The Heart Line 68

The Heart Line 68

They had reversed the usual order of progression in their friendship, or

rather Fate had reversed it for them. Had they become betrothed in the

ancient manner without previous knowledge of one another, their position

could have been no more alluring and delicate, for, strangers physically

and, to an extent, mentally, their intimacy of spirit was as certain and

irrevocable as a blood relationship. They played with a series of

little embarrassments.

 

To-day they had changed their characteristic parts; he was timid, as he

had never been timid with women. She was bold, as she had never been

bold with men. The primitive woman had come to life in her. They were,

however, both of that caste which can notice, analyze and discuss the

subtleties of such a condition while still enjoying it to the full. It

delighted them to glean the nuances and overtones of that harmony. It

was a new experience to Granthope to be with one who understood and was

sensitive to the secondary and tertiary thrills of delight without

having become hyper-refined out of vibration with the primal note of

passion. That sharing of the wonderful first fruits with her, mentally

as well as physically and spiritually, kept his appetite for her whetted

to a keen edge. He could not get enough of her from sight or hearing,

and each touch of her hand became a perilously exciting event, a little

voyage of poetic adventure.

 

They were both learning swiftly the art of loving, but, though one goes

far in the first sensational lessons, one can not go all the way, no

matter how reckless is the attempt. Passion has to be adjusted to

tenderness, and affection to experience, or there is discord. For her,

perhaps, that love held more of faery, more freshness and delicious

abandon, more mystery, for her nerves had never been dulled by contact;

but for him there were newer and truer wonders as well. He had taken

another degree in sentiment, and the initiation was as marvelous for

him, an apprentice, as for her, a neophyte. And, in that sacred, secret

lodge, when the time came, she would jump in a single intuitive moment

to his level and surpass him.

 

Already she was tuned to the emotional pitch; she would notice every

false move, every mistake in his devotion, as well as if she had been

with him past-master in the rites of love. She could already teach him,

and already she began to hold him back sensitively, to linger over every

transient mood of feeling, every minor phase which women, in that stage

between wooing and winning, so care to taste to the last sweet drop.

Every reflex, every echo, she would bid him answer to, indefinitely

prolonging, now that she was sure of him, the fineness of the reward of

her moment, delaying the definite end. He had taught her the rapture of

a caress—she would teach him the excitement of a smile, a tone, a

gesture.

 

They lingered long at the table and then went forth into the sun. The

cable-car carried them, still bantering, to the gate of the Presidio,

and they set out rollicking across the golf-links. The open downs

stretched in front of them in long, sweeping lines, like the ground

swells of the sea, skirted to the north by groves of cypress and

eucalyptus trees. Beyond, to the west, the ground grew sandy as it

approached the ocean, and from that direction a sea-breeze sailed, salt

and strong. Behind them was Lone Mountain, with its huge cross on top,

and from there in a scattering quadrant a multitude of little houses,

the outskirts of the city, skirmished towards the park. The turf was

hard and smooth as a carpet, burned, here and there, in patches of

black, but elsewhere of a pastel green, colored by the hardier weeds

that had sustained the drought and fought their way through the matted,

sunburned stalks of dry grass.

 

Dipping down through a wide, sandy hollow, tangled with fuzzy

undergrowth, they climbed up again, making for a shoulder of the hill

where the road curved sharply round the summit. They were alone in the

world, now; no one was in sight, at least, and the glory of this free

space of earth and air brought them as near to one another as if they

had regained childhood. Clytie’s hat was off, and her hair wantoned

over her forehead and neck. She gave him her joyous laughter

unrestrained, and he listened as to a song, and attempted by every wile

he knew to provoke it again and again. If she had been high-priestess

before, now she was pixie, and he was, at first, almost as afraid of her

in this new guise. He explored a new world with her, as Adam did with

Eve. As Adam did with Eve, he marveled at her.

 

It came to him, as they walked, that what had kept them apart, mentally,

was an odd lack of humor. He saw how his whole life had been a pose

towards himself as well as towards the world, repressing what now, the

costume and custom gone, would come forth bubbling without care. He had

kept a straight face so long! What mirth he had felt, in presence of

his dupes, had been strained fine, escaping in the corner of a smile,

while he fashioned his glib phrases. It had been a preacher’s sobriety,

the sedateness of priest-craft, aging him prematurely. She held him her

hands now down the years, back to decent, cleanly fun. To his surprise

he found that he could give full vent to it. He could laugh aloud, and

need not study effects and poses; he need not impress her. His wit was

clumsy; it even approached silliness, in its first runaway impulse, but

he at least lost his self-consciousness. He followed her merriment, and

they discovered nonsense together.

