XIVSo Brown told her about his theory; how he desired to employ a model, how he desired to study her; what were his ideas of the terms suitable.He talked fluently, earnestly, and agreeably; and his pretty audience listened with so much apparent intelligence and good taste that her very attitude subtly exhilarated Brown, until he became slightly aware that he was expressing himself eloquently.He had, it seemed, much to say concerning the profession and practice of good literature. It seemed, too, that he knew a great deal about it, both theoretically and practically. His esteem and reverence for it were unmistakable; his enthusiasm worthy of his courage.He talked for a long while, partly about literature,[127]partly about himself. And he was at intervals a trifle surprised that he had so much to say, and wondered at the valuable accumulations of which he was unburdening himself with such vast content.The girl had turned her back to the lagoon and stood leaning against the coquina wall, facing him, her slender hands resting on the coping.Never had he had such a listener. At the clubs and cafés other literary men always wanted to talk. But here under the great southern stars nobody interrupted the limpid flow of his long dammed eloquence. And he ended leisurely, as he had begun, yet auto-intoxicated, thrillingly conscious of the spell which he had laid upon himself, upon his young listener—conscious, too, of the spell that the soft air and the perfume and the stars had spun over a world grown suddenly and incredibly lovely and young.She said in a low voice: "I need the money very much.... And I don't mind your studying me.""Do you really mean it?" he exclaimed, enchanted."Yes. But there is one trouble.""What is it?" he asked apprehensively."Imusthave my mornings to myself."[128]He said: "Under the terms I must be permitted to ask you any questions I choose. You understand that, don't you?""Yes," she said."Then—why must you have your mornings to yourself?""I have work to do.""What work? What are you?"She flushed a trifle, then, accepting the rules of the game, smiled at Brown."I am a school-teacher," she said. "Ill health from overwork drove me South to convalesce. I am trying to support myself here by working in the mornings.""I am sorry," he said gently. Then, aware of his concession to a very human weakness, he added with businesslike decision: "What is the nature of your morning's work?""I—write," she admitted."Stories?""Yes.""Fiction?""Anything, Mr. Brown. I send notes to fashion papers, concerning the costumes at the Hotel Verbena; I write for various household papers special articles which would not interest you at all. I write little stories for the women's and children's[129]columns in various newspapers. You see what I do is not literature, and could not interest you.""If you are to act for me in the capacity of a model," he said firmly, "I am absolutely bound to study every phase of you, every minutest detail.""Oh.""Not one minute of the day must pass without my observing you," he said. "Unless you are broad-minded enough to comprehend me you may think my close and unremitting observation impertinent.""You don't mean to be impertinent, I am sure," she faltered, already surprised, apprehensive, and abashed by the prospect."Of course I don't mean to be impertinent," he said smilingly, "but all great observers pursue their studies unremittingly day and night——""Youcouldn't dothat!" she exclaimed."No," he admitted, troubled, "that would not be feasible. You require, of course, a certain amount of slumber.""Naturally," she said."I ought," he said thoughtfully, "to study that phase of you, also.""What phase, Mr. Brown?""When you are sleeping."[130]"But that is impossible!""Convention," he said disdainfully, "makes it so. A literary student is fettered."But it is perfectly possible for you to imagine what I look like when I'm asleep, Mr. Brown.""Imagination is to play no part in my literary work," he said coldly. "What I set down are facts.""But is that art?""There is more art in facts than there are facts in art," he said."I don't quite know what you mean."He didn't, either, when he came to analyse what he had said; and he turned very red and admitted it."I mean to be honest and truthful," he said. "What I just said sounded clever, but meant nothing. I admit it. I mean to be perfectly pitiless with myself. Anything tainted with imagination; anything hinting of romance; any weak concession to prejudice, convention, good taste, I refuse to be guilty of. Realism is what I aim at; raw facts, however unpleasant!""I don't believe you will find anything very unpleasant about me," she said."No, I don't think I shall. But I mean to[131]detect every imperfection, every weakness, every secret vanity, every unworthy impulse. That is why I desire to study you so implacably. Are you willing to submit?"She bit her lip and looked thoughtfully at the stars."You know," she said, "that while it may be all very well for you to say 'anything for art's sake,'Ican't say it. I can'tdoit, either.""Why not?""Because I can't. You know perfectly well that you can't follow me about taking noteseveryminute of the twenty-four hours."He said very earnestly: "Sir John Lubbock sat up day and night, never taking his eyes off the little colony of ants which he had under observation in a glass box!""Do you propose to sit up day and night to keep me under observation?" she asked, flushed and astounded."Not at first. But as my studies advance, and you become accustomed to the perfectly respectful but coldly impersonal nature of my observations, your mind, I trust, will become so broadened that you will find nothing objectionable in what at first might scare you. An artist's model, for example——"[132]"But I am not an artist's model!" she exclaimed, with a slight shiver."To be a proper model at all," he said, "you must concede all for art, and remain sublimely unconscious of self.Youdo not matter.Ido not matter. Only my work counts. And that must be honest, truthful, accurate, minute, exact—a perfect record of a woman's mind and personality."For a few moments they both remained silent. And after a little the starlight began to play tricks with her eyes again, so that they seemed sparkling with hidden laughter. But her face was grave.She said: "I really do need the money. I will do what I can.... And if in spite of my courage I ever shrink—our contract shall terminate at once.""And what shall I do then?" inquired Brown.The starlight glimmered in her eyes. She said very gravely:"In case the demands of your realism and your art are too much for my courage, Mr. Brown—you will have to find another model to study.""But another model might prove as conventional as you!""In that case," she said, while her sensitive[133]lower lip trembled, and the starlight in her eyes grew softly brilliant, "in that case, Mr. Brown, I am afraid that there would be only one course to pursue with thatothermodel.""What course is that?" he asked, deeply interested."I'm afraid you'd have to marry her.""Good Lord!" he said. "I can't marry every girl I mean to study!""Oh! Do you mean to study very many?""I have my entire life and career before me.""Yes. That is true. But—women are much alike. One model, thoroughly studied, might serve for them all—with a little imagination.""I have no use for imagination in fiction," said Brown firmly. After a moment's silence, he added: "Is it settled, then?""About our—contract?""Yes."She considered for a long while, then, looking up, she nodded."That's fine!" exclaimed Brown, with enthusiasm.They walked back to the Villa Hibiscus together, slowly, through the blue starlight. Brown asked her name, and she told him."No," he said gaily, "your name is Thalomene,[134]and you are the tenth muse. For truly I think I have never before been so thoroughly inspired by a talk with anyone."She laughed. He had done almost all the talking. And he continued it, very happily, as by common consent they seated themselves on the veranda.[135]XVThe 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;[136]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[137]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[138]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 wassowrong!—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, alwayswriting, 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[139]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[140]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.[141]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[142]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.""Iam 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——""ButIdon't walk like that!" she said, laughing."—Graciously as a youthful goddess," muttered Brown, scribbling away busily in his note-book.[143]"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——""Iamyour friend," he said. "So why not say it?""And I am yours—if you wish," she said.[144]"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.[145]XVI"She goes upstairs as though she were floating up," he wrote, with enthusiasm; "her lovely figure, poised on tip-toe, seems to soar upward, ascending as naturally and gracefully as the immortals ascended the golden stairs of Jacob——"In full flood of his treacherous imagination he seated himself on a chair beside her bed, rested the note-book on his knees, and scribbled madly, utterly oblivious to her. And it was only when he had finished, for sheer lack of material, that he recollected himself, looked up, saw how she had shrunk away from him against the wall—how the scarlet had dyed her face to her temples."Why—why do you come—into my bedroom?" she faltered. "Does our friendship count for no more than that with you?""What?" he said, bewildered.