The Heart Line 37

The Heart Line 37

She hooked the fact, noticing the tense, and let her line play out to

distract his attention temporarily.

 

"It don’t seem quite like your wife. Seems like it was another woman

who you was fond of. Maybe it was meant for the last name. Sometimes

my control does get things awfully mixed. Or, it might be a middle

initial. You wait a minute and maybe I’ll get it stronger."

 

"Oh, if it was the last name, I think I recognize it."

 

She had another line out and another bite, now, and played to land both,

coaxing the truth gently from him.

 

"Yes, it’s a last name, and she was terrible fond of you. She was in

love with you for some time, you understand? And there was some trouble

between you."

 

"There was, indeed!" Mr. Payson shook his head solemnly.

 

The hint now made sure of, she heightened it to make him forget that he

himself had given the clue.

 

"I get a feeling of worry, and what you might call a misunderstanding.

You didn’t quite get along with each other and it made a good deal of

trouble for you. You was what I might call put out, you understand?

She’s in the spirit now, ain’t she?"

 

"Yes; she died a good many years ago."

 

Madam Spoll returned to her first fish and began to reel in. "Your

wife’s passed out, too, and Luella tells me she’s here now. She says

Grace was worried, too. But she’s happy now and wants you to be. You

was a young man then, and yet you have never got over it. You wasn’t

rightly understood, was you?"

 

Mr. Payson shook his head again. He was listening attentively.

 

"But it wan’t your fault, do you understand? It was something that

couldn’t be helped. And sometimes when you think of this other lady you

say to yourself, ’If she only knew! If she only knew!’"

 

"Yes, I wish she did. It really wasn’t my fault."

 

Madam Spoll cast more bait into the pool.

 

"Now, would her given name be Mary, or something like that?"

 

"No—it was an uncommon name."

 

The medium persisted stubbornly.

 

"That’s queer. I get the name of Mary very plain."

 

"My mother’s name was Mary; perhaps you mean her?"

 

"It might be your mother, and yet it seems like it was a younger woman.

Now, this lady I spoke of had dark hair, didn’t she? or you might call

it medium—sort of half-way between light and dark."

 

"No; she had white hair."

 

Another fish was on the hook. Madam Spoll had got what she wanted.

This admission of Mr. Payson’s, coupled with the fact Granthope had

discovered, that Clytie had visited the crazy woman, identified the old

man’s first love, she thought, effectually. She kept this for

subsequent use, however. It would not do, as Vixley had said, to go too

fast.

 

"Then this Mary must be some one else," she said. "You may not recognize

her now, but you probably will. I can’t do your thinking for you, you

know. It may possibly be that you’ll meet her some day; at any rate, my

guides tell me you must be careful and don’t sign no papers for Mary. I

don’t know whether she’s in the spirit or not. You may understand it

and you may not. All I can do is to give you what I get."

 

Madam Spoll now became absorbed in a sort of reverie. When at last she

emerged it was with this:

 

"I see your mother and your wife now, and I get the words, ’It’s a pity

Oliver couldn’t marry her.’ I don’t know what they mean at all."

 

"I understand. I was intending to marry another woman, the one you

spoke of just now, but something prevented."

 

"That must be it. My guide tells me that something dreadful happened,

and it was what you might call hushed up and you separated from her."

 

"It was not my fault."

 

"I get a little child, too"—Mr. Payson grew still more absorbed. The

medium noticed his instant reaction in eyes, mouth and hands. On the

strength of that evidence, she took the risk of saying:

 

"The child was the lady’s with the white hair."

 

"What about it?" demanded Mr. Payson.

 

"I see the child standing by a lady who grew gray very young, you

understand. And now they’re both gone. Was you ever interested in

Sacramento or somewhere east of here?"

 

"Stockton?" he asked. "I lived there for a while."

 

"That’s it. I see a river, and steamboats coming in, and there’s the

child again."

 

"A boy or a girl?"

 

She hesitated for a moment to dart a glance at him as swift as an arrow.

Then she risked it. "A girl."

 

He drew a long breath. "I don’t quite understand."

