The Heart Line 43

The Heart Line 43

Walking off, proudly, she opened the door of the closet and stood before

the mirror there, while he, a limp, relaxed figure in the arm-chair,

watched her as she unbraided her hair and combed it out in a magnificent

coppery cascade to her waist. Tossing her head, she said:

 

"Vixley’s laying for you, Frank! You’d better watch out for him. It’s

something shady about the old man’s past, I believe. Anyway, I hope

you’ll fool ’em, Frank!"

 

With this complication of his position, he bent his head on his hand as

if he were weary. "I don’t know what I’m going to do," he said. "It’s

too much for me, I’m afraid."

 

"What’s the matter?" said Fancy solicitously. "Didn’t I work it right?

Honest, Frank, I didn’t give you away a bit—I didn’t tell him a word.

You know my work isn’t lumpy—I just pumped him. I beat him at his own

game, and it didn’t taste so good, either. Oh, I’m so sorry if I did

anything to hurt you. I’d die first!"

 

As he did not answer her she came over to him and knelt on the floor,

seizing his hand. Her tears fell upon it.

 

"You’ve been mighty good to me, Frank, you sure have! You took me off

the streets when I was starving. I don’t know whatever would have

become of me. I suppose I’d gone right down the line, if it hadn’t been

for you. You’re the only friend I’ve got, and I only wish I could do

something to prove how grateful I am. Honest, I thought I was helping

you out when I kept Vixley here. You don’t think—you don’t think I

_like_ him—do you? Don’t say _that_, Frank!"

 

She was speaking in gasps now; her tears were unrestrained. Her hand

clutched his so fiercely that he could scarcely bear the pain. He did

not dare to look at her.

 

"I’ve always been square with you, Frank, haven’t I?"

 

He patted her hand softly.

 

"We’ve kept to the compact, haven’t we? The compact we made at Alma?

You trust me, don’t you?"

 

"Of course! You’re all right—you’re true blue. I couldn’t distrust you.

You’ll always be the Maid of Alma. It was a game thing you did for me.

Nobody else would have done it. You have helped me, but I can’t tell

you what a corner I’m in." He paused and looked at her intensely.

"Fancy—you haven’t forgotten—have you?"

 

She forced a trembling smile, as she said bravely:

 

"’No fair falling in love’?"

 

"Yes."

 

She shook out a laugh and stroked his hand, looking up at him through

her tears. "Oh, no danger of that, Frank. You don’t know me. I’m all

right, sure! Only—and I owe you so much! You’ve taught me everything.

If I could only do something to prove that I’m worth it."

 

"You can—that’s the trouble. I believe I’m almost cur enough to ask it

of you."

 

"What is it? Tell me, quick! You know I’d black your boots for you.

I’d do anything."

 

"Did you notice Miss Payson’s face when she saw you?"

 

"Yes." Fancy dropped her head.

 

"I’d hate to have her suspect—if she thought—"

 

"Oh!" She sprang to her feet and stood as proud as a lioness. "Is that

it? You want me to go for good?" Even now there was no anger in her

look or tone. The little silver watch heaved up and down on her breast.

 

He sought for a kind phrase. "I’m afraid it would be better—it makes me

feel like a beast—of course, you understand—" his eyes went to her,

pleading.

 

"Then it _is_ Miss Payson? Oh, Frank, why didn’t you tell me! You

might have trusted me! You ought to have known better! Haven’t I

always said that when the woman who could make you happy did come, how

glad I’d be for you?"

 

"You’re really not hurt, then? I was afraid—"

 

"Poor old Frank! You goose! Of course not—it makes me sorry to think

of leaving you, that’s all. Never mind—there’s nothing in the race but

the finish! I’m all right." She had become a little hysterical in her

actions, but he was too distracted to notice it.

 

"I’ll let you have all the money you want—I’ll get you a good place——"

he began.

 

She shook her head decidedly. "Cut that out, please, Frank; but thanks,

all the same. If I ever want any money, I’ll come to you. Why

shouldn’t I? But not now. Don’t pay me to go away—that sounds rotten.

I’ll get a position all right. Didn’t I turn down that secretary’s

place only last week? But I guess I’ll travel on my looks for a while.

I’m flush."

 

"I hope I can tell her all about this, sometime," he said wearily.