[146]"That you do what you have no right to do. Art—art isnotenough to—to—excuse—disrespect——"Suddenly the tears sprang to her eyes, and she covered her flushed face with both hands.For a moment Brown stood petrified. Then a deeper flush than hers settled heavily over his features."I'm sorry," he said.She made no response."I didn't mean to hurt you. Idorespect you," he said.No response.Brown gazed at her, gazed at his note-book.Then he hurled the note-book across the room and walked over to her as she lifted her lovely head, startled and tearful."You are right," he said, swallowing nothing very desperately. "You can not be studied this way. Will you—marry me?""What!""Will you marry me?""Why?" she gasped."Because I—want to study you.""No!" she said, looking him straight in the eyes.Brown thought hard for a full minute.[147]"Would you marry me because I love you?" he asked timidly.The question seemed to be more than she could answer. Besides, the tears sprang to her blue eyes again, and her under lip began to tremble, and she covered her face with both hands. Which made it impossible for him to kiss her."Isn't it wonderful?" he said earnestly, trembling from head to foot. "Isn't it wonderful, dear?""Yes," she whispered. The word, uttered against his shoulder, was stifled. He bent his head nearer, murmuring:"Thalomene—Thalomene—embodiment of Truth! How wonderful it is to me that at last I find in you that absolute Truth I worship.""I am—the embodiment—of your—imagination," she said. "But you will never, never believe it—most adorable of boys—dearest—dearest of men."And, lifting her stately and divine young head, she looked innocently at Brown while he imprinted his first and most chaste kiss upon the fresh, sweet lips of the tenth muse, Thalomene, daughter of Zeus."Athalie," said the youthful novelist more in[148]sorrow than in anger, "you are making game of everything I hold most important.""Provide yourself with newer and truer gods, dear child," said the girl, laughing. "After you've worshipped them long enough somebody will also poke fun at them. Whereupon, if you are fortunate enough to be one of those who continues to mature until he matures himself into the Ewigkeit, you will instantly quit those same over-mauled and worn out gods for newer and truer ones.""And so on indefinitely," I added."In literature," began the novelist, "the great masters must stand as parents for us in our first infantile steps——""No," said the girl, "all worthy aspirants enter the field of literature as orphans. Opportunity and Fates alone stand for themin loco parentis. And the child of these is known as Destiny.""No cubist could beat that, Athalie," remarked Duane. "I'm ashamed of you—or proud—I don't know which.""Dear child," she said, "you will never know the true inwardness of any sentiment you entertain concerning me until I explain it to you.""Smitten again hip and thigh," said Stafford.[149]"Fair lady, I am far too wary to tell you what I think of the art of incoherence as practised occasionally by the prettiest Priestess in the Temple."Athalie looked at me as the sweetmeat melted on her tongue."You promised me a dog," she remarked."I've picked him out. He'll be weaned in another week.""What species of pup is he?" inquired Duane."An Iceland terrier," I answered. "They use them for digging out walrus and seals.""Thank you," said Duane pleasantly."After all," observed the girl, lifting her glass of water, "it does not concern Mr. Duane what sort of a dog you have chosen for me."She sipped it leisurely, looking over the delicate crystal rim at Duane."You are young," she said. "'L'enfance est le sommeil de la raison.'""How would you like to have an Angora kitten?" he asked, reddening slightly."But infancy," she added, "is always adorable.... I think I might like a white one with blue eyes.""Puppies, kittens, children," remarked Stafford—"they're all tolerable while they're young."[150]"All of these," said the girl softly, "I should like to have."And she gazed inquiringly at the crystal. But it could tell her nothing of herself or of her hopes. She turned and looked out into the dark city, a trifle wearily, it seemed to me.[151]XVIIAfter a silence, she lay back among her cushions and glanced at us with a faint smile."One day last winter," she said, "after the last client had gone and office hours were over, I sat here thinking, wondering what in the world could be worse for a girl than to have no parents.... And I happened to glance into my crystal, and saw there an incident beginning to evolve that cheered me up, because it was a parody on my more morbid train of thought. After all, the same Chance that gives a child to its parents gives the parents to that child. You may think this is Tupper," she added, "but it is Athalie. And that being the case, nobody will laugh."[152]Nobody did laugh."Thank you," she said sweetly. "Now I will tell you what I saw in my crystal when I happened to be feeling unusually alone in the world." And with a pretty nod to us, collectively, she began.The bulk of the cargo and a few bodies were coming ashore at the eastern end of the island, and that is where the throngs were—people from the Light House, fishermen from the inlet, and hundreds of winter tourists from St. Augustine, in white flannels and summer gowns, all attracted to Ibis Island by the grewsome spectacle of the wreck.The West Indian hurricane had done its terrific business and had gone, leaving a turquoise sky untroubled by a cloud, and a sea of snow and cobalt.Nothing living had been washed ashore from the wreck. As for the brig, she had vanished—if there had been anything left of her to disappear except the wreckage, human and otherwise, that had come tumbling ashore through the surf all night long.So young Gray, seeing that there was nothing[153]for him to do, and not caring for the spectacle at the eastern end of the island, turned on his heel and walked west through thickets of sweet bay, palmetto, and beach-grape.He wore the lightest weight solaro, with a helmet and close-fitting puttees of the same. Two straps crossed his breast, the one supporting a well filled haversack, the other a water bottle. Except for fire arms he was equipped for darkest Africa, or for anything else on earth—at least he supposed so. He was wrong; he was not equipped for what he was about to encounter on Ibis Island.It happened in this manner: traversing the seaward dunes, because the beach no longer afforded him even a narrow margin for a footing, shoulder deep in a tangle of beach-grapes, he chanced to glance at the little sandy cove which he was skirting, and saw there an empty fruit crate tumbling in the smother of foam, and a very small setter puppy clinging to it frantically, with every claw clutching, and his drenched tail between his legs.Even while Gray was forcing his eager way through the tangle, he was aware of somebody else moving forward through the high scrub just west of him; and as he sprang out onto the beach and laid his hand on the stranded fruit crate, another[154]hand, slimmer and whiter than his, fell on the crate as he dragged it out of the foamy shallows and up across the dry sand, just as a tremendous roller smashed into clouds of foam behind it."I beg your pardon," said a breathless voice at his elbow, "but I think I saw this little dog first."Gray already was reaching for the shivering little thing, but two other hands deprived him of the puppy; and he looked up, impatient and annoyed, into the excited brown eyes of a young girl.She had taken the dripping, clawing little creature to her breast, where it shivered and moaned and whined, shoving its cold nose up under her chin."I beg your pardon," said Gray, firmly, "but I am really very certain that I first discovered that dog.""I am sorry you think so," she said, clasping the creature all the tighter."Idothink so," insisted Gray. "Iknowit!""I am very sorry," she repeated. Over the puppy's shivering back her brown eyes gazed upon Gray. They were very pretty, but hostile."There can be no question about the ownership of this pup," persisted Gray. "Of course, I am[155]sorry if you really think you discovered the dog. Because you didn't.""Ididdiscover him," she said, calmly."I beg your pardon. I was walking through the beach-grapes——""I beg yours! I also was crossing the sweet-bay scrub when I happened to glance down at the cove and saw this poor little dog in the water.""That is exactly whatIdid! I happened to glance down, and there I saw this little dog. Instantly I sprang——""So did I!