The Heart Line 51

The Heart Line 51

They retraced their steps, she talking, as when they had come,

inconsequently; he, moody, troubled inwardly, self-conscious. She was

to give him one more hope, however. As she left him, on the avenue, she

offered her hand, and smiled.

 

"Don’t give it up," she said, and turned away, leaving him standing

alone, still fighting his battle with himself.

 

He had enough to think of, as he strode home, ill-satisfied with himself

and in a turmoil of thought in regard to her. There was no question of

mastery, now; she had beaten him at his own game. It was only a

question of surrender.

 

He went up into his office and stood, looking about. The row of plaster

casts confronted him. He took one from the row and examined it. There,

too, was a heart line split up with divergent branches, punctuated with

little islands, beginning at the Mount of Saturn, herring-boned to the

end, at the double crease which signified two marriages. The fingers

were short and fat, the thumb being far too small. Small joints, broad

lines, deep cushions at the Mounts of Venus and Mercury, deep bracelets

at the wrist—Granthope’s eyes read the signs as if the hand were a face,

or a whole body.

 

As he turned the cast over thoughtfully, to look at the back, it dropped

from his grasp and fell to the floor, breaking into a dozen pieces.

Bits of wire projected humorously from the stump. He smiled.

 

"Kismet!" he said to himself. "Adieu, Violet!"

 

He was stooping to clear away the fragments when he heard a knock upon

the door. Going to answer it, he found Professor Vixley waiting.

 

"Hello, Frank," said the slate-writer. "Can I see you for a few

minutes?"

 

"Come in." Granthope drew up a chair, but stood himself with his hands

in his pockets while his visitor made himself comfortable.

 

Vixley’s shrewd eyes roved about the room and rested upon the broken

cast. "Hello," he said, "cat got into the statuary?"

 

"Accident," said the palmist.

 

"Plenty more where they come from, I s’pose. Say, Frank, let’s see the

Payson girl’s hand, will you?"

 

"I haven’t it."

 

"You mean a cast, of course, eh? I expect you’ve pretty near got the

original, ain’t you?"

 

"Not yet." Granthope frowned.

 

"But soon—"

 

Granthope shrugged his shoulders.

 

"It was about Payson I wanted to see you," the Professor went on.

"Seems to me you ain’t standin’ in like you agreed to. Gert claims you

got cold feet on the proposition. I thought I’d drop in and chew it

over."

 

Granthope did not answer, and the frown on his forehead persisted.

Vixley took out a cigar and lighted it, threw his match on to the desk,

looked about again, and grinned. "Then you _have_ got cold feet, eh?"

he remarked, crossing his legs.

 

Granthope looked the Professor squarely in the eye for a moment. Then

he said deliberately: "Vixley, what will you take to leave town?"

 

Vixley showed his astonishment in the stare with which he replied. His

lip drew away from his yellow fangs, and a keen light came into his

black eyes. "Oho! That’s the game, is it? Somethin’ doin’, after all,

eh? Well, well!" He mouthed his cigar meditatively and twirled his

thumbs in his lap.

 

"Come, name your price," said Granthope sharply.

 

"I’d like a few details first."

 

"What’s the figure?"

 

Vixley was in no hurry, and enjoyed his advantage. "I thought you was up

to something, Frank. Gert’s pretty sharp, but Lord, she’s only a woman.

You fooled _her_ a bunch. She really thought you’d got a change of

heart. So you want to cut up the money all by your lonely, eh? Well,

now, what’ll you give to have me pull out of it?"

 

"I’ll give you five hundred dollars," said Granthope.

 

"Nothin’ doin’," said Vixley decidedly. "Why, it’s worth more than that

to me just as it stands, and I ain’t but just begun. If you can’t do

better than that, why, it’s no use talkin’."

 

"I asked you what you wanted. Let’s have it, and I’ll talk business."

 

"Payson’s pretty well fixed," said Vixley. "I s’pose if you marry the

girl you’ll get a good wad of his money."

 

"Never mind the girl. I want to buy you out."

 

"Well, I’d have to think it over. You know we got a great scheme, and

if it works it’ll mean a steady income. But I don’t mind turnin’ over

money quick. You make it a thousand dollars and I’ll agree to leave you

alone, and pull off Gert into the bargain. You’ll have to fix Masterson

yourself. I don’t trust him."

 

Granthope began to walk the room again, thinking. He returned finally,

to say: "It won’t do merely for you to agree to keep out of it. I know

you too well. This is a business agreement. If I give you a thousand,

will you leave town? That’s my offer."

