald, red-faced gentleman with white mustache, who had so

profanely refused to make a fool of himself by wearing a Chinese

costume. His sprightly, flamboyant partner was ill-pleased with her

lot. She proceeded to spread an airy conversational net for Granthope,

endeavoring to trap him into her dialogue, with such patent art that

every woman at the table noticed her tactics.

 

Granthope, however, shook her off with a smile and a joke, as if she

were an annoying, buzzing fly. Still she hummed about him, leaving her

partner to himself and his food. However clever and willing Granthope

might have been, ordinarily, at such an exchange of persiflage, it was

all he could do to parry her thrusts and at the same time keep up with

Clytie. But she, noticing Mrs. Page’s game, was mischievous enough, or,

perhaps, annoyed enough, to give the woman her chance and submit to a

trial of strength. So, as if to give Granthope the choice between them,

she turned to her left-hand neighbor, Fernigan, who, in his female

costume, had kept that end of the table, by his wit, from interfering

with her colloquy.

 

Granthope was in a quandary, fearing to be inextricably annexed. Mrs.

Page at this moment increased his dilemma by casting a languishing look

at him and pressing his foot with hers under the table.

 

All that was flirtatiously adventurous in him boiled up; for Mrs. Page

was, in her own way, a beauty, and, as he had reason to know, amiable.

 

He drew away his foot, however, and as he did so, gave a quick inward

glance at himself, wondering, and not a little amused, at the change

that had taken place in him. Novelty is, in such dalliance, a prime

factor of temptation—it was not a lack of novelty, however, which made

her touch unwelcome, for he was, in his relations with the woman, at

what would be usually a parlous stage. He had already been gently

reproved for his weakness—but it was not the smart of that disapproval

that withheld him. He had begun to fear Clytie’s vision—yet he was not

quite ready to admit her infallible. His self-denial, then, was

indicative of an emotional growth. He smiled to himself, a little proud

of the accompaniment of its tiny sacrifice.

 

Clytie, turning to him, rewarded him with a smile, and, leaning a

little, said under her breath:

 

"I’m so glad that you find me more worth your while."

 

He could but stare at her. Mrs. Page was quick enough to see, if not

hear, what had happened; she turned vivaciously to the gentleman in

evening dress.

 

Granthope exclaimed, "You knew that?"

 

"Ah, it is only with you that I can do it." She seemed to be more

confused at the incident than he. "I know so much more than I ever dare

speak of," she added.

 

This did not weaken her spell.

 

She continued: "Do you remember what you said, when you read my palm,

about my being willing to make an exaggerated confession of motives,

rather than seem to be hypocritical, or unable to see my own faults?"

 

He did not remember, but he dared not say so. He waited a fraction of a

second too long before he said:

 

"Certainly I remember."

 

She looked hard at him and mentally he cowered under her clear gaze.

Then her brows drew slightly together with a puzzled __EXPRESSION__, as if

she wondered why he should take the trouble to lie about so small a

matter. But this passed, and she did not arraign his sincerity.

 

"Well, what I want you to know now is that I don’t consider myself any

better—than she is. Do you know what I mean? I don’t condemn her. Oh,

dear, I’m so inarticulate! I hope you understand!"

 

"I think I do," he answered, but he could not help speculating as to the

definiteness of her perception. She answered his question unasked.

 

"I get things only vaguely—that’s one reason why I could not judge a

person upon the evidence of my intuition—I couldn’t tell you, for

instance, exactly what happened between you two just now. I know only

that I was disturbed, and that you, somehow, reassured me."

 

"But you were more precise about what happened up-stairs." He was still

at a loss to fix her limitations.

 

"Oh, there I pieced it out a little. Shall I confess? I knew you well

enough to fill in the picture. I know something of her, too."

 

"Witch!"

 

"You’re a wizard to make me confess!" she replied, brightly shining on

him. "I don’t often speak. It’s usually very disagreeable to know so

much of people—indeed, I often combat it and refuse to see. But with

you it’s different."

 

"It’s not disagreeable?"