—Ibegyour pardon for interrupting you!""I was merely explaining that I first saw the dog, and next I noticed you. But first of all I saw the dog.""That is the exact sequence in my own observations," she rejoined calmly. "First of all I saw the dog in the water, then I heard a crash in the bush, and saw something floundering about in the tangle.""And," continued Gray, much annoyed by her persistency, "no sooner had I caught hold of the crate thanyoucame up and laidyourhand on it, also. You surely must remember that I had my hand on the crate before you did!""I am very sorry you think so. The contrary[156]was the case.Itook firm hold of the crate, and then you aided me to draw it up out of the water.""It is extraordinary," he said, "how mistaken you are concerning the actual sequence of events. Not that I doubt for a moment that you really suppose you discovered the dog. Probably you were a little excited——""I was perfectly cool. Possiblyyouwere a trifle excited.""Not in the least," he retorted with calm exasperation. "I never become agitated."The puppy continued to shiver and drive its nose up under the girl's chin."Poor little thing! Poor little shipwrecked baby!" she crooned. And, to Gray: "I don't know why this puppy should be so cold. The water is warm enough.""Put it in the hot sand," he said. "We can rub it dry."She hesitated, flushing perhaps at her own suspicions; but nevertheless she said:"You would not attempt to take it if I put it down, would you?""I don't intend to snatch it," he said with dignity. "Mendon't snatch."So they went inland a few paces where the sand[157]was hot and loose and deep; and there they knelt down and put the puppy on the sand."'I am in possession of the dog and you merely claim possession.'""'I am in possession of the dog and you merely claim possession.'""Scrub him thoroughly," she suggested, pouring heaping handfuls of hot, silvery sand over the little creature.Gray did likewise, and together they rubbed and scrubbed and rolled the puppy about until the dog began to roll on his back all by himself, twisting and wriggling and waving his big, padded paws."What he wants is water," asserted Gray, unstrapping his haversack and bottle. From the one he produced an aluminum pannikin; from the other he filled it with water. The puppy drank it all while Gray and the brown-eyed girl looked on intently.Then Gray produced some beef sandwiches, and the famished little creature leaped and whirled and danced as Gray fed him cautiously, bit by bit."Do you think that is perfectly fair?" asked the girl gravely."Fair?" repeated Gray guiltily."Yes. Who first feeds a strange dog is recognised as the reigning authority.""Very well, you may feed him, too. But that does not alter the facts in the case.""The facts," said the girl, taking a sandwich[158]from Gray, "are that I am in possession of the dog and you merely claim possession."They fed him alternately and in silence—until their opinion became unanimous that it was dangerous, for the present, to feed him any more.The puppy begged and pleaded and cajoled and danced—a most appealing and bewitching little creature, silvery white and blue-ticked, with a tiny tan point over each eye and a black and tan saddle."Lavarack," observed Gray."English," she nodded.It wagged not only its little, whippy tail, but in doing so wriggled its entire hind quarters, showing no preference for either of its rescuers, but bestowing winning and engaging favours impartially.The girl could endure it no longer, but snatched the puppy to her with a soft little cry, and cuddled it tight. Gray looked on gloomily. Then, when she released it, he took it and caressed it in masculine fashion. There was no discernible difference in its affectionate responses.After the dog had lavished enthusiasm and affection on its saviours to the point of physical exhaustion, it curled up on the hot sand between them. At first, when they moved or spoke, the[159]little, silky head was quickly lifted, and the brown eyes turned alertly from one to the other of the two beings most beloved on earth. But presently only the whippy tail stirred in recognition of their voices. And finally the little dog slept in the hot sunshine.[160]XVIIIFor a long while, seated on either side of the slumbering puppy, they remained silent, in fascinated contemplation of what they had rescued.Finally Gray said slowly: "It may seem odd to you that I should be so firm and uncompromising concerning my right to a very small dog which may be duplicated in the North for a few dollars."She lifted her brown eyes to his, then let them fall again on the dog."The reason is this," said Gray. "The native dogs I dislike intensely. Dogs imported from the North soon die in this region. But this little pup was evidently born on shipboard and on tropical seas. I think he's very likely to survive the climate. And as I am obliged to reside here for a[161]while, and as I am to live all alone, this pup is a godsend to me."The girl, still resting her eyes on the sleeping puppy, said very quietly:"I do not desire to appear selfish, but a girl is twice as lonely as a man. And as I fortunately first discovered the dog it seems to me absolutely right and just that I should keep him."Gray sat pouring sand through his fingers and casting an occasional oblique glance at the girl. She was not sunburned, so she must be a recent arrival. She spoke with a northern accent, which determined her origin.Whatwas she doing down here on this absurd island? Why didn't she go back to St. Augustine where she belonged?"You know," he said craftily, "I can buy a very nice little dog indeed for you in St. Augustine.""I am not stopping in St. Augustine. Besides, there are only horrid little lap-dogs there.""Don't you like lap-dogs—Pomms, Pekinese, Maltese?" he inquired persuasively."No.""You are unlike the majority of girls then. What sort of dog do you like?""Setters," she explained with decision.[162]And as he bit his lip in annoyed silence she added:"Setter puppies are what I adore.""I'm sorry," he said bluntly.She added, not heeding his observation: "I am mad about setter puppies, particularly English setter puppies. And when I try to realise that I discovered a shipwrecked one all by myself, and rescued it, I can scarcely believe in such an adorable miracle."It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to purchase the pup, but a quick glance at the girl checked him. She was evidently perfectly sincere, and the quality of her was unmistakable.Already, within these few minutes, her skin had begun to burn a delicate rose tint from the sun's fierce reflection on the white sands. Her hair was a splendid golden brown, her eyes darker, or perhaps the long, dark lashes made them seem so. She was daintily and prettily made, head, throat, shoulders, and limbs; she wore a summer gown so waistless and limp that it conformed to the corsetless fashions in vogue, making evident here and there the contours of her slim and supple figure.From the tip of her white shoe to the tip of her hat she was the futile and exquisite essence of Gotham.[163]Gray realised it because he lived there himself. But he could not understand where all her determination and obstinacy came from, for she seemed so young and inexperienced, and there was about her a childish dewiness of eye and lip that suggested a blossom's fragrance.She was very lovely; and that was all very well in its way, but Gray had come down there on stern business, and how long his business might last, and how long he was to inhabit a palmetto bungalow above the coquina quarry he did not know. The coquina quarry was as hot as the infernal pit. Also, snakes frequented it.No black servant—promised him faithfully in St. Augustine the day before—had yet arrived. A few supplies had been sent over from St. Augustine, and he was camping in his little house of logs, along with wood-ticks, blue lizards, white ants, gophers, hornets, and several chestnut-colored scorpions."I wouldn't mind yielding the dog to you," he admitted, "if I were not so horribly lonely on this miserable island. When evening comes,youwill go back to luxury and comfort somewhere or other, with dinner awaiting you and servants to do everything, and a nice bed to retire to. That's a pleasant picture, isn't it?"[164]"Very," she replied, with a slight shrug."Now," he said, "please gaze mentally upon this other picture.Iam obliged to go back to a shack haunted by every species of creature that this wretched island harbours."There will be no dinner for me except what I can scoop out of a tin; no servants to do one bally thing for me; no bed."Listen attentively," he continued, becoming slightly dramatic as he remembered more clearly the horrors of the preceding night—his first on Ibis Island. "I shall go into that devilish bungalow and look around like a scared dog, standing very carefully in the exact centre of the room. And what will be the first object that my unwilling eyes encounter? A scorpion! Perhaps two, crawling out from the Spanish moss with which the chinks of that miserable abode are stuffed. I shall slay it—orthem—as the case may be. Then a blue-tailed lizard will frisk over the ceiling—or perhaps one of those big, heavy ones with blunt, red heads. Doubtless at that same instant I shall discover a wood-tick advancing up one of my trousers' legs. Spiders will begin to move across the walls. Perhaps a snake or two will then develop from some shadowy corner."[165]He waved his arm impressively and pointed at the sleeping puppy."Under such circumstances," he said pathetically, "would you care to deprive me of this little companion sent by Providence for me to rescue out of the sea?"She, too, had been steadily pouring sand between her white fingers during the moving recital of his woes. Now she looked up, controlling a shudder."Your circumstances, with all their attendant horrors, are my own," she began. "I, also, since last night, inhabit a picturesque but most horrid bungalow not very far from here; and every one of the creatures you describe, and several others also, inhabit it with me. Do you wonder I wantsomecompanionship? Do you wonder that I am inclined to cling to this little dog—whether or not it may seem ill bred and selfish to you?"He said: "I suppose all the houses in this latitude harbour tarantulas, centipedes, and similar things, but you must remember that you do not live alone as I do——""Yes, I do!""What?""Certainly. I engaged two black servants in St. Augustine, but they have not arrived, and I was[166]obliged to remain all alone in that frightful place last night.""That's very odd," he said uneasily. "Whereisthis bungalow of yours?"She started to speak, checked herself as at a sudden and unpleasant thought, looked up at him searchingly; and found his steel-grey eyes as searchingly fixed on her."Where isyourbungalow?" she asked, watching him intently."Mine is situated at the west end of a coquina quarry. Where is yours?""Mine," she answered unsteadily but defiantly, "is situated on the eastern edge of a coquina quarry.""Why didyouchoose a quarry bungalow?""Why didyouchoose one?""Because the coquina quarry happens to belong to me.""The quarry," she retorted, "belongs tome."He was almost too disgusted to speak, but he contrived to say, quietly and civilly:"You are Constance Leslie, are you not?""Yes.... You are Johnson Gray?""Yes, I am," he answered, checking his exasperation and forcing a smile. "It's rather odd, isn't it—rather unfortunate, I'm afraid."