Quick Action

by Robert W. Chambers

  XV

  The inhabitants of the Villa Hibiscus retired. But Brown talked on,quite unconscious that the low-voiced questions and softly modulatedreplies were magic which incited him to a perfect ecstasy ofself-revelation.

  Perhaps he thought he was studying her--for the compact by mutualconsent was already in force--and certainly his eyes were constantlyupon her, taking, as no doubt he supposed, a cold and impersonal measureof her symmetry. Calmly, and with utter detachment, he measured herslender waist, her soft little hands; noting the fresh, sweet lips, theclear, prettily shaped eyes, the delicate throat, the perfect littleGreek 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, andhis own self.

  And the girl was really fascinated.

  She had seen, at a distance, such men. When Brown had named himself toher, she had recognised the name with awe, as a fashionable and wealthyname known to Gotham.

  Yet, had Brown known it, neither his eloquence nor his theories, nor hisaims, were what fascinated her. But it was his boyish enthusiasm, hisboyish intolerance, his immaturity, his happy certainty of theimportance 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 ofboy and man that the combination fascinated every atom of womanhood inher--and at moments as the night wore on, she found herself listeningperilously close to the very point of sympathy.

  He appeared to pay no heed to the flight of time. The big stars frostedHeaven; the lagoon was silvered by them; night winds stirred the orangebloom; oleanders exhaled a bewitching perfume.

  As he lay there in his rocking chair beside her, it seemed to him thathe had known her intimately for years--so wonderfully does the charm ofself-revelation act upon human reason. For she had said almost nothingabout herself. Yet, it was becoming plainer to him every moment thatnever in all his life had he known any woman as he already knew thisyoung girl.

  "It is wonderful," he said, lying back in his chair and looking up atthe stars, "how subtle is sympathy, and how I recognise yours. I think Iunderstand you perfectly already."

  "Do you?" she said.

  "Yes, I feel sure I do. Somehow, I know that secretly and in your ownheart 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 sympathywith me?"

  "No," she said. "I am."

  After a few moments she laughed deliciously. He never knew why. Nor wasshe ever perfectly sure why she had laughed, though they discussed thematter 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 andundreamed of capacity. Within her heart she seemed to feel the subtlestir of a new courage, a certainty of the future, of indefinable butsplendid things.

  The manuscript of the novel which she had sent North two weeks agoseemed to her a winged thing soaring to certain victory in the empyrean.Suddenly, by some magic, doubt, fear, distress, were allayed--and it waslike surcease from a steady pain, with all the blessed and heavenlylanguor 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 hereased mind moved in delicate accompaniment.

  Somehow she understood that never in her life had she been sohappy--with this boy babbling beside her, and her own thoughtsresponding almost tenderly to his youth, his inconsistencies, to thearrogance typical of his sex. He was _so_ wrong!--so far from the track,so utterly astray, so pitiably confident! Who but she should know, whohad worked and studied and failed and searched, always _writing_,however--which is the only way in the world to learn how to write--or tolearn that there is no use in writing.

  Her hand lay along the flat arm of her rocking-chair; and once, when hehad earnestly sustained a perfectly untenable theory concerning successin literature, unconsciously she laid her fresh, smooth hand on his armin impulsive protest.

  "No," she said, "don't think that way. You are quite wrong. That is theroad to failure!"

  It was her first expression of disagreement, and he looked at heramazed.

  "I am afraid you think I don't know anything about real literature andrealism," 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 beforedefinitely 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 forthe youth of him, sympathy for his obtuseness, solicitude for hisobstinacy, tenderness for the fascinating combination of boy and man,which might call itself by any name it chose--even "author"--and goblundering along without a helping hand amid shrugs and smiles to a goalmarked "Failure."

  "I wonder," she said almost timidly, "whether you could ever listen tome."

  "Always," he said, bending nearer to see her expression. Which havingseen, he perhaps forgot to note in his little booklet, for he continuedto look at her.

  "I haven't very much to say," she said. "Only--to learn any art or tradeor profession it is necessary to work at it unremittingly. But todiscuss 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 thesimplicity and sweetness of it--her voice--the head bent a little in thestarlight--all fixed Brown's attention. He sat very still there in theluminous dusk of the white veranda; the dew dripped steadily like rain;the lagoon glittered.

  Then, subtly, taking Brown unawares, his most treacherous enemy creptupon him with a stealth incredible, and, before Brown knew it, was infull possession of his brain. The enemy was Imagination.

  Minute after minute slipped away in the scented dusk, and found Brown'sposition unchanged, where he lay in his chair looking at her.

  The girl also was very silent.

  With what wonderful attributes his enemy, Imagination, was busilyendowing the girl beside him in the starlight, there is no knowing. Hismuse was Thalomene, slim daughter of Zeus; and whether she was reallystill on Olympus or here beside him he scarcely knew, so perfectly didthis 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 withyou should inspire me more than I have ever been inspired in all mylife."

  "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 toconsider you impersonally and make notes of everything." And he fumbledfor 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 hislife he could remember nothing of which to make a memorandum.

  This worried him, and finally alarmed him. And so long did he standthere, note-book open, pencil poised, and a sickly expression of dismayimprinted upon his otherwise agreeable features, that the girl rose atlast from her chair, glanced in through the door at him, and then cameforward.

  "What is the matter?" she asked.

  "The matter is," said Brown,
"that I don't seem to have anything towrite 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 momenttill 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 awaybusily in his note-book. "Tell me; what motive had you just now inrising and coming to ask me what was the matter--with such a sweetlyapprehensive 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 naturalto nice women. Thank you." And he made a note of it.

  "But motives and emotions are different things," she said timidly. "Ihad 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 itmake you feel--the idea of our being friends? What emotions does itarouse in you?"

  She looked at him in sorrowful surprise. "I thought it was realfriendship you meant," she murmured, "not the sort to make a noteabout."

  "But I've got to make notes of everything. Don't you see? Certainly ourfriendship is real enough--but I've got to study it minutely and makenotes concerning it. It's necessary to make records of everything--howyou 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 thesame time.

  "Good-night," she said, opening her door.

  "Good-night," he said, absently, and so intent on his scribbling that hefollowed her through the door into her room.