The Heart Line 52

The Heart Line 52

"I saw him. I think he won’t come back. He looked rather

uncomfortable."

 

Fancy sat down on the bed unconcernedly, clasping her hands on her

crossed knees, while Granthope took a seat upon a trunk.

 

"Say, Frank, these people who expect to annex all your time and pay for

it in fifty cent _table d’hotes_ are beginning to make me tired.

There’s nothing so expensive as free dinners, I’ve found! The minute

you let a man buy you a couple of eggs, he thinks he’s in a position to

dictate to you for the rest of eternity. Why, one dinner means he’s

hired you till eleven o’clock, and I run out of excuses long before

that. No, you don’t get anything free in this world, and many a girl’s

found _that_ out!"

 

Granthope smiled. Fancy was at her prettiest, with a whimsical

animation that he knew of old. Nothing delighted him so much as Fancy

in her semi-philosophic vein.

 

She ran on: "Gay has just proposed to me again—I’ve lost tally, now.

The one good thing about him is that he’s always ready to make good with

the ring whenever I say the word. He takes me seriously just because I

never explain. But all the encouragement I’ve ever given him is to

accept. Gay’s the kind that always calls you ’Little girl,’ no matter

how high you are, and tells you you’re ’brave’! There’s no one quite

like you, Frank—"

 

As she spoke, her gaiety slowly oozed away, till she sat almost

plaintively watching him. Then she smiled and shook her head slowly.

"Don’t get frightened, I won’t do anything foolish." She sprang up and

tossed her head. Then, turning to him, she said: "Say, Frank, do you

know Blanchard Cayley?"

 

"Why, I’ve just heard of him, that’s all. He’s a friend of Miss

Payson’s."

 

"She isn’t—fond of him, is she?" Fancy demanded.

 

"Oh, I hope not! Why?"

 

"Nothing. Only, I met him, one night, at Carminetti’s. Gay had just

thrown me down hard. He came round, afterward, and apologized." Fancy

looked across the room abstractedly as she talked. Upon the wall were

strung a collection of empty chianti bottles in their basket-work

shells, a caricature by Maxim, a circus poster and other evidence of her

recent conversion to the artistic life. She spoke with a queer

introspective manner. "I had a queer feeling about Mr. Cayley. You

know, for all I’m such a scatterbrain, I do like a man with a mind. I

like to look up to a man. He’s awfully well-read. Of course, he isn’t

as clever as you, but he sort of fascinates me—I don’t know why. He

interests me, although I can’t understand half he says. I suppose he

makes me forget. There’s nothing like knowing how to forget. But

you’re sure Miss Payson isn’t too fond of him?"

 

"I’d like to be surer," said Granthope. He, too, was looking fixedly

across the room—at the mottoes and texts upon the wall, on the mantel,

and over her bed—"Do it Now!" "Nothing Succeeds like Success"—and such

platitudes as, printed in red and black, are sold at bookshops for the

moral education of those unable to think for themselves.

 

Fancy slid gently off the bed, and dropped to the floor in front of him.

Her hand stole fondly for his, and clasped it, petting it.

 

"How is she, Frank?"

 

He put his hand on her hair and smoothed it affectionately. "Fine,

Fancy, fine."

 

"Oh—I hope it’s all right, Frank."

 

"I don’t know, Fancy. You’d hardly recognize me, these days. I’m

losing my sense of humor. I’m becoming a prig, I think."

 

Fancy laughed. "Well, there’s plenty of room in that direction. But I

don’t think she’d mind your being a devil occasionally. Women don’t

have to be saints to be thoroughbreds. And there’s many a saint that

would like to take a day off, once in a while!"

 

"Have you seen Vixley, lately?"

 

Fancy grew serious. "No. Is he still working the old man?"

 

"Yes, I suppose so. I saw him to-day. I offered him a thousand dollars

to leave town, Fancy."

 

Fancy looked up at him with wonder in her eyes. "Why, Frank! What do

you mean? A thousand dollars? Why, you haven’t got that much, have

you?"