[167]"Itisunfortunate for you, Mr. Gray," she returned firmly. "I'm sorry—really sorry that this long journey is in vain.""So am I," he said, with lips compressed.For a few moments they sat very still, not looking at each other.Presently he said: "It was a fool of a will. He was a most disagreeable old man.""Inever saw him.""Nor I. They say he was a terror. But he had a sense of humour—a grim and acrid one—the cynic's idea of wit. No doubt he enjoyed it. No doubt he is enjoying this very scene between you and me—if he's anywhere within sight or hearing——""Don't say that!" she exclaimed, almost violently. "It is horrible enough on this island without hinting of ghosts.""Ghosts? Of course there are ghosts. But I'd rather have my bungalow full of 'em than full of scorpions.""We differ," she said coldly.Silence fell again, and again was broken by Gray."Certainly the old fellow had a sense of humour," he insisted; "the will he left was one huge joke on every relative who had expectations.[168]Imagine all that buzzard family of his who got nothing to amount to anything; and all those distant relatives who expected nothing and got almost everything!""Do you think that was humourous?""Yes; don't you? And I think what he did about you and me was really very funny. Don't you?""Why is it funny for a very horrid old man to make a will full of grim jokes and jests, and take that occasion to tell everybody exactly what he thinks of everybody?""He said nothing disagreeable aboutusthat I recollect," remarked Gray, laughing.Pouring sand between her fingers, she said:"I remember very well how he mentioned us. He said that he had never seen either one of us, and was glad of it. He said that as I was an orphan with no money, and that as you were similarly situated, and that as neither you nor I had brains enough to ever make any, he would leave his coquina quarry to that one of us who had brains enough to get here first and stake the claim. Do you call that an agreeable manner of making a bequest?"Gray laughed easily: "Idon't care what he thought about my intellectual capacity."[169]"I suppose that I don't either. And anyway the bequest may be valuable.""There is no doubt about that," said Gray.She let her brown eyes rest thoughtfully on the ocean."I think," she said, "that I shall dispose of it at once.""The dog?" he asked politely.Her pretty, hostile eyes met his:"The quarry," she replied calmly."Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "Do you think also thatyouarrived at the quarry before I arrived?""You will find my stake with its written notice sticking in the sand on the eastern edge of the quarry, about a hundred yards south of my bungalow!""Mynotice is very carefully staked on the western edge of the quarry about the same distance from my bungalow," he said. "I placed it there yesterday evening.""I also placed my notice there yesterday evening!""By what train did you come?""By the Verbena Special. It arrived at St. Augustine yesterday at four o'clock in the afternoon."[170]"Ialso came on that train.""I," she said, "waited in St. Augustine only long enough to telephone for servants, and then I jumped into a victoria and drove over the causeway to the eastern end of the quarry.""I did exactly the same," he insisted, "only I drove to the western end of the quarry. What time did you set your notice?""I don't know exactly. It was just about dusk.""It was just about dusk when I drove inmystake!"After a moment's idling in the sand with her slim fingers, she looked up at him a trifle pale."I suppose this means a lawsuit.""I'm afraid it does.""I'm sorry. If I wasn't in such desperate need of money——" But she said no more, and he also remained silent for a while. Then:"I shall write to my attorney to come down," he said soberly. "You had better do the same this evening."She nodded."It's got to be settled, of course," he continued; "because I'm too poor to concede the quarry to you.""It is that way with me also. I do not like[171]to appear so selfish to you, but what am I to do, Mr. Gray?""What amIto do? I honestly believe that I staked the quarry before you did.... And my financial situation does not permit me to relinquish my claim on the quarry.""What a horrid will that was!" she exclaimed, the quick tears of vexation springing into her brown eyes. "If you knew how hard I've worked, Mr. Gray—all these years having nothing that other girls have—being obliged to work my way through college, and then take a position as governess—and just as it seemed that relief was in sight—youcome into sight!—you!—and you even try to take away my little dog—the only thing I—I ever really cared for since I have—have been alone in the world——"Gray sprang up nervously: "I'm sorry—terribly sorry for you! You may keep the dog anyway."She had turned away her face sharply as the quick tears started. Now she looked around at him in unfeigned surprise."But—what willyoudo?""Oh, I can stand being alone. I don't mind. There's no doubt about it; you must have the dog——" He glanced down at the little creature[172]and caught his breath sharply as the puppy opened one eye and wagged its absurd tail feebly.The girl rose lightly and gracefully from the sand, refusing his assistance, and stood looking down at the puppy. The little thing was on its clumsy feet, wagging and wriggling with happiness, and gazing up adoringly from Gray to Constance Leslie.The girl looked at the dog, then at Gray."It—it seems too cruel," she said. "I can't bear to take him away from you.""Oh, that's all right. I'll get on very well alone.""You are generous. You are very generous. But after the way you expressed yourself concerning the dog, I don't feel that I can possibly take him.""You really must. I don't blame you at all for falling in love with him. Besides, one adores what one rescues, above everything in the world.""But—but I thought that you thoughtyouhad rescued him?" she faltered."It was a close call. I think perhaps that you arrived just a fraction of a second sooner than I did.""Do you really? Or do you say that to be kind? Besides, I am not at all sure. It is perfectly possible—even,[173]perhaps, probable that you saw him before I did.""No, I don't think so. I think he's your dog, Miss Leslie. I surrender all claim to him——""No! I can not permit you to do such a thing! Forgive me. I was excited and a little vexed.... I know you would be very unhappy if I took the little thing——""Please take him. I do love him already, but that is why it gives me a p-p-peculiar pleasure to relinquish all claims in y-your favour.""Thank you. It is—is charming of you—exceedingly nice of you—but how can I accept such a real sacrifice?... You would be perfectly wretched to-night without him.""So would you, Miss Leslie.""I shall be wretched anyway. So it doesn't really matter.""Itdoesmatter! If this little dog can alleviate your unhappiness in the slightest degree, I insist most firmly that you take him!"The girl stood irresolute, lifted her brown eyes to his, lowered them, and gazed longingly at the puppy."Do you suppose he will follow me?""Try!"So she walked one way and Gray started in[174]the opposite direction, and the bewildered puppy, who at first supposed it was all in play, dashed from one back to the other, until the widening distance between them perplexed and finally began to trouble him.Nevertheless, he continued to run back and forth from Gray to Constance Leslie as long as his rather wavering legs held out. Then, unable to decide, he stood panting midway between them, whining at moments, until, unable to understand or endure the spectacle of his two best beloveds vanishing in opposite directions, he put up his nose and howled.Then both best beloveds came back running, and Constance snatched him to her breast and covered him with caresses."What on earth are we to do?" she said in consternation. "We nearly broke his heart that time.""Idon't know what to do," he admitted, much perplexed. "This pup seems to be impartial in his new-born affections.""I thought," she said, with an admirable effort at self-denial, "that he rather showed a preference foryou!""Why?""Because when he was sitting there howling his[175]little heart out, he seemed to look toward you a little oftener than he gazed in my direction."Gray rose nobly to the self-effacing level of his generous adversary:"No, the balance was, if anything, in your favour. I'm very certain that he will be happier with you. T-take him!"The girl buried her pretty face in the puppy's coat as though it had been a fluffy muff."What a pity," she said, in a muffled voice, "that he is compelled to make a choice. It will break his heart; I know it will. He is too young.""He'll very soon forget me, once he is alone with you in your bungalow."The girl shook her head and stood caressing the puppy. The soft, white hand, resting on the dog's head, fascinated Gray."Perhaps," he ventured, "I had better walk as far as your bungalow with you.... It may spare the dog a certain amount of superficial anguish."She nodded, dreamy-eyed there in the sunshine. And of what she might be thinking he could form no idea.[176]
So Brown told her about his theory; how he desired to employ a model, how he desired to study her; what were his ideas of the terms suitable.
He talked fluently, earnestly, and agreeably; and his pretty audience listened with so much apparent intelligence and good taste that her very attitude subtly exhilarated Brown, until he became slightly aware that he was expressing himself eloquently.
He had, it seemed, much to say concerning the profession and practice of good literature. It seemed, too, that he knew a great deal about it, both theoretically and practically. His esteem and reverence for it were unmistakable; his enthusiasm worthy of his courage.