 

Vixley reflected. "That ain’t so much. I dunno as I could afford to

spoil my whole business for that."

 

"Pshaw. You don’t make that in a year!"

 

"Not last year, perhaps, but I expect to this."

 

"Then you refuse?"

 

"Wait a minute. Have you got the money on hand?"

 

"No, I haven’t." Granthope’s face clouded. "But I have an idea I might

raise it. I could pay you in instalments. But you’d have to be outside

of California to get it. That’s understood."

 

Vixley rose. "Well, when you’ve got the money you can begin to talk.

If you can raise it, as you say, I may agree. After all, I could use a

thou’ just at present, and I s’pose I could operate in Chicago till you

let me come back. Say I accept."

 

"All right. As soon as I can raise five hundred, I’ll see you, and buy

your ticket. Until then, I expect you to leave Payson alone."

 

"Will _you_ leave him alone? That’s the question! I don’t propose to

have no interference until you make good with the money."

 

"I’ll make good, all right," said Granthope.

 

"Very well, then." Vixley rose and buttoned what buttons were left on

his coat. "When you’re ready to do business, I’m ready. But you see

here!" He shook a long, bony finger at the palmist. "If you go to work

and try any gum-games with the old man before then, Frank, I’ll break

you—like that there hand." He pointed down to the cast on the floor.

Then he added easily: "Not that it would do you any good if you did,

though. I’ll attend to _that_. I got to protect myself. It’ll be easy

enough to fix it so the old man won’t take much stock in what you tell

him."

 

"I expect that’s so," Granthope shrugged his shoulders. "I don’t mind

saying that if I thought I could do anything that way, I would."

 

"So long, then. The sooner you make your bid, the cheaper it’ll be."

He turned from the door and looked the palmist over. "You’re a good

one, Frank. I don’t deny you got brains. I wouldn’t mind knowin’ just

what you was up to. It must be something elegant." He came up to

Granthope and gestured with both hands. "Say—why don’t you let me in?

We could work it together, and I’ll lose Gertie. I ain’t no fool,

myself, when it comes right down to business."

 

Granthope laughed sarcastically. "I hardly think you can help much in

this. It’s a rather delicate proposition, and I’ll have to go it alone.

Just as soon as I get the cash I’ll let you know."

 

For an hour after that Granthope sat in his office thinking it over.

His offer to Vixley had come on the spur of the moment, and, although he

did not regret it, he was at a loss to know how he could make it good.

He went over his accounts carefully, inspected his bank-book, made a

valuation of his property. He could see no way, at present, to raise

sufficient money to buy Vixley off, and yet to sit still and let him go

on with Clytie’s father was intolerable. He had seen men ruined by such

wiles, and his own conscience was not clean in this matter. There

seemed no way of escape.

 

 

Late that afternoon he decided to call on Fancy Gray. He had hardly

seen her since the night she left, and he was troubled in her regard,

also. He. dreaded to know just what she was doing, and how she stood

it. He had long attempted to deny to himself that she cared too much

for him, and always their fiction had been maintained—that fiction

which, during their pretty idyl at Alma, so long ago, had crystallized

itself into their whimsical motto: "No fair falling in love!" He had

kept their pact well enough. He dared not answer for her.

 

Fancy lived in a three-story house on O’Farrell, Street, near Jones

Street, a place back from the sidewalk, with a garden in front and on

one side. Fancy had a room on the attic floor, with two dormer windows

giving upon the front yard. As Granthope turned in the gate and looked

up at her windows, he was surprised to see one of them raised. Fancy’s

arm appeared, a straw hat in her hand. The next instant the hat sailed

gracefully out into the air, curving like an aeroplane. It dropped

nearly at his feet. He picked it up, thinking that she would look out

after it, but instead, the sash was lowered.

 

A minute afterward a young man, bareheaded, and apparently violently

enraged, appeared at the front door. Granthope walked up and presented

the hat to Mr. Gay P. Summer, who took it, staring, without a word of

thanks, and stalked sulkily away.

 

The door being left open, Granthope walked up three flights of stairs

and knocked at Fancy’s room. There was no reply. He called to her. The

door was instantly flung open.

 

"Why, hello, Frank! Excuse me. I thought it was my meal-ticket coming

back to bore me to death again." Fancy began to laugh. "You ought to

have seen him. He simply wouldn’t go, after I’d given him twenty-three

gilt-edged tips, and so I had to throw his hat out of the window to get rid of him."