The Heart Line 69

The Heart Line 69

He spoke banteringly, but she felt the truth of his jests. Still, it

would provide for the present. It would make him more than ever

notorious—but it was better than idleness.

 

The next day at ten o’clock she appeared at the studio to spend the day

with him. It was Wednesday, and they were anxious to make the most of

what time remained.

 

Except for his bed, table and bureau, his chamber was empty now, all his

effects having been sold at auction. The sum received barely sufficed

to pay off his debts. The studio, too, was bare, and placards hung

outside both doors indicating that the premises were to let. The little

office, however, was left as usual, except for the casts of hands, put

away in the closet, and in this room they stayed by the open fire.

 

He was looking over his card catalogue as she entered. He had conceived

the plan of writing a book on palmistry along new lines, in which he

might embody his observations and theories. His aim was to attempt to

correlate chirography, chiromancy, phrenology, physiognomy and all those

sciences and pseudo-sciences which seek to interpret character through

specialized individual characteristics, and to trace the evidences from

one to another, showing how each element or indication would recur in

every manifestation of a person’s individuality, and how one symptom

might be inferred and corroborated by another. It would take time and

trouble, but he could spend his leisure upon it. The plan was tentative

and hypothetical, but so suggestive that he was becoming interested in

proving its verification. Clytie was enthusiastic about the book and

desirous of helping him. He was becoming less afraid of her, and more

sure of himself, after their days together, and he greeted her boldly

enough, now. Yet there was still a fascinating novelty in his

possession of her that made his familiarity seem like recklessness. Not

for her, however. Once having given him her lips she could never refuse

them again, nor could she longer think the action strange.

 

She took off her coat and hat, tucked in an errant curl or two over her

ears and seated herself luxuriously in the arm-chair. As she had played

with him, so now she worked with him, arranging his notes, dictating for

him to write, or stopping to discuss the subject. She was too adorable

in all this assumption of importance and seriousness for him not to

interrupt her occupation more than once, for which diversion of her

attention he was sent back promptly to his desk. The business kept them

so employed for two hours, when she opened her package, brought forth

their luncheon and brewed a pot of tea on the hearth.

 

"Francis," she said, after that was over, "do you know we are actually

becoming acquainted? Isn’t it too bad!"

 

"Don’t you enjoy the process?"

 

"Decidedly I do. That’s why I regret that it must soon be over."

 

"I doubt if we’ll ever finish—if we do, it will be still more delightful

to know you. And this process brings us toward that beautiful

consummation."

 

"Yes, but this part is so pleasant. I hate to see it go. I want to

roll it over on my tongue. Now, every word you say is a revelation and

a surprise—a surprise that I have been anticipating all my life, if

you’ll pardon the bull. It’s like unwrapping a mummy—I get excitedly

nearer and nearer my ideal of you."

 

"But there’s no satisfaction in opening doors if one can’t go in."

 

"Ah, there’s the immortal difference between a man and a woman! Most

men want a marvel, patent and notorious. They want to come to the end

of the rainbow and find the pot of gold; that’s all, whether that means

a kiss or a marriage. Women enjoy every step of the journey. Men think

of nothing but fulfilment, women of achievement. Men care only for the

black art of the Indian fakir who makes a grain of wheat grow to full

maturity in a few minutes. Women appreciate the wonder of the natural

development of that same little seed in the warm bosom of the earth,

with its slow evolution of sprout and stalk and leaf and blossom—the

glory of every step on the way!"

 

"But, can’t you see that progress in affection needn’t be a limited

journey to a finite end, even the end of the flower, but, no matter how

fast one travels, if one is really in love, the goal is always

infinitely distant? There are enough things to be understood and

enjoyed."

 

"Oh, I’m sure enough that I’ll never get enough of you, and never know

enough about you!"

 

"That’s almost too true to be funny. You’ll never know even who I am,

I’m afraid. Think what a risk you run, my dear!"

 

"Oh, I know who you are well enough. You’re the son of Casanova and

Little Dorrit."

 

He grew reflective. "Isn’t it strange," he said, "that you, with all

your wonderful intuitions, shouldn’t be able, somehow, to solve that

riddle? Do you think I am Madam Grant’s son? Sometimes that seems to

be the inevitable conclusion."