He talked for a long while, partly about literature,[127]partly about himself. And he was at intervals a trifle surprised that he had so much to say, and wondered at the valuable accumulations of which he was unburdening himself with such vast content.
The girl had turned her back to the lagoon and stood leaning against the coquina wall, facing him, her slender hands resting on the coping.
Never had he had such a listener. At the clubs and cafés other literary men always wanted to talk. But here under the great southern stars nobody interrupted the limpid flow of his long dammed eloquence. And he ended leisurely, as he had begun, yet auto-intoxicated, thrillingly conscious of the spell which he had laid upon himself, upon his young listener—conscious, too, of the spell that the soft air and the perfume and the stars had spun over a world grown suddenly and incredibly lovely and young.
She said in a low voice: "I need the money very much.... And I don't mind your studying me."
"Do you really mean it?" he exclaimed, enchanted.
"Yes. But there is one trouble."
"What is it?" he asked apprehensively.
"Imusthave my mornings to myself."[128]
He said: "Under the terms I must be permitted to ask you any questions I choose. You understand that, don't you?"
"Yes," she said.
"Then—why must you have your mornings to yourself?"
"I have work to do."
"What work? What are you?"
She flushed a trifle, then, accepting the rules of the game, smiled at Brown.
"I am a school-teacher," she said. "Ill health from overwork drove me South to convalesce. I am trying to support myself here by working in the mornings."
"I am sorry," he said gently. Then, aware of his concession to a very human weakness, he added with businesslike decision: "What is the nature of your morning's work?"
"I—write," she admitted.
"Stories?"
"Yes."
"Fiction?"
"Anything, Mr. Brown. I send notes to fashion papers, concerning the costumes at the Hotel Verbena; I write for various household papers special articles which would not interest you at all. I write little stories for the women's and children's[129]columns in various newspapers. You see what I do is not literature, and could not interest you."
"If you are to act for me in the capacity of a model," he said firmly, "I am absolutely bound to study every phase of you, every minutest detail."
"Oh."
"Not one minute of the day must pass without my observing you," he said. "Unless you are broad-minded enough to comprehend me you may think my close and unremitting observation impertinent."
"You don't mean to be impertinent, I am sure," she faltered, already surprised, apprehensive, and abashed by the prospect.
"Of course I don't mean to be impertinent," he said smilingly, "but all great observers pursue their studies unremittingly day and night——"
"Youcouldn't dothat!" she exclaimed.
"No," he admitted, troubled, "that would not be feasible. You require, of course, a certain amount of slumber."
"Naturally," she said.
"I ought," he said thoughtfully, "to study that phase of you, also."
"What phase, Mr. Brown?"
"When you are sleeping."[130]
"But that is impossible!"
"Convention," he said disdainfully, "makes it so. A literary student is fettered.
"But it is perfectly possible for you to imagine what I look like when I'm asleep, Mr. Brown."
"Imagination is to play no part in my literary work," he said coldly. "What I set down are facts."
"But is that art?"
"There is more art in facts than there are facts in art," he said.
"I don't quite know what you mean."
He didn't, either, when he came to analyse what he had said; and he turned very red and admitted it.
"I mean to be honest and truthful," he said. "What I just said sounded clever, but meant nothing. I admit it. I mean to be perfectly pitiless with myself. Anything tainted with imagination; anything hinting of romance; any weak concession to prejudice, convention, good taste, I refuse to be guilty of. Realism is what I aim at; raw facts, however unpleasant!"
"I don't believe you will find anything very unpleasant about me," she said.
"No, I don't think I shall. But I mean to[131]detect every imperfection, every weakness, every secret vanity, every unworthy impulse. That is why I desire to study you so implacably. Are you willing to submit?"
She bit her lip and looked thoughtfully at the stars.
"You know," she said, "that while it may be all very well for you to say 'anything for art's sake,'Ican't say it. I can'tdoit, either."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't. You know perfectly well that you can't follow me about taking noteseveryminute of the twenty-four hours."
He said very earnestly: "Sir John Lubbock sat up day and night, never taking his eyes off the little colony of ants which he had under observation in a glass box!"
"Do you propose to sit up day and night to keep me under observation?" she asked, flushed and astounded.
"Not at first. But as my studies advance, and you become accustomed to the perfectly respectful but coldly impersonal nature of my observations, your mind, I trust, will become so broadened that you will find nothing objectionable in what at first might scare you. An artist's model, for example——"[132]
"But I am not an artist's model!" she exclaimed, with a slight shiver.
"To be a proper model at all," he said, "you must concede all for art, and remain sublimely unconscious of self.Youdo not matter.Ido not matter. Only my work counts. And that must be honest, truthful, accurate, minute, exact—a perfect record of a woman's mind and personality."
For a few moments they both remained silent. And after a little the starlight began to play tricks with her eyes again, so that they seemed sparkling with hidden laughter. But her face was grave.
She said: "I really do need the money. I will do what I can.... And if in spite of my courage I ever shrink—our contract shall terminate at once."
"And what shall I do then?" inquired Brown.
The starlight glimmered in her eyes. She said very gravely:
"In case the demands of your realism and your art are too much for my courage, Mr. Brown—you will have to find another model to study."
"But another model might prove as conventional as you!"
"In that case," she said, while her sensitive[133]lower lip trembled, and the starlight in her eyes grew softly brilliant, "in that case, Mr. Brown, I am afraid that there would be only one course to pursue with thatothermodel."
"What course is that?" he asked, deeply interested.
"I'm afraid you'd have to marry her."
"Good Lord!" he said. "I can't marry every girl I mean to study!"
"Oh! Do you mean to study very many?"
"I have my entire life and career before me."
"Yes. That is true. But—women are much alike. One model, thoroughly studied, might serve for them all—with a little imagination."
"I have no use for imagination in fiction," said Brown firmly. After a moment's silence, he added: "Is it settled, then?"
"About our—contract?"
"Yes."
She considered for a long while, then, looking up, she nodded.
"That's fine!" exclaimed Brown, with enthusiasm.
They walked back to the Villa Hibiscus together, slowly, through the blue starlight. Brown asked her name, and she told him.
"No," he said gaily, "your name is Thalomene,[134]and you are the tenth muse. For truly I think I have never before been so thoroughly inspired by a talk with anyone."
She laughed. He had done almost all the talking. And he continued it, very happily, as by common consent they seated themselves on the veranda.[135]
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;[136]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[137]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[138]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 wassowrong!—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, alwayswriting, 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[139]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[140]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.[141]
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[142]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."
"Iam 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——"
"ButIdon't walk like that!" she said, laughing.
"—Graciously as a youthful goddess," muttered Brown, scribbling away busily in his note-book.[143]"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——"
"Iamyour friend," he said. "So why not say it?"
"And I am yours—if you wish," she said.[144]
"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.[145]
"She goes upstairs as though she were floating up," he wrote, with enthusiasm; "her lovely figure, poised on tip-toe, seems to soar upward, ascending as naturally and gracefully as the immortals ascended the golden stairs of Jacob——"
In full flood of his treacherous imagination he seated himself on a chair beside her bed, rested the note-book on his knees, and scribbled madly, utterly oblivious to her. And it was only when he had finished, for sheer lack of material, that he recollected himself, looked up, saw how she had shrunk away from him against the wall—how the scarlet had dyed her face to her temples.
"Why—why do you come—into my bedroom?" she faltered. "Does our friendship count for no more than that with you?"
"What?" he said, bewildered.[146]
"That you do what you have no right to do. Art—art isnotenough to—to—excuse—disrespect——"
Suddenly the tears sprang to her eyes, and she covered her flushed face with both hands.
For a moment Brown stood petrified. Then a deeper flush than hers settled heavily over his features.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She made no response.
"I didn't mean to hurt you. Idorespect you," he said.
No response.
Brown gazed at her, gazed at his note-book.
Then he hurled the note-book across the room and walked over to her as she lifted her lovely head, startled and tearful.
"You are right," he said, swallowing nothing very desperately. "You can not be studied this way. Will you—marry me?"
"What!"
"Will you marry me?"
"Why?" she gasped.
"Because I—want to study you."
"No!" she said, looking him straight in the eyes.
Brown thought hard for a full minute.[147]
"Would you marry me because I love you?" he asked timidly.
