The Heart Line 5

The Heart Line 5

In New York, a good guesser would have put her age at twenty-three; but,

taking into account the precocious effect of the California climate,

nineteen might be nearer the mark. She was, at all events, a finished

product; there was no evidence of diffidence or _gaucherie_ about Fancy

Gray. She appeared to be very well satisfied with herself. If, as she

evidently did, she considered herself beautiful, her claim would

undoubtedly be acknowledged by most men who met her for the first time.

On those more fastidious, she had but to smile and her mouth grew still

more generous, showing a double line of white teeth, those in the lower

jaw being set slightly zigzag, as if they were so pretty that it had

been wished to put in as many as possible—her cheeks dimpled, her eyes

half closed—and she triumphed over her critic. For there was something

more dangerous than beauty in that smile; there was an elfin humor that

captured and bewildered—there was warmth and welcome in it. It made one

feel happy.

 

As she sat at her desk in the waiting-room she could look across the

corner of Geary and Powell Streets to catch the errant eye of passing

cable-car conductors, or gaze, in abstraction, at pedestrians crossing

Union Square, or at the oriental towers of the Synagogue beyond. With

the bait of a promising smile, she caught many an upward glance. Fancy

Gray was not in the habit of hiding her charms, and she levied tribute

to her beauty on all mankind. She gazed upon women, however, far less

indulgently than upon men; never was there a more captious observer of

her sex. A glance up and a glance down she gave; and the specimen was

classified, appraised, appreciated, condemned, condoned or complimented.

Not a pin missed her scrutiny, not a variation of the mode escaped her

quest for revealing evidence. A woman could hardly pass from contact

with Fancy’s swift glance without being robbed, mentally, of everything

worth while that she possessed in the matter of novelty in fashion or

deportment. Fancy appropriated the ideas thus gained, and made use of

them at the earliest opportunity. The waiting-room bore, upon the

outside, the legend:

 

+−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−+

| |

| FRANCIS GRANTHOPE, PALMIST |

| |

+−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−+

 

Inside, where Fancy sat daily from ten to four, the apartment was walled

and carpeted in red. Upon the walls, painted wooden Chinese grotesque

masks, grinning or scowling against the fire-cracker paper, hung, at

intervals, from black stained woodwork. Between the two windows was a

plaster column bearing the winged head of Hypnos; at the other end of

the room was a row of casts of hands hanging on hooks against a black

panel. The desk in the corner was Fancy’s station, and here she

murmured into the telephone, scribbled appointments in a blank-book,

read _The Second Wife_, gazed out into the green square, or manicured

her nails—according as the waiting-room chairs were empty, or occupied

with men or with women. Whatever company she had, she was never

careless of the light upon her or the condition of her tinted hair.

 

 

It was a cool, blustering afternoon in August. San Francisco was at its

worst phase. The wind was high and harsh, harassing the city with its

burden of dust. Over the mountains, on the Marin shore, a high fog

hung, its advance guard scudding in through the Golden Gate, piling over

the hills by the Twin Peaks and preparing its line of battle for a

general assault upon the peninsula at nightfall. In the streets men and

women clung to their hats savagely as they passed gusty corners, and

coat collars were turned up against the raw air. Summer had, so far,

spent its effort in four violently hot days, when the humid atmosphere

made the temperature unbearable. Now the weather had flung back to an

extreme as unpleasant; open fires were in order. There was one now

burning in Granthope’s reception-room, to which Fancy Gray made frequent

excursions. She was there, making a picture of herself beside the

hearth, having resolutely held her pose for some time in anticipation of

his coming, when Francis Granthope arrived.

 

Tall, erect and able-bodied, with the physique of an athlete, and a

strong, leonine head covered with crisp, waving, black hair, Francis

Granthope had the complement of the actor’s type of looks; but his

alertness of carriage and his swift, searching glance distinguished him

from the professional male beauty. Fine eyes of deep, rich blue, fine

teeth often exposed in compelling smiles, a resolute mouth and a firm,

deeply cleft chin he had; and all these attractions were set off by his

precise dress—gloves, bell-tailed overcoat, sharply creased trousers,

varnished boots and silk hat. A short mustache, curling upward slightly

at the ends, and a small, triangular tuft of hair on his lower lip gave

him a somewhat foreign aspect. He had an air, a manner, that kept up

the illusion. Men would perhaps have distrusted him as too obviously

handsome; women would talk about him as soon as he had left the room.

Stage managers would have complimented his "presence"; children would

have watched him, fascinated, reserving their judgment. He seemed to

fill the room with electricity.

