The Heart Line 67

The Heart Line 67

He needed no further hint. He put away her halo and her crown, he drew

the ermine from her, and the vision in her eyes was made manifest. But

it was still too new for her to more than sip at the cup of delight; she

would take her happiness by epicurean inches. So she slid away and

evaded him, putting the chair half-mockingly between them.

 

"My father has forbidden me to come down here to see you," she said.

"It’s really quite romantic. But of course I told him I should come,

nevertheless, so we can’t quite call it clandestine. He’ll never dare

ask me if I’ve been here. He’s quite afraid of me, when I insist upon

having my own way."

 

"Have you said anything about Madam Spoll and Vixley to him?"

 

"Yes, but that’s no use. They certainly seem to have given him some

wonderful tests—I don’t see how they could have done so well—and he’s

absolutely convinced. I don’t see what we can do, unless we wait for

them to go too far and arouse his suspicions. I can’t think he’s

feeble-minded. They’re making him pay, though that’s the least of the

matter."

 

"I have had an idea that I might get hold of one of the gang—a Doctor

Masterson—and induce him to sell them out. He’s a turncoat, and if he

only knows enough about their game he could be bribed."

 

"I must leave it to you, Francis. I don’t like that method, exactly,

but we must do what we can. Perhaps it will settle itself. We can do

nothing yet, at any rate. To-day I’ve come down to ask you to invite me

to lunch, please!"

 

"With pleasure—only, if I must confess—I don’t know that I can offer you

a very good one. Wait I’ll see how much money I have left." He felt

doubtfully in his pocket, and added, "Oh, that’s all right, we can go to

the Palace."

 

Clytie was instantly suspicious. "How much have you?"

 

"Quite enough."

 

"Answer me, sir!"

 

"About twelve dollars."

 

She gasped. "Do you mean to say that’s _all_ you have left?"

 

"Everything. But my rent is paid for a month in advance."

 

"Have you any debts?"

 

"Naturally. Two hundred dollars or so, that’s all."

 

She came up to him and worked her finger into his buttonhole. "Francis

Granthope," she said solemnly, "are you really—ruined?" Her eyes

danced.

 

"Oh, I’ve got enough junk in my chamber to pay that off, I expect, but

it won’t leave me exactly affluent."

 

She burst into a delicious chime of laughter. "Why, it’s positively

melodramatic, isn’t it? I never happened to know any one who was

actually bankrupt before. Of course it must happen, sometimes, but

somehow I thought people could always raise some money, even if they had

to scrimp. How exciting it is—aren’t you nervous about it? Why, I’d be

frightened to death! And yet it seems terribly amusing!"

 

He laughed with her. "I can’t seem to take it very seriously, while

you’re with me, at any rate. To tell the truth, I haven’t begun to think

about it yet. Of course my fees have always been in cash, and

consequently there’s nothing coming in. And I’ve always spent every

cent I made, and a little more. But I’ve been broke before, and it

doesn’t alarm me, except that, of course, I can’t depend upon living by

my wits in quite the same way as I would have, if I hadn’t chucked that

sort of thing. If I didn’t care how I did it, I suppose I could make a

hundred or so a week easily enough."

 

She listened and grew more serious. "Of course that’s all over. But

you’ve got to have money! Let’s see what I have with me." She took her

purse from her bag and emptied it upon the desk. Several ten- and

twenty-dollar gold pieces rolled out.

 

Granthope shook his head sharply. "No, don’t do that, please! I can’t

take anything, even as a loan, you know. I can’t spend a cent I haven’t

honestly earned—I never shall again, if I have to starve, which I don’t

intend to do, either. You must know that."

 

"But from me—isn’t that different?"

 

"Not even from you!"

 

"Of course you mustn’t. I see. It’s better not to, yet somehow I could

have forgiven you if you had let me help a little at first. I don’t

exactly see how you’re going to live. Why, it’s awful, when you come to

think of it, isn’t it? It really is serious. What a goose I’ve been!

I’m afraid I shall worry about you now. Well, you’ll have to have lunch

with _me_ to-day, anyway. That’s only fair, if I invite you."

 

"On the contrary, I’m going to invite you to share my humble meal."

 

"All right; let’s be reckless then, if you _must_ be proud and show off.

It will be fun. I never economized in my life, but now I’m going to

show you how. Hand over all your wealth, please."

 

She counted it out upon the desk, a five dollar piece, six silver

dollars and two halves and a few nickels. "Now," she said, "how long

can we make this last—a week?"

 

"I’ve lived for three weeks on that much, often, and paid for my room."

 

"Something’s bound to happen within ten days, I’m sure. If you see

nothing ahead at the end of a week, I’ll put you on half-rations, and

till then I’ll allow you a dollar a day. Shall I keep it for you?"

 

He was delighted to have a treasurer.

 

"Now we’ll take fifty cents and go to some nice dairy place and sit on a

stool."

 

But, as he insisted upon a place where they could talk in quiet, they

went, instead, to a shady little restaurant around the corner, and there

they seriously discussed his prospects.