The question seemed to be more than she could answer. Besides, the tears sprang to her blue eyes again, and her under lip began to tremble, and she covered her face with both hands. Which made it impossible for him to kiss her.
"Isn't it wonderful?" he said earnestly, trembling from head to foot. "Isn't it wonderful, dear?"
"Yes," she whispered. The word, uttered against his shoulder, was stifled. He bent his head nearer, murmuring:
"Thalomene—Thalomene—embodiment of Truth! How wonderful it is to me that at last I find in you that absolute Truth I worship."
"I am—the embodiment—of your—imagination," she said. "But you will never, never believe it—most adorable of boys—dearest—dearest of men."
And, lifting her stately and divine young head, she looked innocently at Brown while he imprinted his first and most chaste kiss upon the fresh, sweet lips of the tenth muse, Thalomene, daughter of Zeus.
"Athalie," said the youthful novelist more in[148]sorrow than in anger, "you are making game of everything I hold most important."
"Provide yourself with newer and truer gods, dear child," said the girl, laughing. "After you've worshipped them long enough somebody will also poke fun at them. Whereupon, if you are fortunate enough to be one of those who continues to mature until he matures himself into the Ewigkeit, you will instantly quit those same over-mauled and worn out gods for newer and truer ones."
"And so on indefinitely," I added.
"In literature," began the novelist, "the great masters must stand as parents for us in our first infantile steps——"
"No," said the girl, "all worthy aspirants enter the field of literature as orphans. Opportunity and Fates alone stand for themin loco parentis. And the child of these is known as Destiny."
"No cubist could beat that, Athalie," remarked Duane. "I'm ashamed of you—or proud—I don't know which."
"Dear child," she said, "you will never know the true inwardness of any sentiment you entertain concerning me until I explain it to you."
"Smitten again hip and thigh," said Stafford.[149]"Fair lady, I am far too wary to tell you what I think of the art of incoherence as practised occasionally by the prettiest Priestess in the Temple."
Athalie looked at me as the sweetmeat melted on her tongue.
"You promised me a dog," she remarked.
"I've picked him out. He'll be weaned in another week."
"What species of pup is he?" inquired Duane.
"An Iceland terrier," I answered. "They use them for digging out walrus and seals."
"Thank you," said Duane pleasantly.
"After all," observed the girl, lifting her glass of water, "it does not concern Mr. Duane what sort of a dog you have chosen for me."
She sipped it leisurely, looking over the delicate crystal rim at Duane.
"You are young," she said. "'L'enfance est le sommeil de la raison.'"
"How would you like to have an Angora kitten?" he asked, reddening slightly.
"But infancy," she added, "is always adorable.... I think I might like a white one with blue eyes."
"Puppies, kittens, children," remarked Stafford—"they're all tolerable while they're young."[150]
"All of these," said the girl softly, "I should like to have."
And she gazed inquiringly at the crystal. But it could tell her nothing of herself or of her hopes. She turned and looked out into the dark city, a trifle wearily, it seemed to me.[151]
After a silence, she lay back among her cushions and glanced at us with a faint smile.
"One day last winter," she said, "after the last client had gone and office hours were over, I sat here thinking, wondering what in the world could be worse for a girl than to have no parents.... And I happened to glance into my crystal, and saw there an incident beginning to evolve that cheered me up, because it was a parody on my more morbid train of thought. After all, the same Chance that gives a child to its parents gives the parents to that child. You may think this is Tupper," she added, "but it is Athalie. And that being the case, nobody will laugh."[152]
Nobody did laugh.
"Thank you," she said sweetly. "Now I will tell you what I saw in my crystal when I happened to be feeling unusually alone in the world." And with a pretty nod to us, collectively, she began.
The bulk of the cargo and a few bodies were coming ashore at the eastern end of the island, and that is where the throngs were—people from the Light House, fishermen from the inlet, and hundreds of winter tourists from St. Augustine, in white flannels and summer gowns, all attracted to Ibis Island by the grewsome spectacle of the wreck.
The West Indian hurricane had done its terrific business and had gone, leaving a turquoise sky untroubled by a cloud, and a sea of snow and cobalt.
Nothing living had been washed ashore from the wreck. As for the brig, she had vanished—if there had been anything left of her to disappear except the wreckage, human and otherwise, that had come tumbling ashore through the surf all night long.
So young Gray, seeing that there was nothing[153]for him to do, and not caring for the spectacle at the eastern end of the island, turned on his heel and walked west through thickets of sweet bay, palmetto, and beach-grape.
He wore the lightest weight solaro, with a helmet and close-fitting puttees of the same. Two straps crossed his breast, the one supporting a well filled haversack, the other a water bottle. Except for fire arms he was equipped for darkest Africa, or for anything else on earth—at least he supposed so. He was wrong; he was not equipped for what he was about to encounter on Ibis Island.
It happened in this manner: traversing the seaward dunes, because the beach no longer afforded him even a narrow margin for a footing, shoulder deep in a tangle of beach-grapes, he chanced to glance at the little sandy cove which he was skirting, and saw there an empty fruit crate tumbling in the smother of foam, and a very small setter puppy clinging to it frantically, with every claw clutching, and his drenched tail between his legs.
Even while Gray was forcing his eager way through the tangle, he was aware of somebody else moving forward through the high scrub just west of him; and as he sprang out onto the beach and laid his hand on the stranded fruit crate, another[154]hand, slimmer and whiter than his, fell on the crate as he dragged it out of the foamy shallows and up across the dry sand, just as a tremendous roller smashed into clouds of foam behind it.
"I beg your pardon," said a breathless voice at his elbow, "but I think I saw this little dog first."
Gray already was reaching for the shivering little thing, but two other hands deprived him of the puppy; and he looked up, impatient and annoyed, into the excited brown eyes of a young girl.
She had taken the dripping, clawing little creature to her breast, where it shivered and moaned and whined, shoving its cold nose up under her chin.
"I beg your pardon," said Gray, firmly, "but I am really very certain that I first discovered that dog."
"I am sorry you think so," she said, clasping the creature all the tighter.
"Idothink so," insisted Gray. "Iknowit!"
"I am very sorry," she repeated. Over the puppy's shivering back her brown eyes gazed upon Gray. They were very pretty, but hostile.
"There can be no question about the ownership of this pup," persisted Gray. "Of course, I am[155]sorry if you really think you discovered the dog. Because you didn't."
"Ididdiscover him," she said, calmly.
"I beg your pardon. I was walking through the beach-grapes——"
"I beg yours! I also was crossing the sweet-bay scrub when I happened to glance down at the cove and saw this poor little dog in the water."
"That is exactly whatIdid! I happened to glance down, and there I saw this little dog. Instantly I sprang——"
"So did I!—Ibegyour pardon for interrupting you!"
"I was merely explaining that I first saw the dog, and next I noticed you. But first of all I saw the dog."
"That is the exact sequence in my own observations," she rejoined calmly. "First of all I saw the dog in the water, then I heard a crash in the bush, and saw something floundering about in the tangle."
"And," continued Gray, much annoyed by her persistency, "no sooner had I caught hold of the crate thanyoucame up and laidyourhand on it, also. You surely must remember that I had my hand on the crate before you did!"
"I am very sorry you think so. The contrary[156]was the case.Itook firm hold of the crate, and then you aided me to draw it up out of the water."
"It is extraordinary," he said, "how mistaken you are concerning the actual sequence of events. Not that I doubt for a moment that you really suppose you discovered the dog. Probably you were a little excited——"
"I was perfectly cool. Possiblyyouwere a trifle excited."
"Not in the least," he retorted with calm exasperation. "I never become agitated."
The puppy continued to shiver and drive its nose up under the girl's chin.
"Poor little thing! Poor little shipwrecked baby!" she crooned. And, to Gray: "I don't know why this puppy should be so cold. The water is warm enough."
"Put it in the hot sand," he said. "We can rub it dry."
She hesitated, flushing perhaps at her own suspicions; but nevertheless she said:
"You would not attempt to take it if I put it down, would you?"
"I don't intend to snatch it," he said with dignity. "Mendon't snatch."
So they went inland a few paces where the sand[157]was hot and loose and deep; and there they knelt down and put the puppy on the sand.
