The Heart Line 47

The Heart Line 47

Shortly after eight o’clock the door-bell rang. As it was not answered

promptly, Mr. Payson, still nervous, irascible and impatient, went out

into the hall, growling at the servant’s delay.

 

He opened the door, to see Francis Granthope, rather white-faced under

his black hair, supporting himself on crutches.

 

"Is Miss Payson at home?" he asked, taking off his hat.

 

"Yes, she is. Won’t you step in? What name shall I give her, please?"

Mr. Payson spoke hospitably.

 

"Thank you. Mr. Granthope," was the answer.

 

The old man turned suddenly and returned his visitor’s hat.

 

"I beg your pardon," he said sternly, "but Miss Payson is not at

home—for you—and I don’t intend that she ever shall be. I have heard

enough about you, Mr. Granthope, and I desire to say that I can not

consent to your being received in my house. You’re a charlatan and a

fakir, sir, and I do not consider you either my daughter’s social equal

nor one with a character respectable enough to associate with her. I

must ask you to leave this house, sir, and not to come again."

 

Granthope’s eyes glowed, and his jaws came together with determination.

But he said only:

 

"Very well, Mr. Payson, I’m sure that I do not care to call if I’m not

welcome. This is, of course, no place to discuss the subject, but I

shall not come here again without your consent. As to my meeting her

again, that lies wholly with her. You may be sure that I shall not

annoy her with my attentions if she doesn’t care to see me. But I ask

you, as a matter of courtesy, to let Miss Payson know that I have

called."

 

"See that you keep your word, sir—that’s all I have to say," was Mr.

Payson’s reply, and he stood in the doorway to watch his visitor down

the garden walk. He remained there until Granthope had descended the

steps, then walked down after him and watched him to the corner.

 

Mr. Payson returned to the library sullenly.

 

"That palmist of yours had the impertinence to come here and ask for

you," he informed Clytie, "but I sent him about his business, and I

expect he won’t be back in a hurry."

 

Clytie looked up with a white face. "Mr. Granthope, father?" She rose

proudly and faced him. "Do you mean to say that you were rude enough to

turn him away? It’s impossible!"

 

Mr. Payson walked up and down the room in a dudgeon.

 

"I certainly did send him away, and what’s more, I told him not to come

back."

 

Clytie, without another word, ran out into the hall. The front door was

flung open and her footsteps could be heard on the gravel walk. Mr.

Payson seated himself sulkily.

 

In five minutes more she had returned, slowly, her hair blown into a

fine disorder, the color flaming in her cheeks, her eyes quickened.

 

"What in the world have you been doing?" her father demanded.

 

"I wanted to apologize for your rudeness," she answered, "but I was too

late."

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER X*

 

*A LOOK INTO THE MIRROR*

 

 

"He gives exact and truthful revelations of all love affairs,

settles lovers’ quarrels, enables you to win the affection and

esteem of any one you desire, causes speedy and happy

marriages—"

 

 

Granthope put down the paper with a look of disgust. It was his own

advertisement, and it had appeared daily for months. He took up his

desk telephone with a jerk, and called up the _Chronicle_ business

office.

 

"This is Granthope, the palmist. Please take out my displayed ad., and

insert only this: ’Francis Granthope, Palmist. 141 Geary St., Readings,

Ten Dollars. Only by Appointment. Ten till Four.’"

 

There was now a red-headed office boy in the corner where Fancy Gray

used to sit. Granthope missed her jaunty spirit and unfailing

comradeship. Not even his endeavor to give his profession a scientific

aspect amused him any longer. He had lost interest in his work. He was

uneasy, dissatisfied, blue. He went into his studio listlessly, with a

frown printed on his brow. Until his first client appeared he lay upon

the big couch, his eyes fixed upon the light.

 

He had been there a few moments when his office boy knocked, and opening

the door, injected his red head.

 

"Say, dere’s a lady in here to see you, Mr. Granthope!"

 

"Who is she?"

 

The boy grinned. "By de name of Lucie. Says you know her."

 

"Tell her I can’t see her."

 

Granthope turned away, and the boy left.

 

The room was as quiet as a padded cell, full of a soft, velvety

blackness, except where the single drop-lamp lighted up the couch.

Ordinarily the place was, in its strange dark emptiness, a restful,

comforting retreat. Now it imprisoned him. Above his head the great

ring of embroidered zodiacal signs shone with a golden luster. They

were the symbols of the mysterious dignity of the past, of the dark ages

of thought, of priestcraft and secret wisdom of the blind centuries that

had gone. But, a modern, incongruously set about with such medieval

relics, he felt for the first time, undignified. In their time these

emblems had represented all that existed of knowledge. Now, to him they

stood for all that was left of ignorance and superstition; and it was

upon such instruments he played.