 

"No, it is disagreeable usually. It makes me feel priggish to mention

it, too, but, with you, the impulse to speak is as strong as the

revelation itself; that’s the strangest part of it."

 

This confession gave him a new sense of power, for he saw that,

sensitive as was her intuition, he controlled and appropriated it. It

had already occurred to him what splendid use he might make of her,

compelling such assistance as she could render. Vistas of ambition had

opened to his fancy. For him, as a mere adventurer, her clairvoyance

might reinforce his scheming most successfully. With her he could play

his game as with a new queen on the chess-board. But he saw now how

absurd was the possibility of harnessing her to such projects. He was,

in fact, a little dazzled by the prospect she suggested. As he

corrected that mistake with a blush for his worldly innocence, he saw

what the game with her alone could be—his game transferred from the

plane of chicanery to the level of an intimate friendship—or even love.

He saw how she would play it, how she would hold his interest, keeping

him intellectually alive with the subtlety of her character.

 

So far he had not taken her seriously; he had reveled in the possibility

of a love affair, but he had not even contemplated the possibility of a

permanent alliance. As Madam Spoll had said, he had had his pick of

women—and each had ended by boring him. Granthope, besides, with all his

delight in strategy, was modest, and desire for social establishment had

not entered into his plans. He had accepted Clytie as one of a

different world, desirable and even tempting, but not at all as one who

would change either his theory or his mode of life. But now, with a

sudden turn, his thoughts turned to marriage with her. Madam Spoll’s

words leaped to his memory—she had said that it was possible. This idea

came as the final explosion of a long, tumescent agitation. He looked

at Clytie with new eyes. His ambition soared.

 

The meal went on in a succession of bizarre courses—seaweed soup,

shark’s fins, duck’s eggs, fried goose and roasted sucking pig, boiled

bamboo sprouts to bird’s nests and mysterious dishes—with rice gin and

citron wine. The company was rollicking now; even the gentleman in

black evening dress was laughing, and, goaded on by the irrepressible

Mrs. Page, had taken a large crown of gold paper, cut into rich patterns

and decorated with colored trimmings, from its place in the center of

the table and had set it upon his bald head. The walls of the

dining-room were covered with a row of paper costumes, elaborate robes

used by the Chinese tongs in their triennial festival of the dead. They

were of all colors, decorated with cut paper or painted in dragon

designs with rainbow borders and gold mons. Mrs. Page tore one from the

wainscot and wrapped it about her partner’s shoulders. Fernigan

gibbered a fantastic allegiance before him; Keith, he of the white nose,

called for a speech. Over all this mirth the clashing cymbals, the

rattling tom-toms and squeaking two-stringed fiddles kept up an uncouth

accompaniment. Granthope, so far, had been a quiet observer, but when

at Clytie’s request he removed his wig and false mustache, he was

recognized by Frankie Dean, who sat further up the table.

 

"Oh, Mr. Granthope," she cried out. "Won’t you please read my hand?"

 

Every one turned to him. Clytie watched him to see what he would do.

Mrs. Maxwell, at the head of the table, obviously annoyed at this

indelicacy, sought to rescue him.

 

"I promised Mr. Granthope that he wouldn’t be asked," she interposed,

smiling with difficulty.

 

"Office hours from ten till four," Fernigan announced. The guests

tittered.

 

Granthope arose calmly and walked up to the young lady’s side, taking

her hand. Then he turned to his sarcastic tormentor.

 

"This is one of the rewards of my profession," he said, smiling

graciously. "I assure you I don’t often get a chance to hold such a

beautiful hand as this."

 

Clytie got a glance across to him, and in it he read her approval. He

bent to the girl’s palm gravely:

 

"I see by your clothes-line," he said, "that you have much taste and

dress well. Your fish-line shows that you have extraordinary luck in

catching anything you want. There are many victories along your line of

march. There is a pronounced line of beauty here; in fact, all your

lines are cast in pleasant places. You will have a very good hand at

whatever game you play, and whoever is fortunate enough to marry you will surely take the palm."