The inhabitants of the Villa Hibiscus retired. But Brown talked on,
quite unconscious that the low-voiced questions and softly modulated
replies were magic which incited him to a perfect ecstasy of
self-revelation.
Perhaps he thought he was studying her--for the compact by mutual
consent was already in force--and certainly his eyes were constantly
upon her, taking, as no doubt he supposed, a cold and impersonal measure
of her symmetry. Calmly, and with utter detachment, he measured her
slender waist, her soft little hands; noting the fresh, sweet lips, the
clear, prettily shaped eyes, the delicate throat, the perfect little
Greek head with its thick, golden hair.
And all the while he held forth about literature and its true purpose;
about what art really is; about his own art, his own literature, and
his own self.
And the girl was really fascinated.
She had seen, at a distance, such men. When Brown had named himself to
her, she had recognised the name with awe, as a fashionable and wealthy
name known to Gotham.
Yet, had Brown known it, neither his eloquence nor his theories, nor his
aims, were what fascinated her. But it was his boyish enthusiasm, his
boyish intolerance, his immaturity, his happy certainty of the
importance of what concerned himself.
He was so much a boy, so much a man, such a candid, unreasonable, eager,
selfish, impulsive, portentous, and delightfully illogical mixture of
boy and man that the combination fascinated every atom of womanhood in
her--and at moments as the night wore on, she found herself listening
perilously close to the very point of sympathy.
He appeared to pay no heed to the flight of time. The big stars frosted
Heaven; the lagoon was silvered by them; night winds stirred the orange
bloom; oleanders exhaled a bewitching perfume.
As he lay there in his rocking chair beside her, it seemed to him that
he had known her intimately for years--so wonderfully does the charm of
self-revelation act upon human reason. For she had said almost nothing
about herself. Yet, it was becoming plainer to him every moment that
never in all his life had he known any woman as he already knew this
young girl.
"It is wonderful," he said, lying back in his chair and looking up at
the stars, "how subtle is sympathy, and how I recognise yours. I think I
understand you perfectly already."
"Do you?" she said.
"Yes, I feel sure I do. Somehow, I know that secretly and in your own
heart you are in full tide of sympathy with me and with my life's work."
"I thought you had no imagination," she said.
"I haven't. Do you mean that I only imagine that you are in sympathy
with me?"
"No," she said. "I am."
After a few moments she laughed deliciously. He never knew why. Nor was
she ever perfectly sure why she had laughed, though they discussed the
matter very gravely.
A new youth seemed to have invaded her, an exquisite sense of lightness,
of power. Vaguely she was conscious of ability, of a wonderful and
undreamed of capacity. Within her heart she seemed to feel the subtle
stir of a new courage, a certainty of the future, of indefinable but
splendid things.
The manuscript of the novel which she had sent North two weeks ago
seemed to her a winged thing soaring to certain victory in the empyrean.
Suddenly, by some magic, doubt, fear, distress, were allayed--and it was
like surcease from a steady pain, with all the blessed and heavenly
languor relaxing her mind and body.
And all the while Brown talked on.
Lying there in her chair she listened to him while the thoughts in her
eased mind moved in delicate accompaniment.
Somehow she understood that never in her life had she been so
happy--with this boy babbling beside her, and her own thoughts
responding almost tenderly to his youth, his inconsistencies, to the
arrogance typical of his sex. He was _so_ wrong!--so far from the track,
so utterly astray, so pitiably confident! Who but she should know, who
had worked and studied and failed and searched, always _writing_,
however--which is the only way in the world to learn how to write--or to
learn that there is no use in writing.
Her hand lay along the flat arm of her rocking-chair; and once, when he
had earnestly sustained a perfectly untenable theory concerning success
in literature, unconsciously she laid her fresh, smooth hand on his arm
in impulsive protest.
"No," she said, "don't think that way. You are quite wrong. That is the
road to failure!"
It was her first expression of disagreement, and he looked at her
amazed.
"I am afraid you think I don't know anything about real literature and
realism," she said, "but I do know a little."
"Every man must work out his salvation in his own way," he insisted,
still surprised at her dissent.
"Yes, but one should be equipped by long practice in the art before
definitely choosing one's final course."
"I am practiced."
"I don't mean theoretically," she murmured.
He laughed: "Oh, you mean mere writing," he said, gaily confident.
"That, according to my theory, is not necessary to real experience.
Literature is something loftier."
