the heart line 66

the heart line 66

They rose and went to the space of deck below the pilot-house and stood

by the rail. Already the tourists and emigrants were there, eager for a

first glimpse of the city. San Francisco stretched before them, a long,

pearl-gray peninsula, its profile undulating in a continuous series of

hills. Along the water front was a mêlée of shipping; behind, the

houses rose to the heaving, irregular sky-line where the blue was deep

and cloudless. The streets showed as gashes, blocking the town off into

parallel divisions. A few tall towers broke the monotony of the huddled,

colorless buildings. They passed a ferry-boat bound for Oakland, and a

foreign man-of-war lying at anchor, nosed by busy launches. The

_Piedmont_ rang down to half-speed, then the vibrations of the paddle

wheels stopped as she shot into the slip. There was a surge of

back-water, a rattling of chains and ratchets, the cables were fastened

and the apron lowered. The crowd surged forward and poured off the boat.

At the front of the Ferry Building Fancy stopped, offering her hand.

 

"Good-by," she said genially. "You’ve done me more good than a Picon

punch. I’m going home to wear my looking-glass out."

 

"You’ll never see half I do," Clytie replied, shaking her head.

 

"That’s because I haven’t got such fine eyes," countered Fancy.

 

"I think mine are never so pretty as when they have a little image of

you in them."

 

Fancy gave up the duel. "Well, I guess I’d better go quick before you

raise that! You play nothing but blue chips, and I can’t keep up!"

 

Clytie walked up Market Street alone. She turned into Geary Street at

the group of tall newspaper buildings by Lotta’s fountain, and in ten

minutes was knocking at Granthope’s office door. There being no

response she descended the stairs, crossed the street and went into the

square to wait for him upon a bench beside the soldiers’ monument.

 

There were two young women at the other end of the seat. One, scarcely

more than a girl, was pretty, in a demure, timid way; she was freckled

and tanned, her clothes were simple and neat. The other was of a

coarser grain, full-lipped, large-handed, painted and powdered, with

hard eyes and large features. She wore several cheap rings, and her

finery made her soiled and wrinkled garments look still more vulgar.

Clytie gave the two a glance and took no further interest in them until

she caught the mention of Granthope’s name.

 

She turned, astonished, to see the younger woman looking seriously at

the other. There was a charming earnestness in her face, and, though

her lower lip drooped tremulously, it was not weak; nor was her chin,

nor her nose, nor the gracefully reliant poise of her head.

 

"You ought to go see him, Kate!" she was saying. "I tell you he’s a

wonder! Why, if I hadn’t gone there I don’t know where I’d be now. I

know one thing, I wouldn’t be married. Why, when Bill was out in the

Philippines and didn’t write, I thought I’d lay down and die! I waited

about two months, and then I took five dollars I saved up for one of

them automobile coats they was all wearing, and I went to see Granthope.

What d’you think?—he wouldn’t take a cent off me! That’s the kind of a

man Granthope is! He said it would be all right and Bill would come back

and marry me. But I tell you, I had to do most of the courting!"

 

"You did, did you? Do you mean to say you run after a man like

that—without any nose? I never see such a face in my life! If he’d

only wear a patch or something it wouldn’t be so bad," commented her

companion.

 

"Bill wouldn’t do it; he’s too proud. Nobody’s ashamed of having only

one leg or one arm, why should they be of having a nose gone?"

 

"What did you think when you first see him, though? Wan’t it

disgusting, kind of?" her companion asked, making a sour face.

 

"Why, I was so proud of him that I didn’t see anything but a man who

loved me and who had fought for his country! But it was some time

before I _did_ see him, though. He did his best not to let me."

 

"How did you ever find him?"

 

"Why, finally Mr. Granthope located Bill down at Santa Barbara. He was

working as a gardener on a place a little ways out of town. Bill’s

captain give me the money to get down there. I guess I cried pretty

near all the way, thinking of Bill hiding out like a yellow dog without

any friends. Finally I found the place. Bill was living up in a room

over the stable."

 

She paused. "Go on!" said her companion. The woman’s voice had changed

somewhat. There was something more than curiosity in its tone.

Fleurette was looking down, now, fingering her jacket. Suddenly she

began to breathe heavily.

 

"Bill had a little dog named Dot. A fox terrier, it was. Bill says he

thought it was the only living thing that didn’t despise him on account

of his looks. He was awful fond of Dot. So was I, you bet. Dot’s dead,

now." She put a handkerchief to her eyes.

 

"Well, I was dead tired. I’d walked all the way from the station. I

was pretty hungry, too. I couldn’t afford to get dinner on the train,

and I couldn’t wait to stop to eat in Santa Barbara. And I was good and

trembly—because—well, I hadn’t seen Bill for over a year. I stumbled up

the stairs and knocked on the door, and when Bill heard my voice he

wouldn’t let me in. I heard him groan—O, God! it almost broke my heart!

