The Heart Line 65

The Heart Line 65

"I’m sorry I’m just out of blushes," she said, rallying swiftly, "but

I’m as delighted as if I had as pretty a one as yours. Did you really

want to see me?"

 

"I’ve been wanting to see you for some time."

 

"Why?"

 

"I’ve been thinking about you."

 

"Think of your wasting your time on me! Why, any one with your brains

could think me to a finish in five minutes."

 

"I wanted to tell you something."

 

"I _hope_ it’s something sacred," said Fancy with a twinkle in her eyes.

"I love to have people tell me their most sacred thoughts." She smiled

like a spoiled child.

 

This was too much for Clytie, who laughed aloud. But she persisted. "I

hope you won’t think I’m trying to patronize you—"

 

"You look awfully pretty when you’re patronizing; I don’t mind it a

bit."

 

"I’m afraid it’s no use, you’re incorrigible."

 

"That’s a dandy word. I never thought of that. May I use it?"

 

"_Will_ you be serious?"

 

"You mustn’t mind me," Fancy said. "I never could do that running throb

in my voice. I’ve lost lots of things by not being able to cry to

order. But I’ll listen. What is it?"

 

"I know you’ve left Mr. Granthope’s office."

 

"Oh, yes. I got tired of the routine there. It’s awful to sit and

watch women who come to hear themselves talked about. It got on my

nerves. So I told Frank I’d have to quit or tell them the straight

truth about themselves."

 

Clytie looked at her curiously for a moment. Fancy turned away from her

glance. Clytie went on: "I wanted to see if I couldn’t get you a

position—perhaps with my father."

 

"Thank you, but I guess not." Fancy cast her eyes down. "I don’t care

to go to work just yet—I’m going to drift a while—it’s awfully kind of

you, though."

 

"Can’t you come and stay with me a while? I thought I might teach you

bookbinding and we could work together." Clytie herself was getting

somewhat embarrassed.

 

Fancy shook her head. "Sometime I’ll come and see you—but not now."

 

"Well, since Mr. Granthope has given up his business—"

 

Fancy changed in an instant; her frivolous manner fell off. She stared

at Clytie in surprise.

 

"Oh! I didn’t know that. _Has_ he?"

 

"Yes, he stopped last week."

 

Fancy’s gaze drifted off to seaward. She was fighting something

mentally. She turned her head away also. Finally she said, "I think I

understand."

 

"I think not, quite," Clytie answered softly.

 

Fancy’s eyes flashed back at her, brimming. "He gave it up on account

of _you_, Miss Payson, I’m sure."

 

"He did, in a way, but it was not altogether my doing."

 

"I know!" Fancy leaned her head on her hand wearily. "You did for him

what I never could do."

 

"I’m glad you wanted it." Clytie touched Fancy’s hand, as it lay limp

in her lap.

 

Instead of taking it, Fancy moved hers gently away. Then she roused

herself. "Oh, I _am_ glad! I’m _so_ glad, Miss Payson. He was too

good for that—I always told him so. But you are the only woman who

could have done that for him!"

 

"Indeed, you mustn’t think that I did it. He did it for himself."

 

Fancy smiled wistfully. "I know Frank Granthope. And I know the sort of

women he knew. I was one of them. And I could do nothing—nothing to

help him!"

 

"Ah, I don’t believe it! You _have_ helped him, I’m sure. I know by

the way you speak now."

 

"Oh, I know what you think!" Fancy retorted impetuously. "You think

that I am—that I was—in love with him. That’s not true, Miss Payson,

really it isn’t. I never was. We were good friends, that’s all. I’m

not suffering from a broken heart or pining away, or anything like that.

No secret sorrow for mine! But what’s the use of trying to explain! It

never does any good. I’m glad he’s found a woman who’s square and who’s

a thoroughbred like you! Why, Miss Payson, you can _make_ him! I saw

that long ago!"

 

She spoke in a hurried frenzy of denial. She seemed to feel the

inadequacy of it in Clytie’s eyes, however, and nerved herself again.

 

"You don’t believe it, Miss Payson, but it’s true! I give you my word

that he’s perfectly free. Of course, there was a sort of flirtation at

first, there always is, you know, but I wasn’t in earnest at all! I’m

too afraid of Frank—I’m not in his class. And I know he’s in love with

you—I saw it from the first."

