The Heart Line 54

The Heart Line 54

"Oh, yes, we played together—but only as amateurs." She smiled

mischievously.

 

Cayley followed her up. "He has a fine presence; I should think he’d be

good at it. He has lots of women running after him, hasn’t he?"

 

"Oh, he did have—women to throw at the birds—women to warm up for

supper—women to burn, and he burned ’em, too. But he won’t stand for

them now," said Fancy.

 

"What’s the matter? Is he stung?" He filled her glass again.

 

"Yep. He’s cut ’em all out—even me. That’s why I’m here."

 

"But he works them, though?"

 

"Oh, no, Blan, Frank’s straight, sure he is. He doesn’t graft any more.

He hasn’t for—some time."

 

"I don’t believe that," said Cayley.

 

"Oh, of course, he investigates cases sometimes, but he don’t work with

cappers the way he did. He’s going in for high society now, and he

doesn’t need to do anything but wear a swallow-tail and get up on his

hind legs and drink tea."

 

Blanchard took a chance shot. "I hear he’s trying to marry a rich

girl."

 

Fancy, for the first time, seemed to come to herself. She looked hard at

Cayley.’ "What are you driving at, Blan? What do you want to talk about

that for? It’s all off between me and Frank, but I’m not going to knock

him. He’s all right, Frank is. I’d rather talk about Me, please! Talk

about Fancy, Blan, won’t you? Fancy’s so tired of talking shop."

 

Her elbow was upon the table and her little round chin in her palm, as

she looked at him under drooping, languorous lids. "How pretty am I,

Blan? Tell me! There’s nothing quite so satisfactory, after a good

dinner, as to hear how pretty you are."

 

He looked quizzically at her, and quoted: "’_Tout repas est exquis qui a

un baiser pour dessert_.’"

 

"What does that mean, Blan? I don’t understand Dago talk."

 

"It means that you’re pretty enough to eat, and I’m going to eat you,"

he replied, making a motion toward her.

 

She put him off gaily, but only as if to delay the situation. "Oh,

pshaw! haven’t you had enough to eat yet? That won’t go with me, Blan;

I’ve got to have real eighteen carat flattery put on with a knife. I can

stand any amount of it. I love it! Whether you mean it or not—I don’t

care, so long as it sounds nice, I’ll believe it. I’ll believe anything

to-night. Now, how do you like my eyes, Blan?"

 

He took a long, close look at them, then with an amused smile he said:

"Mountain lakes at sunset shot with refracted fires. Or, electric light

on champagne—will that do?"

 

Fancy pouted. "I knew a fellow once who told me they were just like the

color of stones in the bed of the brook ... When I was up at Piedra

Pinta, I looked in a shallow part of the creek—where I could see my

reflection and the bottom at the same time..." Her voice died off in a

dreamy monotone; then she looked up at him again sleepily.

 

"How about my nose?"

 

"_Thy nose is as the tower of Lebanon which looketh toward Damascus_,"

he quoted.

 

"Whatever does that mean?" She opened her eyes as wide as she could.

"Is my poor old nose as big as that?" She felt of it solemnly.

 

"It is straight and strong and full of character. And _Thy lips are like

a thread of scarlet, ... thy teeth are like a flock of sheep ... which

come up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins_."

 

"That’s _very_ swell, indeed," said Fancy, "is it original?"

 

He laughed. "No. It’s from one of the oldest poems in the world."

 

"I’d like to read that book." Fancy was getting drowsy. "Tell me some

more."

 

"_Thine head upon thee is like Carmel..._"

 

"I’m glad we’re getting into California at last."

 

"_And the hair of thine head like purple;—_"

 

She shook her head, "Oh, no, don’t call it purple, please. Frank says

it’s Romanesque."

 

"_Thy neck is as a tower of ivory._"

 

"That’s the _second_ tower," said Fancy, closing her eyes, "I guess

that’ll be about all for the towers. I think I’d rather have you make

it up as you go along. It’s more complimentary." She laid her head upon

her arms on the table. "My ears are really something fierce, aren’t

they?"

 

Cayley touched them in investigation. "They’re a bit too small, of

course, and they’re very pink, but they’re like rosy sea-shells touched

by the dawn."

 

Fancy murmured softly: "’She sells sea-shells. She shells

sea-shells—She shells she shells’—say, I’m getting woozly."

 

She roused herself to laugh softly; her head drooped again.

 

"Then I’ll let you kiss them—once!" she whispered.