 

He read palms perfunctorily that Saturday. He seemed to hear his own

voice all the while, and some dissociated function of his mind scoffed

continually at his chicanery. It was the same old formula: "You are not

understood by those about you. You crave sympathy, and it is refused.

You are extraordinarily sensitive, but when you are most hurt you often

say nothing. You have an intuitive knowledge of people. You have a

wonderful power of appreciation and criticism. People confide in you.

You are impulsive, but your instinct is usually sure"—the same

professional, easy rigamarole, colored with what hints his quick eyes

gave him or his flagging imagination suggested.

 

Women listened avidly, drinking in every word. How could he help telling

them what they loved so to hear? They asked questions so suggestive

that a child might have answered. They prolonged the discussion of

themselves, obviously enjoying his apparent interest. He caught himself

again and again playing with their credulity, their susceptibility, and

hated himself for it. They lingered, smiling self-consciously, and he

delayed them with a look. In very perversity, he began deliberately to

flatter their vanity in order to see to what inordinate pitch of conceit

their minds would rise. He affected indifference, and even scorn—they

followed after him still more eagerly. He grew, at last, almost

savagely critical, an instinct of cruelty aroused by such complacent,

egregious egoism. They fawned on him, like spaniels under the lash.

 

After a solitary dinner he returned to his rooms. For an hour or two he

tried to lose himself in the study of a medical book. Medicine had long

been his passion and his library was well equipped. Had he been reading

to prepare himself for practice he could not have been more thorough.

To-night, however, he found it hard to fix his attention, and in despair

he took up a volume of Casanova’s _Memoirs_. There was an indefatigable

charlatan! The fascinating Chevalier had never wearied in ill-doing; he

kept his zest to the last. He skipped to another volume to follow the

pursuit of Henriette, of "C.V.," of Thérèse. The perusal amused him, and

he got back something of his cynical indifference.

 

It was after eleven o’clock when he laid down the book and rose to look,

abstractedly, out of the office window. He longed for an adventure that

should reinstate him as his old careless self.

 

He left his rooms, went up to Powell Street and finally wandered into

the noisy gaiety of the Techau Tavern. The place was running full with

after-theater gatherings, and he had hard work to find a table. All

about him was a confusion of excited talk, the clatter of dishes, the

riotous music of an insistent orchestra. Parties were entering all the

while, beckoned to places by the head waiter. The place was garish with

lights and mirrors.

 

Granthope had sat there ten minutes or so, sipping his glass, noticing,

here and there, clients whom he had served, when, between the heads of

two women, far across the room, he recognized Mrs. Page. It was not

long before she saw him, caught his eye, and signaled with vivacity.

The diversion was agreeable; he rose and went over. A glance at her

table showed him a company most of whose members he had met before, but

with whom, only a few months since, he would have counted it a social

success to be considered intimate. While not being quite of the elect,

they held the key of admission to many high places in virtue of their

wit and ingenious powers to please. They were such as insured

amusement. Granthope himself was this evening desirous of being amused.

 

With Mrs. Page was Frankie Dean, the irrepressible, voluble, sarcastic,

a devil in her black, snapping eyes, as cold-blooded as a snake. It was

she who had so nearly embarrassed him at the Chinese supper at the

Maxwells’. She eyed him now, dark, feline, whimsically watching her

chance to make sport of him. With them was a young girl from Santa Rosa,

newly come to San Francisco, an alien in such a company. She was slight

and dewy, vivid with sudden color, with soft, fervent eyes that had not

yet learned to face such audacity as her companions practised. Keith

and Fernigan were there, also, like a vaudeville team, rollicking with

fun, playing into each other’s hands, charging the company with abandon.

Lastly, "Sully" Maxwell sat, silent, happy, indulgent, with his pockets

filled with twenty dollar gold-pieces, which he got rid of at every

opportunity. He spoke about once every fifteen minutes, and then

usually to the waiter. "A good spender" was Sully—that quality and his

unfailing good-nature carried him into the gayest circles and kept him

there unnoticed, until the bills were to be paid.

 

To Granthope, tired with his day’s work, in conflict with himself,

morbidly self-conscious, the scene was stimulating. There was an

atmosphere of inconsequent mirth in the group, which dissolved his mood

immediately. The women, smartly dressed, bubbling with spirit, quick

with repartee—Keith and Fernigan, their sparkling dialogue interrupted,

waiting for another auditor—even Sully, prosperous, good-natured,

hospitably making him welcome—the group attracted him, rejuvenated him,

enveloped him with their frivolity. The party was in the first

effervescence of its enthusiasm. Mrs. Page was at her sprightly best,

impellent, a gorgeous animal. Even Frankie Dean, whom he did not like,

was temptingly piquant and brisk. The little girl had a novelty and

virginal charm. He had been out of his element all day. Here, he could

be himself. He could take things easily and jocosely, and have no

thought of consequences. His mood disappeared like a shattered soap-bubble, and he was caught into their jubilant atmosphere.