 

"It certainly is a little girl, and she’s with the lady with the gray

hair. But wait a minute. Now I get a little boy, and he’s crying."

 

"Where is he?" came eagerly from Payson’s lips.

 

"He’s on this side. He’s alive. I’ll ask my guide." She plunged into

another stupor, then shook herself, rubbed her forehead, wrung her

hands.

 

"I can’t get it quite strong enough to-day, but I’ll find out later. He

seems to be mixed up with you, some way, not in what you might call

business, but more personally. You’re worried about him."

 

Mr. Payson, with a shrug of his shoulders, appeared to disclaim this.

 

"Yes, you are! You may not realize it, but you are. The time will come

when you understand what I mean. Now you’re too much interested in

other things. Your mind is way off—toward New York, like, or in that

direction."

 

He looked puzzled.

 

"Maybe it ain’t as far as New York, but it’s somewhere around there, and

I see books and printing presses. Do you have anything to do with

printing?"

 

This he also disclaimed.

 

"Funny!" she persisted. "I get you by a printing-press looking at a

book and then I see you at a table writing."

 

"I have done some writing, but it has never been printed."

 

"Well, it will be! My guide tells me that you have a great talent for

literary writing, and it could be developed to a great success.

 

"Now," she added, "you let me hold your hands a while till I get the

magnetism stronger. Just hold them firm—that’s right. Lord, you

needn’t squeeze them _quite_ so hard!" She beamed upon him with obvious

coquetry. "Now I’m going into a trance. I don’t know whether Luella

will come, or maybe little Eva. Eva’s the cunningest little tot and as

bright as a dollar. She’s awful cute. You mustn’t mind anything she

says or does, though. Sometimes, I admit, she mortifies me, when

sitters tell me what she’s been up to. I’ve known her to sit on men’s

laps and kiss ’em and hug ’em, like she was their own daughter, but

Lord, she don’t know any better. She’s innocent as a baby."

 

His face grew harder as she said this, but she proceeded, nevertheless,

with her experiment, closing her eyes and sitting for a while in

silence. Then her muscles twitched violently; she squirmed and wriggled

her shoulders. Finally she spoke, in a high, squeaky falsetto, a fair

ventriloquistic imitation of a child’s voice.

 

"Good afternoon, Mr. Payson, I’m little Eva! I brought you some

flowers, but you can’t see ’em, ’cause they’re spirit flowers. You

don’t look very well. Ain’t you feelin’ well to-day? I’m always well

here, and it’s lovely on this side."

 

He made no response. Madam Spoll’s soft hand, obviously controlled by

her spirit guide, moved up Mr. Payson’s arm and patted his cheek. He

drew back suddenly.

 

"My!" little Eva exclaimed. "You frightened me! What a funny man you

are! Won’t you just let me smoove your hair, once? I’d love to. Oh, I

think you’re horrid! I’m just doin’ to slap your face—there!" Which

she did quite briskly.

 

Mr. Payson loosened his hold with some annoyance.

 

"Well, I ain’t doin’ to stay if you don’t love me," the shrill voice

went on. "I don’t _like_ men who don’t love me. Good-by, old man, I’m

doin’."

 

There was another wriggle on the part of the medium, after which a

lower-toned voice said:

 

"How do you do! I’m Luella."

 

He watched the medium’s blank, __EXPRESSION__less face as she spoke.

 

"Say, you ain’t well, I can see that. Haven’t you got a pain in your

leg? Excuse me saying it, but I can feel it right there."

 

She touched him gently on the thigh.

 

"Oh, that’s only a touch of rheumatism," he replied.

 

"No, it ain’t," she said, "it’s more serious than that. It’s chronic,

and it’s growing worse. Sometimes it’s so painful that you almost die

of it, isn’t it? I know where you got it; it come of an accident. I

can see you in a big crowded house, like, and there’s railroad trains

coming and going, and you’re crowded and jammed. You got internal

injuries and a complication. You didn’t realize it at the time, but it’s

growing worse every day. If you don’t look out you’ll pass out through

it, but if you went right to work, you could be cured of it, before it gets too bad."