 

"How _could_ he ever help loving such a frank, courageous, irresistible

girl as you!" Clytie wondered.

 

"Miss Payson," Fancy said, avoiding her eyes, "there’s a man I’m simply

crazy about—I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t explain. I never

explain. But you can be sure that there’s nothing doing with Frank, at

any rate. I didn’t intend to breathe it to a soul, but I know I can

trust you—I’m really—" she drew a quick breath and her eyelids

fluttered—"I’m—engaged, Miss Payson!"

 

Clytie was wearing, that day, a little gold chain from which hung a tiny

swastika. As she listened, she unfastened it and took it off and threw

it about Fancy’s neck. Fancy stopped in surprise.

 

"Won’t you let me give you this?" Clytie said eagerly. "Don’t ask me

why—I want you to have it and keep it for my sake. You know I have more

jewelry than I can wear, but I have always been very fond of this little

chain. It belonged to my mother."

 

Fancy’s eyes filled suddenly and her lips parted. Her hand flew up to

caress the chain affectionately. Then she cast down her eyes and a timid

smile trembled on her lips.

 

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

 

As she looked off at the water she lifted the chain softly to her lips

and kissed it. Then, loosening the collar of her waist, she allowed the

chain to drop inside to hang touching her warm pink breast.

 

Then slowly she turned her head and showed Clytie a new __EXPRESSION__,

childlike, demure, embarrassed. Her eyes, fluttering, went from Clytie’s

eyes to Clytie’s hair, to her slender, gracile hands. Then, with a

wistful emphasis, she said:

 

"Miss Payson, do you think I’m pretty?"

 

There was no need, this time, for her to define the adjective.

 

"Do you want me to tell you exactly?" Clytie answered. "I never saw a

woman yet to whom I couldn’t tell her best points better than she could

herself."

 

Fancy nestled a little nearer, warming herself at Clytie’s smile. "I

guess I can stand it. I’ll try to be brave," she said.

 

Clytie looked her over critically.

 

"First, I’d say that your ears are the most deliciously shaped,

cream-white, and the lobes are pure pink with a dab of carmine laid on

as if with a brush. The hair behind them has curls like little claws

clutching at your neck—and I don’t blame them! Your cheeks look as if a

rose-leaf had just been pressed against them."

 

"I believe I’m going to get the truth at last," Fancy murmured. "Oh, it

takes a woman, don’t it!" In spite of this jaunty speech the pink had

grown to scarlet in her cheeks, and she turned her eyes away in a

delighted, flattered embarrassment.

 

"Then, your mouth has a charming little dent at each corner, and your

lips curve in a perfect bow, and the nick above is just deep and strong

enough for a baby to want to put his little finger into. Your nose is

fine and straight and delicate—I can see the light through the bridge of

it, the skin is so transparent—like mother-o’-pearl. Your eyes are

clear and child-like and the rarest, deepest, pellucid brown. There’s a

moist purple shadow above them, and a warmer brown tone below. Your

lids crinkle and narrow your eyes like a kitten’s. Your hands are as

dewy-delicate as flowers—white above, faint rose in the palm, deepening

almost to strawberry in the finger-tips."

 

Fancy had laid her head on her arm, upon the railing. When she at last

lifted her eyes the tears trickled comically down her cheeks. "That’s

the first time a woman ever feazed me!" she said, snuffing, and feeling

for her handkerchief. "I’ll have to appoint you Court Flatterer!" She

explained the sovereignty that she enjoyed amongst the Pintos. Clytie,

amused, accepted the distinction conferred upon her.

 

Their talk ran on till the boat passed under the lee of Goat Island. It

rose, a bare, bleak slope of hillside on the starboard side. Fancy

watched the waters curdling below.

 

"Ugh!" she exclaimed. "It looks cold, don’t it! I’d hate to be down

there; it’s so wet. Isn’t it funny that suicides always jump overboard

right opposite Goat Island? There seems to be some fascination about

this place. And the bodies are never found. I suppose they drift out

through the Gate. The tide runs awfully strong here, they say."

 

She removed her gaze with an effort, adding, "I hate to think of it! Let’s come forward."