 

So, jollying, they tramped up to the road and came suddenly upon the

sea, flaming, peacock blue, at the foot of the cliff which fell almost

vertically at their feet. Across the dancing waves, from a coast like

Norway’s, Point Bonita arose, guarding the Golden Gate. At the end of a

semicircular cove to their left a ragged cliff jutted into the channel;

behind its promontory the hills rolled back.

 

She gave a cry of joy and happiness and sat down on the verge of the

bluff to feast upon the view. He dropped beside her and took her hand.

An automobile whirred past them and she did not flinch. There he

underwent a revulsion of feeling.

 

[Illustration: He dropped beside her and took her hand]

 

"How can you love me?" he said bitterly. "What good am I? I have no

capacity, no prospects, no purpose, even! I am a mere negative, and if

I loved you I should free you from the incubus."

 

"Do you recall reading the palm of a girl whose lover in the Philippines

refused to write to her?" she asked. "It happened about the time I

first knew you, I think."

 

He nodded, watching a tug towing a bark out through the Gate, and she

told him what she had heard of Fleurette’s story that morning. It was

no slight relief to him to think that he had helped some one, though his

assistance had been based upon deceit.

 

"Don’t you see?" she said. "Don’t you understand how women love? It

makes no difference how poor or how dishonored a man may be, if she

loves him her happiness must be with him."

 

"Oh, a physical deformity is easy enough to forget. But how about a

moral one? You’ll be the wife of an outcast."

 

"If you refused to accept my love, if you left me, now, you would be

inflicting a far greater pain than any gossip could ever give me."

 

"The mere problem of living appals me," he went on gloomily. "I would

never think twice of it, if I were alone. But you know what a coward

marriage makes of one."

 

She laughed in his face. "I’ll be your first patient, Doctor Granthope,

and I’ll pay you well!"

 

"If there was some way of getting that money of Madam Grant’s. I’ve

never even thought of trying to claim it, but perhaps I might go up to

Stockton and inquire about it. Of course, there’s no fear of being

accused of stealing it, now. But even if I had it, I don’t know whether

or not it would be right to use it myself."

 

"You might at least borrow it for a while, but for my own part I’m

convinced that it’s yours. There’s no reason why the bank should have

the use of it for nothing. I wish we could clear up that matter of

Madam Grant."

 

They set out again, she with a buoyant tread, willowy and strong. It

was not till her muscles relaxed that her characteristic, dreamy languor

was apparent, and this trait was slowly disappearing under the influence

of the new interest in her life. It was as if she had found, now, what

she, in her former quiescent moods, had been watching and waiting for,

and Granthope’s presence stimulated her with energy. She was almost

coquettish with him at times, now, the mood alternating with a noble

frankness, the boldness of a gambler who has cast all hardily upon a

single stroke. She was not afraid of being seen with him. She gave him

herself in every word and glance. A casual observer could have read her

fondness for him.

 

They went along the road, skirting the water, past the battery

emplacements and disappearing guns, over a low hill toward the Fort.

From this side the Bay opened to them, and beyond lay line on line of

mountains, growing hazier in the distance, to the north and east. They

had regained their spirits with this exercise, and talked again freely

as boy and girl. He noticed with amusement and delight how she edged,

unconsciously, nearer and nearer him. If he crossed the road, she came

to him, without perceiving the regularity of it, as the armature comes

to the magnet. She nearly forced him into the wall, or off the walk, in

her unthinking pursuit of him, so strongly he attracted her. She

blushed furiously when he spoke of it—it was so droll that he could not

help mentioning it—but that comment did not cure her. She was over by

his side, rubbing elbows as unaffectedly the next instant. How could

she help it, when he kept his eyes on her as he did? she said. So,

along the shore by the Life Saving Station, up to the parade ground and

the barracks, then by a climb up the steep, narrow, tree-grown path to

the corner gate of the reservation they sported.

 

That was the first of a series of outings they had together that week.

The Golden Gate Park, Sutro’s forest and the beach were each explored in

turn, and while still within the limits of the city they tasted of

country, mountain and shore, and let the days fly by. Clytie brought

the luncheon, and they ate it, picnic fashion, under the blue sky. She

kept strict account of his finances, and as his small capital dwindled

they came back to his plans for the future. He met her, one day, with

news.

 

"I think I shall have to go to work, after all," he said. "I’ve got a

position."

 

She congratulated him, not without a shade of sorrow that their holidays

were to end.

 

"It’s too much like my old work to be very proud of, but it’s a step up.

It’s founded on vanity, but this time I shall exploit my own instead of

others’. I’m going on the stage. I’ve found my name is worth

something."

 

She was a little disappointed and he was not surprised. "Oh, I’ll soon

become unbearable, I suppose. Most of the time I don’t spend in front of

the make-up glass looking at myself, I’ll spend being looked at, trying

to propitiate an audience. It’s a school of egoism. But at least my

pose will be honest. I saw the stage manager of the _Alcazar_, and I’m going to begin to rehearse next Monday."