The Heart Line 42

The Heart Line 42

"Yes, it was an extraordinary case." He wondered what was coming.

 

"I mean the story was absurd to hear, but I can’t help wondering what

sort of people they were who would deceive an old man like that. It

seems pitiful to me that any one could have the heart to do it—and for

money, too."

 

Granthope cursed his indiscretion. Must she find this out, too? Was no

part of his life, past or present, safe from her? If so, he might as

well give her up now. It seemed impossible to conceal anything from her

clear vision. But he still strove to put her off.

 

"Oh, these people were weak and ignorant—we haven’t all the same

advantages or the same sensitiveness to honor and truth. They were used

to this sort of thing, hardened to it, and perhaps unconscious of their

baseness by a constant association with such deceptions."

 

"But didn’t Mr. Bennett have any friends to warn him—to show these

people up in their true light?"

 

"Oh, that was no use. It was tried, yes; that is, he was shown his

carriage, for instance, after it was sold, but he refused to believe it

was the same one. He confessed that it was just like it, but he knew

that his was then on the planet Jupiter. I don’t think the mediums

themselves could have convinced him."

 

"Think of it! It makes their swindling even worse. If he had doubted,

if he had tried to trap them, it wouldn’t be quite so bad, it would have

been a battle of brains—but to impose on such credulity, to make a

living by it—oh, it’s unthinkable!"

 

"Well, after all, they made him happy. In a way, they were telling him

only pleasant lies, as a parent might tell a child about Santa Claus and

the fairies."

 

He could not keep it up much longer. It was too perilous; and he played

for her sympathy. "After all, I suppose my business is about as

undignified."

 

"But it’s really a science, isn’t it? Mr. Cayley gave me to understand

that you had a convincing theory to explain all personal physical

characteristics."

 

"There’s a little more to palmistry than that, I think—an instinctive

feeling for character."

 

"Of course. You must have felt my personality intuitively, or you would

never have been able to get it so well. But it was most extraordinary

of all, I think, the way you got my name. How do you account for that?"

 

He felt the net closing about him.

 

"Oh, I’m sometimes clairaudient."

 

She took it up with animation. "Are you? I must try to send you a

message!"

 

"Haven’t you?" he said, still attempting to keep the talk less serious.

"All day I have heard you saying, ’You must learn.’ But learn what?"

 

"It seems so queer to me that you shouldn’t know, yourself."

 

"Then tell me. Explain."

 

"No, you’ll find out, I think."

 

He waited a while, for a twinge of pain gave him all he could do to

control himself. Somehow it sobered him. "I wish I dared to be friends

with you."

 

She gave him her hand simply and he returned its cordial pressure. He

was sincere enough, now. He was not afraid of mere generalities.

 

"I’m not worthy of your friendship," he said. "I’d hate to have you

know how little I am worth it. If you knew how I have lived—what few

chances I have had to know any one really worth while. I’ve never yet

had a friend who was able to understand me."

 

"I have given you my hand," she replied, "and I shall not withdraw it.

It is my intuition, you see, and not my reason, that makes me trust

you."

 

They relapsed for a while into silence. Then, as the cab turned up into

Geary Street, past the electric lights, she went on as if she had been

thinking it out to herself.

 

"You know what I said the other day about its being easier to say real

things at the first meeting. I am afraid I said too much then. But I

was impatient. I felt that I might never see you again and I wanted to

give you the message. Now, when I feel sure that we’re going to be

friends, I am quite willing to wait and let it all come about naturally.

The only thing I demand is honesty."

 

"Is that all?" he asked, with a touch of sarcasm.

 

She laughed unaffectedly. "Are you finding it so hard?"

 

The cab drew up to the curb at the door of his rooms. Immediately she

became solicitous, helping him to alight. He used the broom for a

crutch, and, scratched and torn, his clothes still stained with clay,

she in her harlequin of dirt and rags, they presented an extraordinary

spectacle under the electric light, to a man on the sidewalk who was

approaching leisurely, swinging his stick. As they reached the entrance

he drew nearer, making as if to speak to them; instead, he lifted his

hat, stared at them and passed on. It was Blanchard Cayley.

