The Heart Line 34

The Heart Line 34

As she sat there, with relaxed grace that was almost languor, she made

the other women in the room look either negligently lolling or awkwardly

conscious. He noticed how some of them showed the fabled western

influence of environment by the frank abandon of their pose, how others

held themselves rigidly, as if aware of their own lack, and sought, by

stern attention, to conceal it. Clytie’s head was poised proudly, her

hands fell from her slender wrists like drooping flowers. Her whole body

was faultlessly composed, unified with harmonious lines, as if a

masterly portrait were gently roused into life.

 

Fernigan now began, upon request, a Chinese parody, accompanied by

absurd pantomime. Granthope could not bear it, and, seeing Clytie still

busy with her admirers, slipped out of the room and went up to the

library.

 

Mr. Maxwell’s books were rare and carefully selected, a treat for such

an amateur as Granthope. He went from case to case fingering the

volumes, opening and glancing through one after another. The pursuit

kept him longer than he had intended.

 

There was a smaller room off the library, used as a study and shut off

by a portière. Granthope, standing near the entrance, suddenly heard

the sound of swishing skirts and footsteps, then the subdued, modulated

voices of two women. With no intention at first of eavesdropping, he

kept on with his perusal of the book in his hand. The first part of the

conversation he remembered rather than listened to, but it soon

attracted his alert attention.

 

"I think it’s a rather extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maxwell’s asking him,

though, don’t you?" one of the ladies said.

 

The reply was in a gentle and more sympathetic voice: "Oh, she wanted an

attraction, I suppose, and he’s really very good-looking, you know."

 

"He’s handsome enough, but he’s too much like a matinee hero for me; my

dear, he’s absolutely impossible, really! He’s not the sort of person

one cares to meet more than once. He’s beyond the pale.

 

"It’s rather cruel to invite him just to show him off, I think. In a

way, he had to accept."

 

"Oh, I expect he’s only too glad to come."

 

"I wonder how he feels! Do you suppose he has any idea that he’s out of

his element? It must be strange to be willing to accept an invitation

when you know you are, after all, only a sort of freak."

 

"Don’t worry. A charlatan has to have a pretty thick skin—no doubt

he’ll make use of all of us, and brag about his acquaintance. That’s

his business, you know; he has to advertise himself."

 

"I know; but every man has his own sense of dignity, and it must be

somewhat mortifying—no self-respecting coal-heaver would accept such an

invitation—his pride would keep him from it.

 

"I don’t see how a man like that can have much pride. A coal-heaver

has, after all, a dignified way of earning his living. This man hasn’t.

His trade can’t permit him to be self-respecting. It’s more undignified

than any honest labor would be. Why, he lives by trickery and flattery,

and now he’s beginning to toady, too. Just look at the way he is after

Clytie Payson, already."

 

"Yes, I can’t see why she permits it, but she seems to be positively

fascinated by him. Isn’t it strange how a fine girl like that is

usually the most easily deceived? Did you see the way she was looking

at him at supper? That told the story. Of course, you’d expect it of

Mrs. Page, but not of Cly."

 

"Don’t you believe it! Cly’s no fool—she sees through him. He’s

interesting, you can’t deny that; and you know that a clever man can get

about anything he wants in this town. There are too few of them to go

round, and so they’re all spoiled. But Cly’s only playing him."

 

"You don’t think she’s deliberately fooling him, do you?"

 

"Nonsense! I know Cly as well as you do. She would always play fair

enough, of course, but that doesn’t prevent her wanting to study a new

specimen, especially one as attractive as Granthope. But it won’t last

long. Cly’s too honest. It’s likely that he’ll go too far and take

advantage of her—then she’ll call him down and dismiss him."

 

"Do you think he imagines that he could really—" began the other.

 

"Oh, _he’s_ no fool either! He knows perfectly well where he belongs,

but he’s working his chances while they last."

 

Granthope had been deliberately listening and, as the last words came to

his ears, his emotion burst into flame. This, then, was how he was

regarded by the new circle into which he had been admitted. He was a

curiosity, handsome, but beyond the pale—even Clytie, it was probable,

was willing to amuse herself with him. The illumination it gave him as

to his status was vivid, its radiance scorched him.