 

"Bosh! What’s the use? Thank God some women know that some women are

square without being told. Men seem to think we’re all cats. Even women

talk of each other as if they were a different sort of human animal.

But not Miss Payson—she’s a thoroughbred. I can see _that_ all right.

You can’t fool Fancy Gray about petticoats. I take off my hat to her.

She’s got every woman _you_ ever had running after you beaten a mile.

Don’t you worry—she’ll never be surprised to find that a woman can be

square. Well, I’ll fade away then."

 

As she talked she buttoned up her jacket and stuck the hat pin in her

hair. Now her eyes grew dreamier and she went over and sat on the arm

of his chair and put her hand on his hair affectionately, saying:

 

"Say, Frank, I don’t know—after all, perhaps sometime you might just

tell her this—sometime when the thing’s all going straight, when she’s

got over—well, what I saw in her eyes to-night—when she finds out what

you’re worth—when she really knows how good you are—you just tell her

this—say: ’There’s one thing about Fancy Gray, she always played fair!’

She’ll know then; but just now, you can be careful of her—watch out what

you do with her, she’s going to suffer a whole lot if you don’t. You

know something about women, but you’ll find out that when you’re sure

enough in love you’ll need it all, and what you know isn’t a drop in the

bucket to what you’ve got to learn. I hope you’ll get it good and hard.

It’ll do you good. You only know one side now. You’ll learn the rest

from her. She’s not the sort to do things half-way. When she begins to

go she’ll go the limit."

 

She leaned over him. "You might give me one kiss just to brace me up,

will you? It may take the taste of Vixley off my lips. Well, so long.

Don’t take any Mexican money! If there’s anything I can do, let me

know." She rose and tossed a smile at him with her old jaunty grace.

Then she patted him on the cheek and went swiftly out.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER IX*

 

*COMING ON*

 

 

By artful questions, and apparently innocent remarks to lure his

confidence, by a little guess-work, more observation, and a profound

knowledge of the frailties of human nature, Madam Spoll had plied Oliver

Payson to good advantage.

 

She got a fact here, a suggestion there, and, one at a time, she

arranged these items in order, and with them wove a psychological web

strong enough to work upon. It was partly hypothetical, partly proved,

but, slender and shadowy as it was, upon it was portrayed a faint image

of her victim—a pattern sufficient for her use. Every new piece of

information was deftly used to strengthen the fabric, until at last it

was serviceable as a working theory of his life and could be used to

astonish and interest him. Of this whole process he was, of course,

unaware, so cleverly disguised was her method, so skilful was her tact.

She never frightened her quarry, never permitted him to suspect her.

Her errors she frankly acknowledged and set down to the ignorance of her

guides. She had, indeed, many holes by which she could escape—set

formulæ for covering her petty failures.

 

After two or three interviews, she had filled up almost all the weak

spots in her web, and was prepared to encompass her victim by wiles with

which to bleed him.

 

Mr. Payson had gone away from his first interview limping slightly more

than usual, and had talked considerably about his ailment to his

daughter. Clytie, not knowing what had increased his hypochondria, was

inclined to laugh at his fears and complaints. He found a more

sympathetic listener in Blanchard Cayley, who took him quite seriously

and discoursed for an hour in Payson’s office upon the possibilities of

internal disorders, such as the medium had mentioned.

 

The result was a visit to Doctor Masterson.

 

The healer’s quarters were two flights up in one of the many gloomy

buildings on Market Street, half lodging-rooms, half offices, inhabited

by chiropodists, cheap tailors, "painless" dentists and such riffraff.

The stair was steep and the halls were narrow. The doctor’s place was

filled with a sad half-light that made the rows of bottles on the

shelves, the skull in the corner and the stuffed owl seem even more

mysterious. The room was dusty and ill-kept; the floor was covered with

cold linoleum.

 

The magnetic healer’s shrewd eyes glistened and shifted behind his

spectacles; the horizontal wrinkles in his forehead, under his bald

pate, drew gloomily together as Mr. Payson poured out the story of his

trouble. For a time the doctor said nothing. Then he took a vial full

of yellow liquid from his table, carried it to the window, held it to

the light, examined it solemnly and put it back. He sat down again and

looked Mr. Payson over. Then he tilted back in his chair, stuck a pair

of dirty thumbs in the armholes of his plaid waistcoat, and said, "H’m!"

Finally, his thin lips parted in a grisly smile showing his blackened teeth.