The Heart Line 60

The Heart Line 60

"Please don’t make a scene, father. I’m quite old enough to take care

of myself, and to judge for myself. You needn’t humiliate me."

 

"Humiliate you! If you’re not humiliated at being found here with a

cheap impostor, I don’t think I can shame you! This man is a rank

scoundrel and a cheat—I won’t have you compromise yourself with such a

mountebank!"

 

Granthope stood watching her unruffled, fearless pose, confident in her

power to control the situation.

 

"Mr. Granthope is my friend, father. Don’t say anything that you may

regret. I don’t intend to leave you alone with him till you are master

of yourself, and can say what you have come to say without anger. He

has respected your request not to call on me at the house, and I came

here of my own accord, without his invitation. And he has always

treated me as a gentleman should."

 

"A gentleman!" Mr. Payson sneered. "I know what he is—he’s a damned

trickster. I’ve always suspected it, but since I kicked him out of my

house I’ve had proof of it. I know his record"—he turned to

Granthope—"from persons who know you well, sir!"

 

"I suppose you mean Vixley or Madam Spoll."

 

"You can’t deny that they know you pretty well?"

 

"Your daughter knows more, I think. I have just taken the liberty of

informing her as to just how much of a scoundrel I am."

 

"And you have the impertinence to consider yourself her social equal!"

 

"I think Miss Payson’s position is sufficiently assured for her to be in

no danger."

 

"Well, yours certainly is not. I’ve heard of your lady-killing. I

suppose you want to add my daughter’s scalp to your belt. Haven’t you

women enough running after you yet? So you wheedled her with a

mock-confession—tried the cry-baby on her. Well, it won’t work with me.

I’ll tell her all about you, don’t be afraid!"

 

Clytie went to him and laid a hand gently upon his arm. "Father, we’ll

go, now, please. I can’t bear this. You need only to look about you to

see that, whatever Mr. Granthope has been, he is no longer a palmist.

You see this room is already dismantled—if you’ll only listen, I’ll

explain everything."

 

"It does look rather theatrical here." Mr. Payson looked at the piles

of velvet on the floor, then turned again to the young man. "It seems

that you have the audacity to want to marry my daughter. No doubt this

little scene is a part of the game. It’s very pretty, very effective.

But let me tell you that this sensational tomfoolery won’t be of any

use. You are a charlatan, sir! You’ve always been one, and you always

will be."

 

"Mr. Payson," Granthope said, with no trace of anger, "I can’t deny that

something of what you say is true, but your daughter knows that much

already, and she has it from a better authority than yours. I can’t

blame you for your feeling in this matter; it’s quite natural, for you

don’t know me. But I hope in time to induce you to believe in me. I

wish you would let me begin by doing what should have done when I first

met your daughter—warn you that you are in the hands of a dangerous set

of swindlers who are deceiving you systematically. I can tell you a

good deal that it will be greatly to your advantage to know about them."

 

The old man broke into ironic laughter. "That’s just what they told me

you’d say," he sneered. "They warned me that you’d try to libel them

and accuse them of all sorts of impossible tricks. Set a thief to catch

a thief, eh? No, that won’t work, Mr. Granthope. I happen to know too

much for that!"

 

"Won’t you listen to what he has to say, father? It can do no harm.

What do you know about those persons, after all? They are undoubtedly

trying to deceive you," Clytie said earnestly.

 

Granthope added: "I can tell you of tricks they habitually practise."

 

"What’s that to me? Haven’t I got eyes? Haven’t I common sense? Can

you tell me how they find out things about my own life that no one

living knows but me?"

 

"I can tell you how it was done in other cases—"

 

"Aha, I thought so—you can tell me, for instance, how to crawl through a

trap in the mopboard, can’t you? I’d rather hear how you impose on

silly women, if you’re going in for your confessions. What do you

expect me to believe? I am quite satisfied with my own ability to

investigate. I haven’t lived for fifty years in the West to be imposed

upon by flimflam. I’m not suffering from senile decay quite yet!"

 

He took Clytie to the door; there he paused dramatically, to deliver his

parting shot.

 

"I notice you’ve hidden away that young woman you’re living with. You

might as well send for her—my daughter is not likely to be back again in

a hurry."

 

As they left, Clytie gave him a look which denied her father’s words.

 

Granthope waited till the hall door had slammed, then went into the

office, where the red-haired boy was lolling out of the window.

 

"Jim," he said, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder, "I shall not need

you any more. Here’s your pay for the week. You needn’t come back."

 

Jim shuffled into his coat, whistling, pulled on his cap, and left

without a trace of regret. Granthope pulled a chair up to the grate.

The dusk fell, and he still remained, watching the fire.

 

 

It was after six o’clock when a knock awoke him from his reverie. He

called out a moody, annoyed, "Come in!" without rising.