He called through the door for me to go away. He said he didn’t love me

any more. Of course I knew he was lying. I didn’t know what to do.

Bill’s got an awful strong will. I didn’t know how to make him believe

I didn’t care how he looked. I just sat down on the stairs and begun to

cry. Then Dot begun to whine and scratch on the door. Bill couldn’t

stand _that_. He swore at him and kicked him. It was the only time he

ever struck him, but Dot _wouldn’t_ budge and kept scratching on the

door. It was terrible. So Bill wrapped a towel round his face and

opened the door. I just fell in his arms. But he put me away from him

and said he wouldn’t curse my life, and that I must go away."

 

The other girl was staring at her, awed. "What did you do?" she

whispered.

 

"Oh, I ran up to him again, and pulled off the towel and I kissed him."

She spoke almost impersonally.

 

Kate kindled, now. "Oh, Fleurette, did you? Gee, you were game!" She

giggled somewhat hysterically. "Lucky his mouth wasn’t shot off, wasn’t

it?"

 

Fleurette gazed off across the green and spoke as to one who knew not of

life’s realities, saying, simply:

 

"Oh, I didn’t kiss him on the mouth, Kate—there was plenty of time for

that! I kissed him right where that Moro bullet had wounded him!"

 

Kate shook her head slowly. "I guess you done right!" she said. Then,

"Say, I’d like to see Bill again, Fleurette."

 

Clytie arose, gave the girl one swift glance as she left, and walked

away. She had met two heroines that day, and her nerves were vibrating

like tense strings. She walked up and down the square, keeping her eyes

on Granthope’s doorway.

 

In half an hour she saw him striding up Geary Street. She followed him

rapidly, ran up the stairs and knocked again at his door. He opened it

and took her instantly into his arms. She lay there without speaking,

and there was a blessed interval of silence after his kiss.

 

The stimulating newness of possession thrilled him. She was still

strange, mysterious, of a different caste, and there was something

deliriously fearful in this familiarity as she lay captive, unresisting,

trembling in his embrace. He had set his trap for a sparrow and caught

a bird of paradise. He knew his power over her, now, though he dared

not test it. He dreaded to break the spell of her wonderful

condescension, her royal grace and favor. He was in no hurry to remove

her crown and scepter; the piquancy of his romance fascinated him.

 

She broke away from him with a gentle insistence, and looked at him,

rosy and smiling. "I’m afraid I’m just like all other women, after

all—and I’m glad of it!" she confessed, as she readjusted her hat and

sank into the arm-chair to look up at him fondly.

 

"I don’t suppose you realize how strange it seems for me to act this

way?" she said. "No man has ever held me in his arms before. I have

never thought of the possibility of it—even with you. All that sort of

demonstration has been inhibited—I have always wondered if I had any

passion in me. Of course, when I kissed you the other time it was

different—it was the seal of a compact. But this time it seemed so

natural that I didn’t think. This is the end of my virginal serenity

for ever. I think you have awakened me at last!"

 

She broke into happy laughter. "Did I do it well, dear? I’m ashamed to

think how inexperienced I am—and you have known so many cleverer women.

If you call me amateurish, I’ll slay you! But I think I shall be an apt

pupil, though. Francis, stop laughing at me, or I’ll go home!"

 

Her naïveté was breaking up that glorified seraphic vision he had held

of her and put her more nearly on his level, or, perhaps, raised him to

her. He let his wonder fade slowly. However, with all his customary

audacity he could not yet match her mood. She saw his reserve and took a

woman’s delight in wooing him.

 

"Must I convince you that I am flesh and blood?" she exclaimed with

spirit. "And you—the lady-killer—the hero of a hundred victories—you

don’t seem to know that you have me at your feet! Nor how proud I am of

it!"

 

Then she jumped up and took his hands in hers softly. "You must be very

good to me, Francis, dear, for I’m simple and ignorant compared to the

women you’ve known, I suppose. But I’m a woman, after all. I don’t

want to be worshiped. I want the tenderness of an honest man’s love,

such as other women have. I want my divine birthright. I’ve been aloof

from men all my life. That doesn’t make me any less desirable, does it?

I’ve never met a man who answered my demands. You do, or you will

before I’m through with you. Don’t think I’m going to be all moonshine

and vapors. I’m going to love you till stars dance in the heavens!

That’s what you get for wakening me, my friend! I’ve been asleep,

floating in dreams. I want a man’s strength and chivalry and audacity

and vigor and romance, instead of the painted shadows I’ve known.

Aren’t you afraid of me?" She dropped her head to his shoulder.