 

He did so whimsically. It was really absurd that he, in full health,

six feet high and a hundred and seventy pounds in weight, at

twenty-eight, could do nothing, so far as he knew, to support himself

honestly. He had been a parasite upon the vanity of fools. After much

casting about for ideas, she sent for an _Examiner_ and began to search

through the "Help Wanted; Male" column.

 

The Barber’s College she rejected first, although he pointed out the

advantageous fact that it offered "wages while learning." Canvassing

for books or watches they both agreed was not interesting enough.

Boot-black—he raised his eyebrows in consideration, she shook her head

energetically; it was too conspicuous, with these open-air sidewalk

stands. She turned up her nose, also, at the idea of his distributing

circulars. The Marine Corps tempted him next—but no, she couldn’t think

of sparing him for three years, not to speak of a girl in every port.

She asked him what a job-press feeder was; he didn’t know, but he was

sure he couldn’t do it—it would be all he could do to feed himself.

Profiler—if he could make as good a profile as Clytie’s now, he might

get that job. But it appeared to be something connected with a

machine-shop. He looked at his white hands and smiled. Weavers,

warpers and winders—equally mysterious and impossible. The rest of the

wants were for mechanics and tradesmen. Clytie dropped the paper,

disappointed.

 

He declined to let the matter disturb him, as yet. He had no fear of the

future, and the present was too charming not to be enjoyed to the full.

 

"What I’ve always wanted to do," he said, "is to study medicine. If I

could get money enough ahead to put myself through a medical school, I

wouldn’t mind beginning even at my age. I think I’m fitted for that,

for I’ve cultivated my powers of observation and I know a good deal

about human nature, and I’ve read everything I could lay my hands on.

Some day I shall try that."

 

"Very well, Doctor Granthope, I shall make up my mind to being a

doctor’s wife, and being rung up at all hours, and being alone half the

time."

 

"I wasn’t aware that I had proposed yet," he answered jocosely.

 

"Why, people don’t propose, now, do they? Not real people. What a

Bromide you are!" she laughed joyously.

 

"I’ll have to disprove that. Let’s spend the rest of the afternoon out

of doors and get acquainted! Then when I have a good chance I’ll ask if

you’ll be my wife. Do you realize how little we know of one another?

It’s ridiculous. Why, you may have a middle name for all I know! You

may eat sugar on canteloupe or vinegar on your oysters; you may be an

extraordinary mimic; you may have escaped sudden death; you may have

been engaged when you were seventeen; you may sulk; you may mispronounce

my favorite words! How do I know but you like magenta and Germans and

canary birds, and wear Jaegers; and object to profanity and nicknames,

and say ’well-read’ and read the _Philistine_!"

 

"Good Lord, deliver us! That’s a devil’s liturgy!" In denial of his

categories she held him out her palm. "Oh, you should know me by that

right hand! You’re supposed to be a trained observer of symptoms and

stigmata. _You’re_ the one who needs investigation! Do you realize

what a risk I am running? Why, I haven’t yet heard you speak to a dog,

or answer a beggar, or seen you eat a banana, or watch a vaudeville

show—and all four are necessary before I really know you."

 

She bent her head in mock humility and looked up at him from beneath her

golden lashes. "You needn’t be afraid, Francis; if you tell me what

your rules are, I’ll obey them. If you _really_ want me to wear

magenta, I shall be terribly fond of it, and I shall only think I’ve

been stupid all my life to loathe it, and be so glad to learn. But I

hope you don’t!"

 

"If you’ll allow me five cents for dessert," he said as seriously, "I’ll

order bananas, at the risk of losing you for ever."

 

They had begun now to revel in the piquancy of the situation. Their

meetings had, up to this time, seemed fatal in their dramatic sequence,

fraught with meaning, working steadily up to the climax in the studio.

There had been few scenes between them, but those scenes had been

cumulative in feeling. They had played their parts like actors in a play

of destiny, a play whose plot had been closely knit and esthetically

economical in incident and dialogue, each act developing logically the

previous situation. Now that the tension was released, and the reaction

had come after an histrionic catastrophe, each looked at the other with

new eyes, seeking the living person under the tragic mask.

 

In this delightful pursuit they came upon such fantastic surprises, such

rare coincidences, such lovely similarities of whim and taste and

prejudice, and, above all, such a rare harmony in their points of view

on life, that their talk was as exciting as if they had just met for the

first time. The talk ran on, back and forth, lively with continual

revelation. It came out, not in dominating trends of thought, or

principled opinions, but in many charming lesser exemplifications of

their mutual fastidiousness. She reached for a plate, and his hand was

outstretched to give it to her at precisely the same instant—their

fingers touched, and their eyes spoke in delighted surprise. He

discovered that she, like himself, took no sugar in her coffee, and on

that consanguinity of taste an imaginative structure arose, to be

destroyed with equal delight when he found that she was resisting a

temptation to use cream. She quoted spontaneously a line from Stevenson

that, for no reason whatever, he had always loved: "For to my mind one

thing is as good as another in this world, and a shoe of a horse will

do." She knew his language, he fulfilled her test. Such were their tiny psychological romances at table.