 

Mrs. Page rustled in, bringing an odor of sandalwood. She was dressed in

a squirrel-coat and a Cossack cap, from which a long veil floated. Her

cheeks were rosy with the wind, her glossy hair coquetted over her

forehead in dark, springy curls. She stopped, her head on one side, her

arms saucily akimbo, as Granthope sprang up and snapped on the electric

light.

 

"Oh, I’m _so_ glad I found you!" she bubbled. "You’re run after so much

now that I knew it was only a chance, my finding you in. I hope I

didn’t disturb you at silent prayer, or anything, did I? You looked

terribly serious. Were you thinking of home and mother? If you don’t

look out, some day you’ll be framed and labeled _Pictures in the Fire_.

Now, you’re angry with me! What’s the matter? Don’t frown, please; it

isn’t at all becoming!"

 

She walked up to him, her hand outstretched. Lightly he evaded her and

forced a smile.

 

"What an iceberg you are, nowadays, Frank!" she laughed. "Don’t be

afraid; I’m not going to kiss you! It’s only little Violet, the Pride of

the Presidio. Please laugh! You used to think that was funny."

 

"Do have a seat, won’t you?" he said, in a half-hearted attempt to

conceal his distaste.

 

"Thanks, awfully, but really I can’t wait. I just simply tore to get

here, and I must go right off. You must come along with me; so get on

your hat and coat." She looked about the room for them.

 

"What is it?" he asked without curiosity.

 

"Why, a dinner, of course! What else could it be at this time of day?

It’s Mr. Summer’s affair, and I promised to get you."

 

"Mr. Summer is the latest, I suppose?"

 

She came back to him and took his coat by the two lapels, smiling up at

him.

 

"That’s mean, Frank! You know I never went back on you. But you as

much as gave me notice, as if I was a servant-girl. Gay’s a nice boy,

and I like him—that’s all. I’m educating him. Of course, he doesn’t

know what’s what, yet, but he’s rather fun. Do come—we’re going to have

dinner at the Poodle Dog, and the Orpheum afterward perhaps—Heaven knows

where it’ll end. There’s an awfully swell New York girl coming, a Miss

Cavendish, and she’s simply _dying_ to meet you. You’ll like her.

She’s a sport—you can’t feaze her—and she’s pretty enough to suit even

you. You can have her all to yourself. Come on!"

 

"I’m sorry, but I can’t go to-night," he said wearily.

 

"Oh, Frank, please! Not if I beg you?" She looked at him

languishingly, and tried for his hand.

 

"Really, no! I’m sorry, but I’m too busy."

 

Mrs. Page pouted and turned slowly toward the door.

 

"I suppose you’re afraid Gay’ll bore you. I’ll manage him. I’ve got

him trained. Or, if you say so—we’ll go alone? Just you and me. I can

get rid of them, some way."

 

He shook his head decidedly.

 

"Did you have such a dull time the last time over at the Hermitage?" she

tempted. "We might go there. I don’t know _when_ I’ll have another

chance. Edgar will be back soon." She raised her brows meaningly.

 

"It’s awfully good of you—but I can’t, possibly."

 

"You might say you’d _like_ to!"

 

"I don’t really care to, if you must have it!"

 

She bridled and tossed her head. "_Oh_, very well!" she sniffed, and

was off in a huff.

 

Granthope went to the desk, and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket,

unlocked the two lower drawers. The first contained a collection of

photographs of women. He drew them out in handfuls, stopping at one

occasionally, or turning it over to see what was written upon it. The

most were inscribed, on the back, or scrawled across the face, "To Mr.

Granthope"—several "To Francis"—one or two "To Frank, with love." All

types of beauty were represented, all sorts of costumes, all ages, all

phases of pretty women’s vanity. He looked at some with a puzzled

__EXPRESSION__, searching his memory for a clue to their identity. At a few

he smiled sarcastically, at some he frowned. Once or twice his face

softened to tenderness or pity. There was one of Fancy amongst them,

showing her in costume. It had been taken years ago, while she was

acting. He looked at it with a sort of wonder, she seemed so young, so

girlish. On the back was written, "N.F.F.I.L." He put it back into the

drawer and gathered up the others.

 

He made a heap of them and threw them upon the fire, then dropped into

the arm-chair to watch them burn. The flames passed from face to face,

licking up the features. It was like a mimic death.

 

The other drawer was filled with letters, tied into bunches. They were

all addressed in feminine handwriting, mostly of the fashionable,

angular sort. The envelopes were postmarked chiefly from San Francisco,

but there were not a few from Eastern cities and abroad. One out of

five bore special delivery stamps. A scent of mingled perfumes came from

them. He cut the packages open and threw them into the wastebasket without stopping to read a word.