"I don't know, quite."
"You haven't seen her since she left?"
"No, not for two weeks."
Clytie frowned and bit her lip, then shook her head silently. Then she
remarked, as if to herself, "I like her. I'm sure she's fine."
"She likes you, too."
"I wish I might see her," she went on, her eyes fixed on the mountains.
"I'd like to do something for her. I might get her a position in my
father's office, I'm sure, if she'd take it. I have a curious feeling,
though, that it is she who will be more likely to do something for me."
"If she ever can, you may be sure she will. Fancy is true blue."
"You didn't--have any misunderstanding with her, did you?"
"Oh, no."
She seemed to notice his reluctance to explain, and did not pursue the
subject.
She turned and her eyes fell upon his hand, which lay carelessly upon
his knee. "Let me see your palm," she said impulsively. "I've never
looked at it carefully. I suppose you've told your own fortune often
enough."
He gave his left hand to her. She barely touched it, holding it
lightly, but he felt the magnetism of the contact almost as a caress.
"You'll find my line of fate shows that I'm to change my career," he
remarked. "It's broken at the head line, you see, and begins over
again."
"Now, let me look at your right hand."
She looked at it, and her expression changed subtly. It was as if she
had found some secret satisfaction in his palm, some answer to her
desires.
"What d'you see?"
"The heart line."
In his left hand it began near the root of the second finger, at the
mount of Saturn, not, as he would have preferred, farther toward the
index finger, at the mount of Jupiter. He wondered if that meant to her
what it did, in his professional capacity, to him--an indication of more
sensual tastes. Half its length was cobwebbed with tiny branches, and
punctuated with islands; then it ran, deep and clear to the edge of the
palm, almost straight. In his right palm the line was cleaner, simpler,
undivided.
She had begun to color, faintly; she had turned her eyes from him. Into
her loveliness had come a new element of charm. There was something
special in it, something for him alone; it was as if she had been
signaling to him, and he had not, till now, understood. Instantly every
line in her body seemed to be imbued with a new grace, a new meaning,
translating her spirit. He was too full of the inspiration to speak; he
could only look at her, irradiated, as if he had never seen her before.
To his admiration for her beauty, his respect for her character, his
interest in her mind, there was added something more; the total was not
to be accounted for by the sum of these. And the wonderful whole
satisfied the divine fastidiousness of his nature. She was for him the
supreme choice. Her mind worked like his. Her very size pleased him. He
seemed to know her for the first time. He had desired her, before, for
her beauty and her intelligence; he had thought calmly of love and
marriage. But now he felt the supreme demand for possession,
because----only because he _must_ have her--because nothing else in his
life mattered.
A secret ray of thought seemed to carry the message back to her, for,
apparently embarrassed by the intensity of his silence, she rose and
walked a few paces, with her hands behind her back, gazing off at the
harbor. It was not thought that he sent, however, for he could not
think; it was a new function of his soul aroused, excited, thrilling him
with the power of its vibration.
When that wave broke, he was at a loss for words. How could he say how
much he wanted her? How could he ask if she, too, felt that same
thrill, while he winced under this new, mortifying sense of the
cheapness and falsity of his life? He could not yet bring himself to
confess the miserable truths; it was not the larger, more obvious things
he was afraid of, for she knew well enough of these--but one or two
shameful details came into his mind and made him shrink from himself.
She turned to him again, composed, though still she showed elation.
"I'm sorry Fancy had to go," she said earnestly. Her eyes were steady,
though her lips were still quivering.
"It was too bad. But it was necessary."
She gave him a swift, searching look.
"Oh! Then you are--finding out?"
"I'm being pushed on, somehow. It's really queer, as if the force came
from outside of myself--"
"Oh, no! I'm sure not!"
"Something is working out in me--"
Clytie smiled rarely, her face illuminated. "Oh, fate deals the cards,
but we have to play them ourselves. And--I think--you've taken several
tricks already."
"You mean--about Fancy Gray?"
"No--that I can't judge--I never have judged. Your advertisement in the
papers."
He was immensely surprised, pleased. "You have noticed that already?
Why, this is only the very first day--"
"I have watched for it every day."
There was another pause. Her remark was revealing--yet he dared not
hope too far. He felt so near to her, so intimate in that revelation
that he feared to deceive himself. Oh, he was for her, now! His heart
clamored for possession, yet he could not declare himself. They were
upon different spiritual altitudes. Women, before, had come at his
whistle. Now he was awkward, timid, excited with expectancy, his heart
going hard.
"There is a reason why I was glad to see that change, Mr. Granthope,"
she continued. He waited for her words eagerly. She looked away, her
eyes following the sails in mid-channel. "I'm thinking of leaving
town."
The announcement fell upon him like a blow. "You are going away!" he
exclaimed, his voice betraying him.
"Not for a week or two, perhaps."
"A week!" The words stung him. "Don't go--yet!" he exclaimed faintly.
"I don't want to go--yet. My aunt in the East has invited me to visit
her for six months." She spoke calmly, but did not look at him.
"I'll have to hurry, won't I?" he said with a desperate, whimsical
inflection.
"Yes. You'll have to hurry."
For a while he was too agitated to speak. If there had needed anything
more to convince him of his state of mind, this sufficed. He was aware,
by the sense of shock, how much he cared.
"Before I go, I'd like to ask a favor of you, Mr. Granthope."