In her feminine heart every instinct of womanhood was aroused--pity for
the youth of him, sympathy for his obtuseness, solicitude for his
obstinacy, tenderness for the fascinating combination of boy and man,
which might call itself by any name it chose--even "author"--and go
blundering along without a helping hand amid shrugs and smiles to a goal
marked "Failure."
"I wonder," she said almost timidly, "whether you could ever listen to
me."
"Always," he said, bending nearer to see her expression. Which having
seen, he perhaps forgot to note in his little booklet, for he continued
to look at her.
"I haven't very much to say," she said. "Only--to learn any art or trade
or profession it is necessary to work at it unremittingly. But to
discuss it never helped anybody."
"My dear child," he said, "I know that what you say was the old idea.
But," he shrugged, "I do not agree with it."
"I am so sorry," she said.
"Sorry? Why are you sorry?"
"I don't know.... Perhaps because I like you."
It was not very much to say--not a very significant declaration; but the
simplicity and sweetness of it--her voice--the head bent a little in the
starlight--all fixed Brown's attention. He sat very still there in the
luminous dusk of the white veranda; the dew dripped steadily like rain;
the lagoon glittered.
Then, subtly, taking Brown unawares, his most treacherous enemy crept
upon him with a stealth incredible, and, before Brown knew it, was in
full possession of his brain. The enemy was Imagination.
Minute after minute slipped away in the scented dusk, and found Brown's
position unchanged, where he lay in his chair looking at her.
The girl also was very silent.
With what wonderful attributes his enemy, Imagination, was busily
endowing the girl beside him in the starlight, there is no knowing. His
muse was Thalomene, slim daughter of Zeus; and whether she was really
still on Olympus or here beside him he scarcely knew, so perfectly did
this young girl inspire him, so exquisitely did she fill the bill.
"It is odd," he said, after a long while, "that merely a few hours with
you should inspire me more than I have ever been inspired in all my
life."
"That," she said unsteadily, "is your imagination."
At the hateful word, imagination, Brown seemed to awake from the spell.
Then he sat up straight, rather abruptly.
"The thing to do," he said, still confused by his awakening, "is to
consider you impersonally and make notes of everything." And he fumbled
for pencil and note-book, and, rising, stepped across to the front door,
where a light was burning.
Standing under it he resolutely composed his thoughts; but to save his
life he could remember nothing of which to make a memorandum.
This worried him, and finally alarmed him. And so long did he stand
there, note-book open, pencil poised, and a sickly expression of dismay
imprinted upon his otherwise agreeable features, that the girl rose at
last from her chair, glanced in through the door at him, and then came
forward.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"The matter is," said Brown, "that I don't seem to have anything to
write about."
"You are tired," she said. "I think we both are a little tired."
"_I_ am not. Anyway, I have something to write about now. Wait a moment
till I make a note of how you walk--the easy, graceful, flowing motion,
so exquisitely light and----"
"But _I_ don't walk like that!" she said, laughing.
"--Graciously as a youthful goddess," muttered Brown, scribbling away
busily in his note-book. "Tell me; what motive had you just now in
rising and coming to ask me what was the matter--with such a sweetly
apprehensive expression in your eyes?"
"My--my motive?" she repeated, astonished.
"Yes. You had one, hadn't you?"
"Why--I don't know. You looked worried; so I came."
"The motive," said Brown, "was feminine solicitude--an emotion natural
to nice women. Thank you." And he made a note of it.
"But motives and emotions are different things," she said timidly. "I
had no motive for coming to ask you why you seemed troubled."
"Wasn't your motive to learn why?"
"Y-yes, I suppose so."
He laid his head on one side and inspected her critically.
"And if anything had been amiss with me you would have been sorry,
wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Why? Because--one is sorry when a friend--when anyone----"
"I _am_ your friend," he said. "So why not say it?"
"And I am yours--if you wish," she said.
"Yes, I do." He began to write: "It's rather odd how friendship begins.
We both seem to want to be friends." And to her he said: "How does it
make you feel--the idea of our being friends? What emotions does it
arouse in you?"
She looked at him in sorrowful surprise. "I thought it was real
friendship you meant," she murmured, "not the sort to make a note
about."
"But I've got to make notes of everything. Don't you see? Certainly our
friendship is real enough--but I've got to study it minutely and make
notes concerning it. It's necessary to make records of everything--how
you walk, stand, speak, look, how you go upstairs----"
"I am going now," she said.
He followed, scribbling furiously; and it is difficult to go upstairs,
watch a lady go upstairs, and write about the way she does it all at the
same time.
"Good-night," she said, opening her door.
"Good-night," he said, absently, and so intent on his scribbling that he
followed her through the door into her room.