 

"No. Not yet. But I’ll get it, somehow."

 

"You mean—that you’re trying—to save Payson—on her account, Frank?"

 

He avoided her glance. "On her account—and perhaps my own."

 

Fancy rose impulsively and put her arms about him. "Do let me hug you,

Frank, just once!"

 

He saw her eyes grow soft. She released herself quickly, as if the

embrace, simple as it was, hurt her. She stood in front of him and

watched him soberly.

 

"Frank, _I_ never could make you—" She stopped, the tears welling in

her eyes. Then she turned and ran out of the room.

 

He rose, too, and paced up and down, wondering at her mood. His track

was short, for the roof sloped on one side, and the place was encumbered

with Fancy’s paraphernalia and furniture. His eyes fell, after a while,

upon a cigar box on her bureau. It stood upright, under the mirror, and

had little doors, glued on with paper hinges, so that the two opened,

like the front of a Japanese shrine of Buddha. He went to it and looked

at it. Thoughtlessly, with no idea of committing an indiscretion,

little suspecting that it could hold anything private or sacred, he

swung the little doors open. Then he shut them hastily and walked to

the window with a clutch at his heart. Inside he had seen his own

photograph. Before it was a little glass jar with a few violets. They

were fresh, fragrant. Lettered upon a strip of paper pasted on the

inside was the inscription:

 

No Fair Falling In Love.

 

 

He walked away hurriedly to stare hard out of the window.

 

She came into the room again as he composed himself, and her face, newly

washed, was radiant. She reseated herself upon the bed, and, taking up

a pair of stockings, proceeded to darn a small hole in the heel.

 

"Have you got a position, Fancy?"

 

She laughed. "Vixley wrote me a note and told me he had a job for me if

I wanted it, but I turned him down. You couldn’t guess what I _am_

doing, Frank."

 

"What?"

 

"Detective." She looked up innocently.

 

"You don’t mean—"

 

"No! Just little jobs for the chief of police, that’s all. I’m

investigating doctors who practise without a license, that’s all. I

say, Masterson had better look out or he’ll get pulled."

 

"I’m sorry you haven’t anything better, Fancy. Miss Payson said she’d

get you a place in her father’s office if you’d go. Would you?"

 

"No." Fancy’s eyes were upon her needle.

 

"Why not?"

 

"Frank," she said, "do you remember asking me to inquire about that

soldier the little girl with freckles wanted to find?"

 

"Yes. I thought you said that the ticket agent at the ferry had left,

and so you couldn’t get anything."

 

"He was only off on a vacation. He’s come back, and I saw him

yesterday. He remembered that soldier perfectly—I don’t see how anybody

could fail to—he must look awful. He said he bought a ticket for Santa

Barbara."

 

"That’s good. I hope she’ll come in again," said Granthope. "She was a

nice little thing."

 

"She was real, Frank, and that’s what few people are, nowadays."

 

He looked at her for a minute. "There’s no doubt that you are, Fancy."

 

"I wish I were. I’m only a drifter, Frank." She kept on with her

darning, not looking up.

 

"Fancy, I want to do something for you. Won’t you let me help you?"

 

"I’m all right, Frank. I told you I wanted to have some fun before I

settled down again. But if I ever do need anything, I’ll let you know."

 

"Promise me that—that whenever you want me, you’ll send for me, or come

to me, Fancy!"

 

She looked up into his eyes frankly. "I promise, Frank. When I need

you, I’ll come."

 

She was a blither spirit after that, till he took his leave. It had

been an eventful day for Francis Granthope. He had swung round almost

the whole circle of emotions. But not quite.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XI*

 

*THE FIRST TURNING TO THE LEFT*

 

 

At five o’clock the next afternoon Blanchard Cayley sitting at a window

of his club, opening the letters which he had just taken from his box in

the office. He had his hat on, a trait which always aroused the ire of the older members. Beside him, upon a small table, was a glass of"orange squeeze," which he sipped at intervals.