 

He had never caught this point of view before. He had been too

interested in his emergence from obscurity, he had even congratulated

himself upon his increasing success. Now he saw that the further he

went on that road the further away from Clytie he would be—he saw the

chasm that separated them. His undignified profession appeared to him

for the first time in its true aspect. The humiliation and

mortification of that revelation was sickening. He had not believed

that it was possible for him to suffer over anything so keenly. The

insults he had received, produced, after a poignant moment of despair,

an energetic reaction. His fighting instinct was awakened. He had

achieved a certain control of himself, he had a social poise and

assurance that kindled his mind at the prospect of an encounter.

 

He drew aside the portière and walked boldly into the little room.

 

Two ladies were sitting there, picturesque in their costumes. Their

rainbow-hued garments showed a bizarre blotch of color in the quiet

monochrome of the place. Their faces were whitened with powder, their

eyebrows blackened to the willow-curve, their lips lined with red—they

looked, in the half-light, like fantastic, exotic Pierrettes. As they

caught sight of him they started up with surprise, almost with fear.

Granthope bowed with a quiet smile, perfectly master of himself.

 

"I want to apologize for having overheard your conversation," he said.

"I must confess that I was eavesdropping. My business is, you know, to

read character for others, and I don’t often have a chance to hear my

own so well described. I’m much obliged to you, I’m sure."

 

He had the whip-hand now. There was nothing for them to say; they said

nothing, staring at him, their lips parted.

 

He walked through to the door of the hall and there paused like an actor

making his exit from the stage. A cynical smile still floated on his

lips. He had never looked more handsome, with his black hair, his

clean-cut head, and his fine, deep eyes that looked them over calmly,

without haste. His costume became him and he wore it well. Now, as he

raised his hand, the long sleeve of his olive green coat fell a little

away from his fingers. Below, his lavender trousers gleamed softly. It

was a queer draping for his serious pose. It was a strangely figured

pair that he addressed as they sat, embarrassed, immovable in their

splendid silken garments.

 

He added more gently, with no trace of sarcasm in his smooth voice: "I

would like to tell you, if it is any satisfaction for you to know, that

your operation has been successful. It was rather painful, without the

anesthetic of kindness, but I shall recover. I think I may even be

better for it, perhaps restored to health—who knows!" Then his smile

became enigmatic; he left them and went down the stairs.

 

He made his way to Clytie with a new assurance; inexplicably to him,

some innate power, long in reserve, had risen to meet the emergency. He

was exhilarated, as with a victory. She looked up at him puzzled.

 

"I wonder if you know what has happened this time?" he said.

 

"Oh, if I only did! Something has—you have changed, somehow."

 

"Is it an improvement?"

 

"You know, it is my theory that you’re going to—" She gave up her

explanation—her lips quivered. "Well, yes! You have been embarrassed?"

 

"I suppose it was good for my vanity."

 

"Then you have heard something unpleasant."

 

"The truth often is."

 

"Was it true?"

 

He laughed it off. "It was nothing I mightn’t have known."

 

"Then it is for you to make it false, isn’t it?"

 

"If I can."

 

"I think there is nothing you couldn’t do if you tried."

 

"There is nothing I couldn’t do if I had your help," he answered.

 

For answer, she took the little gold heart-shaped bottle from its

mesh-work and handed it to him.

 

"You must learn—but perhaps this may help you. Will you keep it?"

 

He took it and thanked her with his eyes. Then, their dialogue being

interrupted, he moved off. He wandered about, speaking to one and

another for a few moments, gradually drifting toward the hall.

 

As he stood just outside the reception-room he glanced up the broad

stairs carelessly, thinking of the two ladies to whom he had spoken. He

smiled to himself, wondering if they had yet come down. While he was

watching, he saw a woman at the top of the stairs, looking over the

rail. A second glance showed her to be a servant. She descended

slowly, and, in a moment, beckoned stealthily. He paid no attention.

 

She came nearer, and, finally, seeing no one with him, called out to him

in a whisper. It was Lucie, Mrs. Maxwell’s maid. The moment Granthope

recognized her, he walked into the parlors again, as if he had not

noticed her.

 

Soon after that he paid his farewell amenities to his hostess and went

up to where he had left his hat and coat. Lucie was in the upper hall waiting for him.