 

"I’m afraid I talked too much last night," she said to him the next

evening. "I hope I didn’t say anything, did if I didn’t quite know what

I was doing. Funny how the red stuff throws you down!"

 

"Oh, no, you didn’t give anything away. You’re pretty safe, for a

woman."

 

"Coffee’s what makes _me_ talk," she said, "if you ever want to make me

loosen up, try about four small blacks and I’ll use up the dictionary."

 

He saw her nearly every day after that, but, even with the aid of

coffee, he was unsuccessful in his attempts to make her more

communicative. At the mention of Granthope’s name she froze into

silence or changed the subject.

 

A few days after the dinner he invited her across the bay to Tiburon

where Sully Maxwell had given him the use of one of the dozen or more

house-boats anchored in the little harbor. Fancy was delighted at the

prospect of a day with him, and early on Sunday morning she was ready at

the ferry. As she waited with her basket of provisions, saucily and

picturesquely dressed in a cheap outing costume of linen, Dougal and

Elsie came up to her.

 

"Hello, Queen," Dougal cried, and he shook both her hands heartily, his

round gargoyle face illuminated with cordiality. "Where have you been

all this time? We’ll have to try you for desertion. You haven’t

abdicated, have you? We’ve been wanting to find you and have you go up

to Piedra Pinta with us. The bunch is all up there now; Elsie and I

were only just able to get off. Can’t you come along with us?"

 

"Oh, do!" Elsie pleaded, putting her arm about Fancy’s slender waist.

 

"No, I’m sorry, but I can’t, really; I’m going to Tiburon with Blanchard

Cayley."

 

Dougal’s face clouded. "Say, what do you want to run with that lobster

for? You’re altogether too good for him."

 

"I guess I’m in love with him," said Fancy, still holding Dougal’s hand

and looking up into his face with a quaint __EXPRESSION__.

 

"You _aren’t_!" they chorused.

 

"Oh, I am, I am; I’m sure I am!" she repeated insistently. "I’ve liked

him ever since the first time I saw him. What’s the use of pretending?

Don’t say anything against him, please. I’m so happy—I’m _perfectly_

happy, Dougal." The tears came to her eyes.

 

"I know what’ll happen," Dougal said, his pale eyebrows drawn together.

"He’ll play with you for a while, and then he’ll throw you down hard as

soon as he’s through with you, or another girl comes along."

 

"Then I hope she won’t show up for a good while," said Fancy cavalierly.

 

"And when it’s over?" said Elsie.

 

Fancy dropped her eyes. "When it’s over—I don’t know." She looked up.

"When it’s over I suppose I’ll sell apples on Market Street. What else

will there be for me to do?"

 

"Oh, don’t; you frighten me," Elsie cried; "we’re all so fond of you,

Fancy. Remember, we’re your friends, and we’d do anything to help you."

 

Fancy stooped down and kissed her. "Don’t worry. Elsie, I’m pretty

lively yet. Only you know I don’t do things by halves. I suppose I

take it rather seriously."

 

Elsie stared at her. "You’re so different."

 

"Oh, Fancy’ll get over this. She got over Granthope all right, and she

got over Gay Summer."

 

The tears surged into Fancy’s eyes again. "Don’t say that, Dougal. I’m

no quitter. I don’t get over things. I may bury them and cake-walk

over their graves, but I don’t forget my friends."

 

He grinned jovially and wrung her hand till she winced, then he slapped

her on the back. "Well, you know where we are when you want us. We’re

with you for keeps; you can’t lose us, Fancy, remember that."

 

Fancy squeezed his big hairy hand.

 

Elsie added, "But you’ll be awfully talked about. Fancy, do be careful."

 

"Will I?" said Fancy. "I don’t care. If I like Blan and he likes me, I

don’t care who knows it."

 

"Are you going to marry him?" Elsie ventured.

 

"He hasn’t said anything about it—yet—but I’m not thinking of that. All

I want is for somebody to love me. I’ll be satisfied with that."

 

"You’re all right, Fancy; only I hope you’re not in for a broken heart,"

said Dougal.

 

"Just imagine Fancy with a broken heart!" Elsie laughed.

 

"Oh, you don’t believe me, but you will sometime."

 

Fancy’s eyes were not for them all this while. She was watching the

passengers approaching the ferry, her glance darting from one to the other, scanning the cable-cars which drew up at the terminus, questing up toward Market Street, and along the sidewalks and crossings.