The Heart Line 59

The Heart Line 59

"It’s in the air, here—the gambling instinct is paramount!" he said.

"Almost everybody gambles in San Francisco. You know that well enough.

You can almost hear the rattle of the slot-machines on the cigar-stand

at the corner, down there. It’s that way all over town. The gold-fever

has never died out. Every one speculates or plays the races or bets on

ball games or on the prize-fights, or plays faro or poker or bridge—or,

at least, makes love. They’re all superstitious, all credulous, all

willing to take risks and chances, and so the mediums thrive. Tips are

sought for and paid for. Every one wants to get rich quickly and not

always scrupulously. It’s not a city of healthy growth; it’s a town of

surprises, of magic and madness and rank enthusiasms. We pretended to

show them the short cuts to success, that’s all. You know, perhaps, how

the money-getting ability can eclipse all other faculties, and you won’t

be surprised when I tell you that we made large sums from men of wealth

and prominence—they were the easiest of the lot, usually."

 

She brought him back to his story. "Of course I understood from what I

heard, that you had been an accomplice of these mediums. I don’t think

you need to go into that."

 

"Oh, you don’t know all! It will sicken you to have me go into the

actual details, but I want you to know the worst. I think I must tell

you, lest others may. One picture will be enough to make you see how

vulgar and despicable I had become in that epoch. You’d never get to

the sordidness of it unless I told you in so many words. Do you think

you can stand it? You may not want ever to know me again. God! I

don’t know whether I _can_ tell you or not! It’s terrible to have to

sully you with the description of it!"

 

For a moment she faltered, gazing at him, trembling. Her eyes sought his

and left them, often, as she spoke. "You don’t mean—I’ve heard that some

of these mediums—the vilest of them—don’t hesitate to—take advantage of

the sensual weakness of their patrons—that they—Oh, don’t tell me that

you ever had any part in _that_!" She covered her face.

 

He walked over to her and pulled her hands away, looking down into her

eyes. "Do you think I would ever have kissed you if I had?" he said.

"No, there were depths I didn’t fall to, after all. Oh, I’ve had my way

with women often enough; but not that way."

 

She threw off her fears with a gesture of relief, and her mood changed.

"I believe you. But don’t tell me any more, please. I think I know, in

a way, just about what you were capable of, and some things I couldn’t

bear to think about. But my reason has always fought against my

intuition whenever I suspected you of any real dishonor. Thank Heaven I

shall never have to do so again! I think I was wise enough to see how,

in all this, you had the inclinations without the opportunities for

better things. You were a victim of your environment. Spare me any

more. I can’t bear to see you abase yourself so. I am so sure you have

outlived all this. It’s all over. I have told you that I love you. I

shall always love you!"

 

He yearned for her—for the peace and support that she could give him at

this crisis, but his pride was too hot, yet, for him to accept it; he

had not finished his confession. She was still on a pedestal—he admired

and respected her, but she was above his reach. He could not quite

believe that hint in her eyes, for her halo blinded him. She was still

princess, seeress, goddess—not yet a woman he could take fearlessly to

his arms. His hesitation at her advances, therefore, was reluctant,

almost coy. He did not wish to take her from her niche; he must first

receive absolution. After that—he dared not think. She had allured him

in the first stages of his acquaintance, she still allured him; but her

spiritual attributes dominated him. "I think I am another man, now," he

said, "but my repentance is scarcely an hour old. It is too young; it

has not yet proved itself. It’s not fair for me to accept all you can

give for the little I can return. I must meet you as an equal."

 

She looked at him calmly. "It is more than a few hours old," she said.

"Do you think I don’t know? What I first saw in you I have watched grow

ever since. I told you all I could; it was not for me to help you more.

It was for you to help yourself—to develop from within. I think you

were all ready for me, and I came at the psychological moment." She

looked around the room from which the sunlight had now retreated,

leaving it shadowy and dim. The hangings of black velvet were scattered

about the floor, the little table and its two chairs were like a group

of skeletons, empty, satiric, suggestive of past vanities. "’What is to

come is real; it was a dream that passed,’" she quoted.

 

He found a new courage and a new hope. It shone in his eyes, it tingled

in his body; something of his old audacity returned. He stood dark and

strong before her.

 

"Oh, you have helped, indeed!" he said. "I think this would never have

come alone, for I was sunk in an apathy—and yet, I’m not sure. The old

life was no longer possible. I confess that I was in a trap, threatened

with exposure—I feared your discovery of what I had been—I smarted under

the shame of your disapproval—but it was not that that influenced me. It

was like a chemical reaction, as all human intercourse is; you

precipitated all this deceit and hypocrisy at one stroke and left my

mind clear."

