The Heart Line 58

The Heart Line 58

"Do you love me, Blan?" she asked, warming to him as the sun went down.

 

"Why, of course I do; haven’t I been apodictically adoring you?"

 

She looked at him, bewildered. "I thought there was something queer

about it; perhaps that’s it. But you haven’t called me ’dear’ once."

 

"But I’ve called you ’Nepenthe’ and ’Chloe’." He looked down at her

patronizingly.

 

"’Darling’ is good enough for me—I guess I like the old-fashioned words

best, dear," she whispered shyly.

 

He quoted:

 

"Some to the fascination of a name

Surrender judgment hoodwinked,"

 

and laughed to himself at the appositeness of Cowper’s lines.

 

"Oh, yes, you know some lovely poetry, Blan, but I’m afraid I’m not

poetical. I like the things they say in songs,—things I can understand.

I’d rather hear slang—"

 

"’The illegitimate sister of poetry—’"

 

She looked up at him blankly. Then she sighed and turned her eyes off

to the darkling water.

 

"No one ever made love to suit me, somehow—men are queer—they’re so

blind—they seem to know so little about the things that mean a lot to a

woman." She shivered. "It’s getting chilly, isn’t it. I’m cold."

 

"Shall I get you a wrap?"

 

She took his arm and placed it about her shoulder. "That’ll do," she

said.

 

"Fancy, you are adorable—you’re absolutely complete. You’re

unique—you’re a nonpareille!"

 

"I’d rather be a peach," she confessed, snuggling closer.

 

"You are, Fancy—a clingstone! I’d like to kiss you to death."

 

"Now, _that’s_ the stuff!"

 

"I’m sorry you don’t appreciate my compliments," he remarked, after this

little episode.

 

"I’m afraid I don’t. I’m sorry I’m not intellectual, Blan, but I’d

rather have you call me a ’damn fool’ if you said it lovingly, than have

you say pretty things I can’t understand."

 

"All right, then, you’re a damn fool!"

 

She laughed happily. "Thank you, Blan, dear, that was nice! I believe

you’re improving."

 

"Oh, if you prefer Anglo-Saxon, I’ll call you a piece, a jade, baggage,

harridan, hussy, minx—"

 

"Yes, but you must put ’dear’ at the end, you know, to show that you’re

not in earnest."

 

"I’ll try to remember."

 

Fancy went on:

 

"It’s wonderful to be out here, all alone with you on the water, cut off

from everything. It satisfies me gorgeously—it’s like the taste of

ice-cream to a hungry little kid. I remember how I used to long for it.

I was awfully poor and lonely once. I believe I’m happy now. What do

you think it is, Blan, you or the coffee? Don’t you want to hold my

hand? Let’s just sit here and forget things—but I haven’t very much to

forget, have I? I’d like to read books and know some of the things you

do—but it’s too late now—I guess I’ll always be ign’ant."

 

"Oh, I’ll teach you all the things you want to know," he said

condescendingly. "You’re good material and you’d learn quickly. I

could make a wonder out of you with a little training. I’ll give you

lessons if you like."

 

"I accept," said Fancy Gray.

 

Then she added:

 

"I don’t expect you’ll love me very long, Blan, but you must make up for

it by loving me as much as you can. That’s where I can teach you. Men

aren’t faithful like women are—I’m glad I’m a woman, Blan."

 

"I’m glad you are," he echoed.

 

The night fell, and they began reluctantly to make preparations for

their departure. While Cayley was busy in the kitchen, packing up a

basket to be returned, Fancy went into the little white state-room to do

her hair and put on her wrap.

 

As she came out she noticed a little card-tray in the corner of the

living-room, and idly turned the names over, one by one. Of a sudden

her hand fell, and her eyes were fixed intently upon a card that had

just come into sight. It bore the legend:

 

MR. FRANCIS GRANTHOPE

 

 

She threw herself upon the couch by the window and broke into sobs.

 

"Say, Fancy! It’s after seven o’clock," Cayley called to her from the

kitchen.

 

She stumbled to her feet and went out on deck, dipped her handkerchief

in the salt water and bathed her eyes. Cayley came out just as she

finished. It was too dark, now, to notice her __EXPRESSION__.