 

Clytie’s face went red. Cayley turned for an instant to look at them

again and then proceeded on his way. Granthope did not notice him.

 

Clytie disregarded his protest, and, saying that she would see him

safely to his room, at least, accompanied him up-stairs.

 

As he fumbled for his key in his pocket, the office door was suddenly

opened and Fancy Gray appeared upon the threshold.

 

Her eyebrows went up and Granthope’s went down. Her eyes had flown past

him to stare at Clytie. The two women confronted each other for a tense

moment without a word.

 

Fancy had taken off her jacket; her hair was braided down her back. She

wore an embroidered linen blouse turned away at the neck, and pinned

over her heart was a little silver chatelaine watch with a blue dial. It

rose and fell as she drew breath suddenly.

 

"Mr. Granthope has met with an accident," Clytie announced, the first to

recover from the shock of surprise.

 

"I should say he had," was her comment, "and you, too?" Then she

laughed nervously. "It must have been a draw."

 

Clytie did not catch the allusion. "I happened to find him and brought

him back," she explained. "He had fallen down the cliff on Telegraph

Hill."

 

As Granthope limped in, Fancy put a few more wondering inquiries, which

he answered in monosyllables. Seeing Fancy so disconcerted, Clytie left

Granthope in a chair and turned directly to her with a conciliatory

gesture.

 

"We always seem to meet in queer circumstances, Miss Gray, don’t we?"

she said kindly. "It’s really most fortunate that you happened to be

here at work. I don’t quite know what I should have done, all alone, but

I’m sure you will do all that’s necessary for Mr. Granthope, better than

I. I must hurry home; father will be expecting me."

 

During this speech, Fancy’s eyes had filled, and now they shone soft

with gratitude.

 

"Oh," she said, "I can fix him up all right. It’s only a bad strain, I

guess."

 

Granthope watched the two women in silence.

 

"Well, then, I’ll go." Clytie walked to the mirror, smiled with Fancy

at the image she saw there, touched her hat and rubbed her face with her

handkerchief. Then she held out her hand with a charming simplicity.

 

"I do wish you’d come and see me sometime, Miss Gray!" she said.

 

Fancy choked down something in her throat before she replied.

 

"I will—sometime—sure. If you _really_ want to see me."

 

"Yes, I really do." Clytie smiled again. Then she went up to

Granthope. "Good night, Mr. Granthope, I’m sure I’m leaving you in kind

hands. I hope it won’t prove a serious injury. And—remember!" Then,

bowing to both, she left the room and went down to her cab.

 

Two vertical lines were furrowed in Granthope’s brow. He turned to

Fancy with a look that barely escaped being angry.

 

"God! I’m sorry you were here!"

 

"Yes? That’s easily remedied; you only have to say the word."

 

"Too late, now!" His tone was sad rather than cruel.

 

"I hardly expected you to bring home company—" she began.

 

"I’m sure it was as much a surprise to me—"

 

"I’m sorry, Frank, but I had to see you—Vixley was here after you left."

 

He groaned with the pain his ankle gave him and she flew to him and

knelt before his chair.

 

"Oh, Frank, I’m so sorry. What can I do for you? First, let me take off

your shoe and attend to your foot. I can run out and get something to

put on it. It was awkward, my being here—but I don’t mind on my own

account, so much. If it embarrassed you, forgive me."

 

"It’s worse than that," he said.

 

"You mean—that you _care_ for her?"

 

"I don’t know what I do mean—but you’ll have to go."

 

She looked up at him for a moment, searching his drawn face.

 

"I will, just as soon as I’ve bound up your ankle and got your couch

ready. It won’t take long."

 

"No, I can attend to that myself. I’ll telephone for a doctor and have

him fix me up. You must go now.""All right. Just wait till I put on my jacket and do up my hair."