"'I am in possession of the dog and you merely claim possession.'"
"'I am in possession of the dog and you merely claim possession.'"
"Scrub him thoroughly," she suggested, pouring heaping handfuls of hot, silvery sand over the little creature.
Gray did likewise, and together they rubbed and scrubbed and rolled the puppy about until the dog began to roll on his back all by himself, twisting and wriggling and waving his big, padded paws.
"What he wants is water," asserted Gray, unstrapping his haversack and bottle. From the one he produced an aluminum pannikin; from the other he filled it with water. The puppy drank it all while Gray and the brown-eyed girl looked on intently.
Then Gray produced some beef sandwiches, and the famished little creature leaped and whirled and danced as Gray fed him cautiously, bit by bit.
"Do you think that is perfectly fair?" asked the girl gravely.
"Fair?" repeated Gray guiltily.
"Yes. Who first feeds a strange dog is recognised as the reigning authority."
"Very well, you may feed him, too. But that does not alter the facts in the case."
"The facts," said the girl, taking a sandwich[158]from Gray, "are that I am in possession of the dog and you merely claim possession."
They fed him alternately and in silence—until their opinion became unanimous that it was dangerous, for the present, to feed him any more.
The puppy begged and pleaded and cajoled and danced—a most appealing and bewitching little creature, silvery white and blue-ticked, with a tiny tan point over each eye and a black and tan saddle.
"Lavarack," observed Gray.
"English," she nodded.
It wagged not only its little, whippy tail, but in doing so wriggled its entire hind quarters, showing no preference for either of its rescuers, but bestowing winning and engaging favours impartially.
The girl could endure it no longer, but snatched the puppy to her with a soft little cry, and cuddled it tight. Gray looked on gloomily. Then, when she released it, he took it and caressed it in masculine fashion. There was no discernible difference in its affectionate responses.
After the dog had lavished enthusiasm and affection on its saviours to the point of physical exhaustion, it curled up on the hot sand between them. At first, when they moved or spoke, the[159]little, silky head was quickly lifted, and the brown eyes turned alertly from one to the other of the two beings most beloved on earth. But presently only the whippy tail stirred in recognition of their voices. And finally the little dog slept in the hot sunshine.[160]
For a long while, seated on either side of the slumbering puppy, they remained silent, in fascinated contemplation of what they had rescued.
Finally Gray said slowly: "It may seem odd to you that I should be so firm and uncompromising concerning my right to a very small dog which may be duplicated in the North for a few dollars."
She lifted her brown eyes to his, then let them fall again on the dog.
"The reason is this," said Gray. "The native dogs I dislike intensely. Dogs imported from the North soon die in this region. But this little pup was evidently born on shipboard and on tropical seas. I think he's very likely to survive the climate. And as I am obliged to reside here for a[161]while, and as I am to live all alone, this pup is a godsend to me."
The girl, still resting her eyes on the sleeping puppy, said very quietly:
"I do not desire to appear selfish, but a girl is twice as lonely as a man. And as I fortunately first discovered the dog it seems to me absolutely right and just that I should keep him."
Gray sat pouring sand through his fingers and casting an occasional oblique glance at the girl. She was not sunburned, so she must be a recent arrival. She spoke with a northern accent, which determined her origin.
Whatwas she doing down here on this absurd island? Why didn't she go back to St. Augustine where she belonged?
"You know," he said craftily, "I can buy a very nice little dog indeed for you in St. Augustine."
"I am not stopping in St. Augustine. Besides, there are only horrid little lap-dogs there."
"Don't you like lap-dogs—Pomms, Pekinese, Maltese?" he inquired persuasively.
"No."
"You are unlike the majority of girls then. What sort of dog do you like?"
"Setters," she explained with decision.[162]
And as he bit his lip in annoyed silence she added:
"Setter puppies are what I adore."
"I'm sorry," he said bluntly.
She added, not heeding his observation: "I am mad about setter puppies, particularly English setter puppies. And when I try to realise that I discovered a shipwrecked one all by myself, and rescued it, I can scarcely believe in such an adorable miracle."
It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to purchase the pup, but a quick glance at the girl checked him. She was evidently perfectly sincere, and the quality of her was unmistakable.
Already, within these few minutes, her skin had begun to burn a delicate rose tint from the sun's fierce reflection on the white sands. Her hair was a splendid golden brown, her eyes darker, or perhaps the long, dark lashes made them seem so. She was daintily and prettily made, head, throat, shoulders, and limbs; she wore a summer gown so waistless and limp that it conformed to the corsetless fashions in vogue, making evident here and there the contours of her slim and supple figure.
From the tip of her white shoe to the tip of her hat she was the futile and exquisite essence of Gotham.[163]
Gray realised it because he lived there himself. But he could not understand where all her determination and obstinacy came from, for she seemed so young and inexperienced, and there was about her a childish dewiness of eye and lip that suggested a blossom's fragrance.
She was very lovely; and that was all very well in its way, but Gray had come down there on stern business, and how long his business might last, and how long he was to inhabit a palmetto bungalow above the coquina quarry he did not know. The coquina quarry was as hot as the infernal pit. Also, snakes frequented it.
No black servant—promised him faithfully in St. Augustine the day before—had yet arrived. A few supplies had been sent over from St. Augustine, and he was camping in his little house of logs, along with wood-ticks, blue lizards, white ants, gophers, hornets, and several chestnut-colored scorpions.
"I wouldn't mind yielding the dog to you," he admitted, "if I were not so horribly lonely on this miserable island. When evening comes,youwill go back to luxury and comfort somewhere or other, with dinner awaiting you and servants to do everything, and a nice bed to retire to. That's a pleasant picture, isn't it?"[164]
"Very," she replied, with a slight shrug.
"Now," he said, "please gaze mentally upon this other picture.Iam obliged to go back to a shack haunted by every species of creature that this wretched island harbours.
"There will be no dinner for me except what I can scoop out of a tin; no servants to do one bally thing for me; no bed.
"Listen attentively," he continued, becoming slightly dramatic as he remembered more clearly the horrors of the preceding night—his first on Ibis Island. "I shall go into that devilish bungalow and look around like a scared dog, standing very carefully in the exact centre of the room. And what will be the first object that my unwilling eyes encounter? A scorpion! Perhaps two, crawling out from the Spanish moss with which the chinks of that miserable abode are stuffed. I shall slay it—orthem—as the case may be. Then a blue-tailed lizard will frisk over the ceiling—or perhaps one of those big, heavy ones with blunt, red heads. Doubtless at that same instant I shall discover a wood-tick advancing up one of my trousers' legs. Spiders will begin to move across the walls. Perhaps a snake or two will then develop from some shadowy corner."[165]
He waved his arm impressively and pointed at the sleeping puppy.
"Under such circumstances," he said pathetically, "would you care to deprive me of this little companion sent by Providence for me to rescue out of the sea?"
She, too, had been steadily pouring sand between her white fingers during the moving recital of his woes. Now she looked up, controlling a shudder.
"Your circumstances, with all their attendant horrors, are my own," she began. "I, also, since last night, inhabit a picturesque but most horrid bungalow not very far from here; and every one of the creatures you describe, and several others also, inhabit it with me. Do you wonder I wantsomecompanionship? Do you wonder that I am inclined to cling to this little dog—whether or not it may seem ill bred and selfish to you?"
He said: "I suppose all the houses in this latitude harbour tarantulas, centipedes, and similar things, but you must remember that you do not live alone as I do——"
"Yes, I do!"
"What?"
"Certainly. I engaged two black servants in St. Augustine, but they have not arrived, and I was[166]obliged to remain all alone in that frightful place last night."
"That's very odd," he said uneasily. "Whereisthis bungalow of yours?"
She started to speak, checked herself as at a sudden and unpleasant thought, looked up at him searchingly; and found his steel-grey eyes as searchingly fixed on her.
"Where isyourbungalow?" she asked, watching him intently.
"Mine is situated at the west end of a coquina quarry. Where is yours?"
"Mine," she answered unsteadily but defiantly, "is situated on the eastern edge of a coquina quarry."
"Why didyouchoose a quarry bungalow?"
"Why didyouchoose one?"
"Because the coquina quarry happens to belong to me."
"The quarry," she retorted, "belongs tome."