 

"I’m so glad you feel it that way," Clytie said. "It brings us

together, doesn’t it? It lessens the debt you would owe me." Her

eyelids crinkled in a delicious __EXPRESSION__ of humor, as she added, "And

it makes this place seem a little less like a Sunday-school room!"

 

"Oh, I suppose many a man has refused to reform for fear of being

considered a prig!" he laughed. "But I haven’t swept out all the

corners yet. I must finish cleaning house before I invite you in."

 

"Why should we talk about it any more?"

 

"But it isn’t all over!" he exclaimed. "I haven’t told everything.

It’s all over, so far as I am concerned—I shall not go back—but now you

are involved in it. Could anything drag me lower than that?"

 

"What do you mean?" she asked.

 

"Only that, because of my fault in not warning you before, your father

has already become the latest dupe for this gang of fakirs. I’m afraid

he’s in their power. Hasn’t he told you anything about it?"

 

"A little. What is there to fear from them?"

 

"Of course, it’s only his money they’re after. They have got hold of

considerable information about him—I don’t know just how or what—and

they have succeeded in hoodwinking him into a belief that they have

supernatural powers. I’m afraid it’s no use for me to attempt to expose

them. He’d never believe anything I could say."

 

"No, that’s useless. He has taken a violent prejudice against you, for

some reason."

 

"Oh, the reason is easy to find. I’ve made enemies of Madam Spoll and

Vixley, and they have probably done their best to hurt my reputation.

They made me a proposition to join them; in fact, their scheme was for

me to work you for information—make love to you, in order to help them

rob your father."

 

Clytie looked at him trustfully. "You can never convince me that that

was the reason why you were attracted to me, for I shall not believe

you!" She patted his hand affectionately, as he sat at her feet.

 

He shook his head. "I don’t know—I wouldn’t be sure it wasn’t."

 

"Ah, I know you better!" She grew blithe, and a mischievous smile

appeared on her lips. Her eyes twinkled as she said archly: "Perhaps I

may say that I know myself better, too. I’m vainer than you seem to

think, and you’re not at all complimentary. Don’t you think—don’t you

think that—perhaps—I myself had something to do with your attentions to

me?" She put her head on one side and looked at him with mock coquetry.

 

His eyes feasted upon her beauty. "I won’t be banal enough to say that

you are different from every woman I have ever known, or that you’re the

only woman I ever loved, though both of those things are true enough.

If I had ever loved any other woman, probably I should feel just the

same about you as I do now. But no woman has ever stirred me mentally

before. You have given me myself—nobody else could ever have done that.

I have nothing to give you in return—nothing but twenty-odd mistaken,

misspent years."

 

"And how many more to be wonderfully filled, I wonder? You’re only a

child, and I must teach you. Can you trust me? Remember that I knew

you when you were a little boy."

 

"I wonder what will become of me? I suppose I shall get on somehow. It

doesn’t interest me much yet, but I suppose it will have to be

considered. I’ll fight it out alone." He looked up suddenly. "When do

you go East?"

 

She smiled. "I came down here to tell you that I should leave on

Saturday."

 

He jumped up with a bitter look and walked to the window.

 

She looked over to him with her eyes half shut and a delectable

__EXPRESSION__ upon her lips. "But I’ve decided not to go—at all!"

 

She almost drawled it.

 

In an instant he was back at her side, borne on a flood of happiness.

For a moment he looked at her hard. His eyes went from feature to

feature, to her hands, her hair in silent approval. Then he exclaimed

decidedly:

 

"Oh, you can’t link yourself with me in any way. I’m a social

outcast—why, now, I haven’t even the advantage of being a picturesque

adventurer! You will compromise yourself fearfully—you’ll be

ostracized—oh, it’s impossible—I can’t permit it!"

 

"You need not fear for yourself—or for me," she said, clasping his hand.

"If I love you, what do I care—what should you care? I have come to you

like Porphyria—but I am no Porphyria—you’ll have no need to strangle me

in my hair—my ’darling one wish’ will be easier found than that!"

 

There was something in the unrestrained fondness of her look, now, that

made him jump to a place beside her. What might have followed was

interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice in the anteroom, demanding

Mr. Granthope. Clytie sprang up, her cheeks burning. Granthope turned

coolly to the door, with his eyebrows lifted. Mr. Payson appeared at

the entrance. He was scowling under his bushy eyebrows, the muscles of

his face were twitching. A cane was firmly clenched in his right hand.

He bent a harsh look at his daughter.

 

"What does this mean, Clytie?" he demanded.

 

She had recovered on the instant and faced him splendidly, in neither

defiance nor supplication. "It means," she said in her low, steady

voice, "that as you won’t permit me to receive Mr. Granthope in your

house, I must see him in his.""Leave this room instantly!" he thundered bombastically.