 

He sent a smile to Fancy, half of welcome, half of amusement at her

picturesque posture, and, with cordial "Good morning!" in a mellow

barytone, removed his overcoat and hat, putting them into a closet near

the hall door. He reappeared in morning coat, white waistcoat and

pin-checked trousers, with a red carnation in his buttonhole. He held

his hands for a moment before the fire, then looked indulgently at his

blithe assistant.

 

Now, one of Fancy’s charms was a slender, pointed tongue. This she was

wont to exhibit, on occasion, by sticking it out of her mouth

coquettishly, and shaking it saucily in the direction of her nostrils—a

joyous exploit which was vouchsafed only upon rare and intimate

occasions. This, now, she did, tilting her head backward to give

piquancy to the performance.

 

Granthope laughed, and went over to where she sat.

 

"You’re a saucy bird, Fancy," he commented, leaning over her, both hands

upon the desk. "Do you know I rather like you!"

 

Her face grew drolly sober; her whimsical eyebrows lifted.

 

"I don’t know as I blame you," she replied. "You always did have good

taste, though."

 

"I believe that I might go so far as to imprint a salute upon your

chaste brow!"

 

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

 

He stooped over and kissed her. She was graciously resigned.

 

"Thank you, Frank," she said demurely. "Small contributions gratefully

received." She tucked her head into the corner of his arm, and he

looked down upon her kindly.

 

"Poor little Fancy!" he said softly.

 

"Have you missed me, Frank?"

 

"Horribly!"

 

"Don’t laugh at me!"

 

"How can I help it, O toy queen?"

 

"Am I so awfully young?"

 

"You’re pretty juvenile, Fancy, but you’ll grow up, I think."

 

She was quite sober now. "Oh, there’s an awful lot of time wasted in

growing up," she said. Then she squirmed her head so that she could

look upward at him. "You’ve been awfully good to me, Frank!" Her tone

was wistful.

 

"You deserve more than you will ever get, I’m afraid," was his answer as

he patted her hair.

 

"I think you do like me a little."

 

He shook his finger at her. "No fair falling in love!"

 

She laughed. "I believe you’re afraid, Frank!"

 

"I don’t know what I’d do without you, Fancy. We’ve been through a good

deal together, first and last, haven’t we?"

 

"Yes, we’ve had a good time. I’d like to do it all over again."

 

"Heavens, no!" he exclaimed. "I wouldn’t! There’s enough ahead. From

what I’ve seen of life, things don’t really begin to happen till you’re

thirty, at least. All this will seem like a dream."

 

"Sometimes I hope it will." Fancy was looking away, now. Her gaze

returned to him after a moment of silence. "Don’t you ever think of

getting out of this, Frank? You’re too good for these fakirs, really

you are! Why, you could mix with millionaires, easy! And you’ve got a

good start, now. They like you. You’ve got the style and the education

and the ’know’ for it."

 

He went back to the fireplace, standing there with his hands behind his

back.

 

"Oh, this is amusing enough. What does it matter, anyway? There are as

big fools and shams in society as there are in my business. Look at the

women that come down here, and the things they tell me! Why, I know

them a good deal better now than I should if I were on their

calling-lists and took tea with them! But you are right, in a way. I

suppose some day I must quit this and take to honest theft."

 

"Don’t say that, Frank! I hate you when you’re cynical."

 

"What else can I be, in my profession?"

 

"Oh, I do want you to quit, Frank, really I do, and yet, I hate to think

of it. What should I do? I’d lose you sure! I could never make good

with the swells. I’m only a drifter."

 

"Oh, you can’t lose me, Fan; we’ve pulled together too long. You could

make good all right. You’ve got a pose and a poise that some ladies

would give their teeth for. I don’t believe you’ve ever really been

surprised in your life, have you?"

 

"I guess not." Fancy shook her head thoughtfully. "When I _am_

surprised, it’ll be a woman who’ll do it. No man can, that’s sure."

 

"No. I fancy you know all there is to know about men. I wish I did.

You’ll do, Fancy Gray!" He approached her and playfully chucked her

under the chin. Then he looked at her gravely. "I wonder why you’re

willing to drudge along here with me, anyway. You could get a much

better position easily—with your face—and brains."

 

"_And_ figure. Don’t forget that!" Fancy shook her finger at him.

 

"Yes." He looked her over approvingly.

 

"No woman ought to be blue with a figure like mine, ought she?"

 

He laughed. "I can’t imagine your ever being blue, Fancy!"

 

Fancy opened her eyes very wide.

 

"There’s a whole lot you don’t know about women yet," she said sagely.

 

"That’s likely."

 

"Am I to understand that I’m fired, then?" She tried to appear demure.

 

"Not yet. I’m only too afraid you’ll resign. It’s queer you don’t get

married. You must have had lots of chances. Why don’t you, Fancy?"

 "I never explain," said Fancy. "It only wastes time."