The Heart Line 50

The Heart Line 50

"No, not for two weeks."

 

Clytie frowned and bit her lip, then shook her head silently. Then she

remarked, as if to herself, "I like her. I’m sure she’s fine."

 

"She likes you, too."

 

"I wish I might see her," she went on, her eyes fixed on the mountains.

"I’d like to do something for her. I might get her a position in my

father’s office, I’m sure, if she’d take it. I have a curious feeling,

though, that it is she who will be more likely to do something for me."

 

"If she ever can, you may be sure she will. Fancy is true blue."

 

"You didn’t—have any misunderstanding with her, did you?"

 

"Oh, no."

 

She seemed to notice his reluctance to explain, and did not pursue the

subject.

 

She turned and her eyes fell upon his hand, which lay carelessly upon

his knee. "Let me see your palm," she said impulsively. "I’ve never

looked at it carefully. I suppose you’ve told your own fortune often

enough."

 

He gave his left hand to her. She barely touched it, holding it

lightly, but he felt the magnetism of the contact almost as a caress.

"You’ll find my line of fate shows that I’m to change my career," he

remarked. "It’s broken at the head line, you see, and begins over

again."

 

"Now, let me look at your right hand."

 

She looked at it, and her __EXPRESSION__ changed subtly. It was as if she

had found some secret satisfaction in his palm, some answer to her

desires.

 

"What d’you see?"

 

"The heart line."

 

In his left hand it began near the root of the second finger, at the

mount of Saturn, not, as he would have preferred, farther toward the

index finger, at the mount of Jupiter. He wondered if that meant to her

what it did, in his professional capacity, to him—an indication of more

sensual tastes. Half its length was cobwebbed with tiny branches, and

punctuated with islands; then it ran, deep and clear to the edge of the

palm, almost straight. In his right palm the line was cleaner, simpler,

undivided.

 

She had begun to color, faintly; she had turned her eyes from him. Into

her loveliness had come a new element of charm. There was something

special in it, something for him alone; it was as if she had been

signaling to him, and he had not, till now, understood. Instantly every

line in her body seemed to be imbued with a new grace, a new meaning,

translating her spirit. He was too full of the inspiration to speak; he

could only look at her, irradiated, as if he had never seen her before.

To his admiration for her beauty, his respect for her character, his

interest in her mind, there was added something more; the total was not

to be accounted for by the sum of these. And the wonderful whole

satisfied the divine fastidiousness of his nature. She was for him the

supreme choice. Her mind worked like his. Her very size pleased him. He

seemed to know her for the first time. He had desired her, before, for

her beauty and her intelligence; he had thought calmly of love and

marriage. But now he felt the supreme demand for possession,

because——only because he _must_ have her—because nothing else in his

life mattered.

 

A secret ray of thought seemed to carry the message back to her, for,

apparently embarrassed by the intensity of his silence, she rose and

walked a few paces, with her hands behind her back, gazing off at the

harbor. It was not thought that he sent, however, for he could not

think; it was a new function of his soul aroused, excited, thrilling him

with the power of its vibration.

 

When that wave broke, he was at a loss for words. How could he say how

much he wanted her? How could he ask if she, too, felt that same

thrill, while he winced under this new, mortifying sense of the

cheapness and falsity of his life? He could not yet bring himself to

confess the miserable truths; it was not the larger, more obvious things

he was afraid of, for she knew well enough of these—but one or two

shameful details came into his mind and made him shrink from himself.

 

She turned to him again, composed, though still she showed elation.

 

"I’m sorry Fancy had to go," she said earnestly. Her eyes were steady,

though her lips were still quivering.

 

"It was too bad. But it was necessary."

 

She gave him a swift, searching look.

 

"Oh! Then you are—finding out?"

 

"I’m being pushed on, somehow. It’s really queer, as if the force came

from outside of myself—"

 

"Oh, no! I’m sure not!"

 

"Something is working out in me—"

 

Clytie smiled rarely, her face illuminated. "Oh, fate deals the cards,

but we have to play them ourselves. And—I think—you’ve taken several

tricks already."

 

"You mean—about Fancy Gray?"

 

"No—that I can’t judge—I never have judged. Your advertisement in the

papers."

 

He was immensely surprised, pleased. "You have noticed that already?

Why, this is only the very first day—"

 

"I have watched for it every day."

 

There was another pause. Her remark was revealing—yet he dared not hope

too far. He felt so near to her, so intimate in that revelation that he

feared to deceive himself. Oh, he was for her, now! His heart clamored

for possession, yet he could not declare himself. They were upon

different spiritual altitudes. Women, before, had come at his whistle.

Now he was awkward, timid, excited with expectancy, his heart going

hard.

 

"There is a reason why I was glad to see that change, Mr. Granthope,"

she continued. He waited for her words eagerly. She looked away, her

eyes following the sails in mid-channel. "I’m thinking of leaving

town."

 

The announcement fell upon him like a blow. "You are going away!" he

exclaimed, his voice betraying him.

 

"Not for a week or two, perhaps."

 

"A week!" The words stung him. "Don’t go—yet!" he exclaimed faintly.

 

"I don’t want to go—yet. My aunt in the East has invited me to visit

her for six months." She spoke calmly, but did not look at him.

 

"I’ll have to hurry, won’t I?" he said with a desperate, whimsical

inflection.

 

"Yes. You’ll have to hurry."

 

For a while he was too agitated to speak. If there had needed anything

more to convince him of his state of mind, this sufficed. He was aware,

by the sense of shock, how much he cared.

 

"Before I go, I’d like to ask a favor of you, Mr. Granthope."

 

It almost comforted him. "What is it—of course, I’ll do anything."

 

"Will you see if you can find out something about that little boy who

lived with Madam Grant?"

 

There it was again! This blow turned his mind black. She was gazing at

him earnestly—he could hardly bear her look, so placid, so sincere.

"You mean—clairvoyantly?" he stammered.

 

"Yes. I think we might do it, together."

 

He rose to walk up and down the top of the bank for a few minutes. Once

he stopped and gazed at her fiercely, under tensely set brows. Finally

he returned hopelessly.

 

"I’m sorry, but I can’t do that."

 

"Why not?"

 

He hesitated. "I know I couldn’t get anything."

 

"But you did before?"

 

He longed desperately to confess everything, but he could not speak. He

felt her recede from him; their delightful intimacy was broken. She did

not insist further, and self-contempt kept him silent, till he broke

out, "Oh, it’s you who must help _me_!"

 

"I’ve done all I can for you. You must find out the rest for yourself."

 

"I don’t dare to think how much you have to find out about me."

 

"Tell me!"

 

"I haven’t the courage."

 

She let her hand fall lightly upon his for an instant. "Well, that only

proves, doesn’t it, that, so long as there’s anything insurmountable in

the way of directness and simplicity, you haven’t gone all the way. I’ll

wait."

 

"I’m so afraid of losing your sympathy and your respect."

 

"But you can’t stop still!"

 

"I’m afraid of losing _you_!"

 

He saw the tears come into her eyes. "Ah, there’s only one way you can

lose me," she said deliberately.

 

"How?" He was eager.

 

She did not answer, but arose slowly. "I think I must be going."

 

He followed her, thoroughly dissatisfied with himself at having let his

moment pass. He understood her well enough. It was only by stopping

still, as she had said, that he could lose her. She had started a change in him, and it must go on. Something which tied his hands, his mind, must be cut; he must be free of that before he could speak.