He was almost too disgusted to speak, but he contrived to say, quietly and civilly:
"You are Constance Leslie, are you not?"
"Yes.... You are Johnson Gray?"
"Yes, I am," he answered, checking his exasperation and forcing a smile. "It's rather odd, isn't it—rather unfortunate, I'm afraid."[167]
"Itisunfortunate for you, Mr. Gray," she returned firmly. "I'm sorry—really sorry that this long journey is in vain."
"So am I," he said, with lips compressed.
For a few moments they sat very still, not looking at each other.
Presently he said: "It was a fool of a will. He was a most disagreeable old man."
"Inever saw him."
"Nor I. They say he was a terror. But he had a sense of humour—a grim and acrid one—the cynic's idea of wit. No doubt he enjoyed it. No doubt he is enjoying this very scene between you and me—if he's anywhere within sight or hearing——"
"Don't say that!" she exclaimed, almost violently. "It is horrible enough on this island without hinting of ghosts."
"Ghosts? Of course there are ghosts. But I'd rather have my bungalow full of 'em than full of scorpions."
"We differ," she said coldly.
Silence fell again, and again was broken by Gray.
"Certainly the old fellow had a sense of humour," he insisted; "the will he left was one huge joke on every relative who had expectations.[168]Imagine all that buzzard family of his who got nothing to amount to anything; and all those distant relatives who expected nothing and got almost everything!"
"Do you think that was humourous?"
"Yes; don't you? And I think what he did about you and me was really very funny. Don't you?"
"Why is it funny for a very horrid old man to make a will full of grim jokes and jests, and take that occasion to tell everybody exactly what he thinks of everybody?"
"He said nothing disagreeable aboutusthat I recollect," remarked Gray, laughing.
Pouring sand between her fingers, she said:
"I remember very well how he mentioned us. He said that he had never seen either one of us, and was glad of it. He said that as I was an orphan with no money, and that as you were similarly situated, and that as neither you nor I had brains enough to ever make any, he would leave his coquina quarry to that one of us who had brains enough to get here first and stake the claim. Do you call that an agreeable manner of making a bequest?"
Gray laughed easily: "Idon't care what he thought about my intellectual capacity."[169]
"I suppose that I don't either. And anyway the bequest may be valuable."
"There is no doubt about that," said Gray.
She let her brown eyes rest thoughtfully on the ocean.
"I think," she said, "that I shall dispose of it at once."
"The dog?" he asked politely.
Her pretty, hostile eyes met his:
"The quarry," she replied calmly.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "Do you think also thatyouarrived at the quarry before I arrived?"
"You will find my stake with its written notice sticking in the sand on the eastern edge of the quarry, about a hundred yards south of my bungalow!"
"Mynotice is very carefully staked on the western edge of the quarry about the same distance from my bungalow," he said. "I placed it there yesterday evening."
"I also placed my notice there yesterday evening!"
"By what train did you come?"
"By the Verbena Special. It arrived at St. Augustine yesterday at four o'clock in the afternoon."[170]
"Ialso came on that train."
"I," she said, "waited in St. Augustine only long enough to telephone for servants, and then I jumped into a victoria and drove over the causeway to the eastern end of the quarry."
"I did exactly the same," he insisted, "only I drove to the western end of the quarry. What time did you set your notice?"
"I don't know exactly. It was just about dusk."
"It was just about dusk when I drove inmystake!"
After a moment's idling in the sand with her slim fingers, she looked up at him a trifle pale.
"I suppose this means a lawsuit."
"I'm afraid it does."
"I'm sorry. If I wasn't in such desperate need of money——" But she said no more, and he also remained silent for a while. Then:
"I shall write to my attorney to come down," he said soberly. "You had better do the same this evening."
She nodded.
"It's got to be settled, of course," he continued; "because I'm too poor to concede the quarry to you."
"It is that way with me also. I do not like[171]to appear so selfish to you, but what am I to do, Mr. Gray?"
"What amIto do? I honestly believe that I staked the quarry before you did.... And my financial situation does not permit me to relinquish my claim on the quarry."
"What a horrid will that was!" she exclaimed, the quick tears of vexation springing into her brown eyes. "If you knew how hard I've worked, Mr. Gray—all these years having nothing that other girls have—being obliged to work my way through college, and then take a position as governess—and just as it seemed that relief was in sight—youcome into sight!—you!—and you even try to take away my little dog—the only thing I—I ever really cared for since I have—have been alone in the world——"
Gray sprang up nervously: "I'm sorry—terribly sorry for you! You may keep the dog anyway."
She had turned away her face sharply as the quick tears started. Now she looked around at him in unfeigned surprise.
"But—what willyoudo?"
"Oh, I can stand being alone. I don't mind. There's no doubt about it; you must have the dog——" He glanced down at the little creature[172]and caught his breath sharply as the puppy opened one eye and wagged its absurd tail feebly.
The girl rose lightly and gracefully from the sand, refusing his assistance, and stood looking down at the puppy. The little thing was on its clumsy feet, wagging and wriggling with happiness, and gazing up adoringly from Gray to Constance Leslie.
The girl looked at the dog, then at Gray.
"It—it seems too cruel," she said. "I can't bear to take him away from you."
"Oh, that's all right. I'll get on very well alone."
"You are generous. You are very generous. But after the way you expressed yourself concerning the dog, I don't feel that I can possibly take him."
"You really must. I don't blame you at all for falling in love with him. Besides, one adores what one rescues, above everything in the world."
"But—but I thought that you thoughtyouhad rescued him?" she faltered.
"It was a close call. I think perhaps that you arrived just a fraction of a second sooner than I did."
"Do you really? Or do you say that to be kind? Besides, I am not at all sure. It is perfectly possible—even,[173]perhaps, probable that you saw him before I did."
"No, I don't think so. I think he's your dog, Miss Leslie. I surrender all claim to him——"
"No! I can not permit you to do such a thing! Forgive me. I was excited and a little vexed.... I know you would be very unhappy if I took the little thing——"
"Please take him. I do love him already, but that is why it gives me a p-p-peculiar pleasure to relinquish all claims in y-your favour."
"Thank you. It is—is charming of you—exceedingly nice of you—but how can I accept such a real sacrifice?... You would be perfectly wretched to-night without him."
"So would you, Miss Leslie."
"I shall be wretched anyway. So it doesn't really matter."
"Itdoesmatter! If this little dog can alleviate your unhappiness in the slightest degree, I insist most firmly that you take him!"
The girl stood irresolute, lifted her brown eyes to his, lowered them, and gazed longingly at the puppy.
"Do you suppose he will follow me?"
"Try!"
So she walked one way and Gray started in[174]the opposite direction, and the bewildered puppy, who at first supposed it was all in play, dashed from one back to the other, until the widening distance between them perplexed and finally began to trouble him.
Nevertheless, he continued to run back and forth from Gray to Constance Leslie as long as his rather wavering legs held out. Then, unable to decide, he stood panting midway between them, whining at moments, until, unable to understand or endure the spectacle of his two best beloveds vanishing in opposite directions, he put up his nose and howled.
Then both best beloveds came back running, and Constance snatched him to her breast and covered him with caresses.
"What on earth are we to do?" she said in consternation. "We nearly broke his heart that time."
"Idon't know what to do," he admitted, much perplexed. "This pup seems to be impartial in his new-born affections."
"I thought," she said, with an admirable effort at self-denial, "that he rather showed a preference foryou!"
"Why?"
"Because when he was sitting there howling his[175]little heart out, he seemed to look toward you a little oftener than he gazed in my direction."
Gray rose nobly to the self-effacing level of his generous adversary:
"No, the balance was, if anything, in your favour. I'm very certain that he will be happier with you. T-take him!"
The girl buried her pretty face in the puppy's coat as though it had been a fluffy muff.
"What a pity," she said, in a muffled voice, "that he is compelled to make a choice. It will break his heart; I know it will. He is too young."
"He'll very soon forget me, once he is alone with you in your bungalow."
The girl shook her head and stood caressing the puppy. The soft, white hand, resting on the dog's head, fascinated Gray.
"Perhaps," he ventured, "I had better walk as far as your bungalow with you.... It may spare the dog a certain amount of superficial anguish."
She nodded, dreamy-eyed there in the sunshine. And of what she might be thinking he could form no idea.[176]