 

They took the rowboat which had been nuzzling alongside the flank of the

ark all day, made for the shore and went aboard the steamer.

 

It was crowded with Sunday picnickers, who came trooping on in groups,

singing, the girls flushed and sunburned with hair distraught and dusty

shoes; the men in jovial, uncouth disarray in canvas and in corduroy,

like tramps and vagabonds, laden with ferns and flowers. Hunters, with

guns and dogs, tramped aboard; fishermen, with rods and baskets; tired

families, lagging, whining, came in weary procession. Both decks of the

boat were crowded. A brass band struck up a popular air. The

restaurant, the bar and the bootblack stand all did a great business.

 

Cayley and Fancy Gray went to the upper deck for a last draft of the

summer breeze. As they sat there, talking little, watching the throng

of uneasy passengers, Fancy called his attention to a couple sitting

opposite.

 

It was a strangely assorted pair, the girl and the man. She was about

twenty years of age, with a pretty, earnest, freckled face and a modest

air. She was talking happily, with undisguised fondness, to the young

man beside her. His face was hideous, without a nose. In its place was

a livid scar and a depression perforated by nostrils that made his

appearance malign. He wore nothing to conceal the mutilation, shocking

as it was. His manner toward the girl was that of a lover, devoted and

tender.

 

"Did you ever see anything so awful?" said Fancy. "And isn’t she

terribly in love with him though! I know who she is; her name is

Fleurette Heller. She came into Granthope’s studio once and I took a

great liking to her. Frank told her that her love affair would come out

all right, and she’d be happier than she ever was in her life before."

 

"I don’t see how she can endure that object," said Cayley.

 

"Don’t you?" said Fancy, "that’s because you don’t know women. She’s in

love with him. I understand it perfectly. I wouldn’t care a bit how he

looked."

 

She nodded, as she spoke, to a man who passed just then. He was

dark-skinned, with a pointed beard. He gave her a quick jerk of the head

and grinned, showing a line of yellow teeth, and his glance jumped with

the rapidity of machinery from her face to Cayley’s, and away again. He

walked on, his hands behind his back against a coat so faded and shiny

as to glow purple as a plum.

 

Fancy’s eyes followed him. "That’s Vixley," she said.

 

Cayley’s look turned from a pretty blonde across the way and he became

immediately attentive. "Who’s Vixley?"

 

"Why, Professor Vixley, the slate-writer, you know."

 

"Oh, yes—he’s a medium, is he? What sort is he?"

 

She shook her head. "Wolf! He makes me sick. I’m afraid of him, too.

He’s out after Granthope with a knife, and I’m afraid he’ll do for him

some day. Frank ought never to have stood in with him, but you know he

used to live with a friend of this man’s when he was little, and they’ve

got a hold on him he can’t break very well."

 

"They know things about him?"

 

"Yes, in a way. Before he braced up. He’s square now, and he’s trying

to shake that bunch. Poor old Frank!"

 

Cayley pulled at his mustache. "I wish I had noticed Vixley."

 

"Why?"

 

"Oh, I’d like to see him, that’s all. He must be a pretty clever fakir.

Of course he isn’t straight?"

 

"As a bow-knot," said Fancy, "but if he amuses you, I’ll introduce you

to him. I’ve got a pretty good stand-in with him, yet." She smiled

sadly.

 

"Suppose you do. I’d like to hear him talk."

 

"All right," said Fancy. They rose and walked in the medium’s

direction, encountering him on the foreward deck. He was holding his

hat against the fresh breeze and gazing at the approaching lights of the

city. The meeting was somewhat constrained at first. Vixley seemed to

be embarrassed at Cayley’s aristocratic appearance, and evidently

wondered what his motive was in being introduced. Cayley, however, was

sufficiently a man of the world to be able to put the medium at his

ease. He told stories, he made jokes, and gradually drew Vixley out.

The wolf talked gingerly, making sure of his ground, his little black

eyes shifting from one to the other, whether he spoke or listened.

Cayley held him cleverly until the crowd began to descend, making ready

for the disembarkation. They went down to the lower deck. Here the crowd had begun to pack together into a close mass, jostling, joking, singing—all sorts and conditions of men in a common holiday mood.