 

"I can’t quite think you are, Francis. Everything you have told me

about her has brought her very near to me, somehow, and I feel as if I

knew her, but you don’t affect me in the same way. I think you’re a

changeling, myself! It is strange that I can’t quite ’get’ you now,

though, not nearly as well as I used to. My power seems to have waned

ever since—"

 

"Since what?"

 

"Since that first kiss! You see, I’ve exchanged that elusive power for

something tangible." She put him away with a gesture. "No, not now! I

want to be serious! And oh, here’s what I found in my father’s

scrap-book. It seemed to have been cut from a very old paper. Somehow

it seems to point to her. I want to know what you think about it."

 

She had copied it out and read it to him:

 

 

"Miss Felicia Gerard, who spoke immediately after Mrs. Woodhull’s

address, is one of that lady’s most devoted adherents and helpers,

having been connected with the cause for nearly a year. Although only

twenty years of age, Miss Gerard has brought into action talents of no

mean order. She was graduated at Vassar College, and is endowed both

physically and mentally with the rarest and most lovable qualities. She

was first presented to Mrs. Woodhull in Toledo, where the remarkable

clairvoyant powers shared by the two women drew them naturally together.

Miss Gerard is a regular contributor to _Woodhull and Claflin’s Weekly_

where her spirited articles have attracted wide notice and flattering

praise."

 

 

"That must be Mamsy," he said.

 

"I’m sure of it. I shall ask my father as soon as I get the

opportunity."

 

For the rest of the afternoon they talked as if they were never to meet

again. Once or twice there came a knock, and the door was tried, but

Granthope did not answer, and they were left alone in peace. She rose

to go at six, and, as she was to be busy all the next day, the parting

was long delayed. They were, indeed, getting rapidly acquainted.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XV*

 

*THE REËNTRANT ANGLE*

 

 

Blanchard Cayley strolled into the Mercantile Library, one afternoon,

and, nodding to the clerk at the desk, walked to an alcove in the corner

of the main hall. He stopped at a shelf and sat down on a stool. He had

done this several afternoons a week for years, going through the library

as a business man takes account of stock, examining every book in order.

Of some he read only the titles, glancing perhaps also at the date of

the edition; of some he looked over the table of contents. Others he

read, nibbling here and there. A few he took home. He had, by this

time, almost exhausted the list. He read, not like a bookworm, with

relish and zest, nor like a student desirous of a mastery of his

subject; he read, as he did everything, even to his love-making,

deliberately, accurately, with an elaborate scientific method that was,

in its intricacy, something of a game, whose rules he alone knew. He

had, indeed, specialized, taking up such subjects as jade, Japanese

poetry, Esperanto, higher space, Bahiism, and devil-worship, and in such

subjects he had what is termed "lore," but his main object was the

conquest of the whole library in itself.

 

This afternoon he did not read long. Looking over the top of his book,

as was his custom from time to time, to discover what women were

present, he caught sight of Clytie Payson in the alcove containing the

government reports. He replaced his volume and went over to her.

 

She was in high spirits, and welcomed him cordially, as if she had but

just come from something interesting and stimulating; another man’s

smile seemed still to linger with her.

 

"Why, how d’you do, Blanchard?" she said. "I haven’t seen you here for

a long time. What has happened? Have you finished the library yet?"

 

"Oh, no, not quite. I’ve still a few more shelves to do, but I’ve been

studying psychology on the side."

 

She looked at him with an indulgence that was new to him. "In

petticoats, I presume, then?"

 

He shrugged his shoulders. "No, I’ve been studying a man," he said.

"What are you doing?"

 

She overlooked the purport of his question and answered lightly, "Oh,

only looking up some statistics for father. I’ve been coming here quite

often, lately, but I’m almost finished, now. Is there anything in the

world duller than a statistic? I always think of the man who went for

information to a statistician at Washington and was asked, ’What d’you

want to prove?’"

 

"How is your father getting on with the book?"

 

Clytie grew a little more serious. "Why, father’s queer lately. I

can’t understand him at all. He’s taken up with some spiritualists, and

I’m rather worried about it."

 

"He’s talked to me about them. But I should hardly think you’d be

surprised at it. You’re as much interested in palmistry as he is in the

spooks, aren’t you?"

 

Clytie flashed a glance at him. "Didn’t you know that Mr. Granthope had given up palmistry?"