IX
She read, gazed at the gulls and wild ducks, placed a bit of gum betweenher rose-leaf lips, read a little, glanced up to mark the majesticflight of eight pelicans, sighed discreetly, savoured the gum, depositedit in a cunning corner adjacent to her left and snowy cheek, and spoketo the boatman.
"Did you ever read this book?" she asked.
"Me! No, ma'am."
"It is very interesting. Do you read much?"
"No, ma'am."
"This is a very extraordinary book," she said. "I strongly advise you toread it."
The boatman glanced ironically at the scarlet bound volume which borethe portrait of a pretty girl on its covers.
"Is it that book by John Smith they're sellin' so many of down to thehotel?" he inquired slowly.
"I believe it was written by one Smith," she said, turning over thevolume to look. "Yes, John Smith is the author's name. No doubt he isvery famous in America."
"He lives down here in winter."
"Really!" she exclaimed with considerable animation.
"Oh, yes. I take him shooting and fishing. He has a shack on the InletPoint."
"Where?"
"Over there, where them gulls is flying."
The girl looked earnestly at the point. All she saw were snowy dunes andwild grasses and seabirds whirling.
"He writes them books over there," remarked the boatman.
"How extremely interesting!"
"They say he makes a world o' money by it. He's rich as mud."
"Really!"
"Yaas'm. I often seen him a settin' onto a camp chair out beyond themdunes a-writing pieces like billy-bedam. Yes'm."
"Do you think he is there now?" she asked with a slight catch in herbreath.
"Well, we kin soon find out----" He swung the tiller; the little boatrushed in a seething circle toward the point, veered westward, thensouth.
"Yaas'm," said the boatman presently. "Mr. Smith he's reclinin' outthere onto his stummick. I guess he's just a thinkin'. He thinks more'nfive million niggers, he does. Gor-a-mighty! _I_ never see such a manfor thinkin'! He jest lies onto his stummick an' studies an' ruminateslike billy-bedam. Yaas'm. Would you want I should land you so's you cantake a peek at him?"
"Might I?"
"Sure, Miss. Go up over them dunes and take a peek at him. He won'tmind. Ten to nothin' he won't even see ye."
There was a little dock built of coquina. A power boat, a sloop, severalrow-boats, and a canoe lay there, riding the little, limpid,azure-tinted wavelets. Under their keels swam gar-pike, their fins andbacks also shimmering with blue and turquoise green.
Lady Alene rose; her boatman aided her, and she sprang lightly to thecoquina dock and walked straight over the low dune in front of her.
There was nothing whatever in sight except beach-grapes and scrubbytufts of palmetto, and flocks of grey, long-legged, long-billed birdsrunning to avoid her. But they did not run very fast or very far, andshe saw them at a little distance loitering, with many a bright andapparently friendly glance at her.
There was another dune in front. She mounted it. Straight ahead of her,perhaps half a mile distant, stood a whitewashed bungalow under acluster of palms and palmettos.
From where she stood she could see a cove--merely a tiny crescent ofsand edged by a thin blade of cobalt water, and curtained by thepalmetto forest. And on this little crescent beach, in the shade of thepalms, a young man lay at full length, very intent upon his occupation,which was, apparently, to dig holes in the sand with a child's toyshovel.
He was clad in white flannels; beside him she noticed a red tin pail,such as children use for gathering shells. Near this stood twocamp-chairs, one of which was piled with pads of yellow paper and a fewbooks. She thought his legs very eloquent. Sometimes they lay inpicturesque repose, crossed behind him; at other moments they waved inthe air or sprawled widely, appearing to express the varying emotionswhich possessed his deep absorption in the occult task under his nose.
"Now, what in the world can he be doing?" thought Lady Alene Innesly,watching him. And she remained motionless on top of the dune for tenminutes to find out. He continued to sprawl and dig holes in the sand.
Learning nothing, and her interest increasing inversely, she began towalk toward him. It was her disposition to investigate whateverinterested her. Already she was conscious of a deep interest in hislegs.
From time to time low dunes intervened to hide the little cove, butalways when she crossed them, pushing her way through fragrant thicketsof sweet bay and sparkle-berry shrub, cove and occupant came into viewagain. And his legs continued to wave. The nearer she drew the less shecomprehended the nature of his occupation, and the more she decided tofind out what he could be about, lying there flat on his stomach anddigging and patting the sand.
Also her naturally calm and British heart was beating irregularly andfast, because she realised the fact that she was approaching thevicinity of one of those American young men who did things in books thatshe never dreamed could be done anywhere. Nay--under her arm was a novelwritten by this very man, in which the hero was still kissing a BalkanPrincess, page 169. And it occurred to her vaguely that her own goodtaste and modesty ought to make an end of such a situation; and that sheought to finish the page quickly and turn to the next chapter to relievethe pressure on the Princess.
Confused a trifle by a haunting sense of her own responsibility, by theactual imminence of such an author, and by her intense curiosityconcerning what he was now doing, she walked across the dunes downthrough little valleys all golden with the flowers of a flat, spreadingvine. The blossoms were larger and lovelier than the largest goldenportulacca, but she scarcely noticed their beauty as she resolutelyapproached the cove, moving forward under the cool shadow of the borderforest.
He did not seem to be aware of her approach, even when she came up andstood by the camp-chairs, parasol tilted, looking down at him withgrave, lilac-blue eyes.
But she did not look at him as much as she gazed at what he was doing.And what he was doing appeared perfectly clear to her now.
With the aid of his toy shovel, his little red pail, and severalassorted shells, he had constructed out of sand a walled city. Houses,streets, squares, market place, covered ways, curtain, keep, tower,turret, crenelated battlement, all were there. A driftwood drawbridgebridged the moat, guarded by lead soldiers in Boznovian uniform.
And lead soldiers were everywhere in the miniature city; the keepbristled with their bayonets; squads of them marched through street andsquare; they sat at dinner in the market place; their cannon winked andblinked in the westering sun on every battlement.
And after a little while she discovered two lead figures which were notmilitary; a civilian wearing a bowler hat; a feminine figure wearing acrown and ermines. The one stood on the edge of the moat outside thedrawbridge: the other, in crown and ermines, was apparently observinghim of the bowler hat from the top of a soldier-infested tower.
It was plain enough to her now. This amazing young man was working outin concrete detail some incident of an unwritten novel. And themagnificent realism of it fascinated the Lady Alene. Genius onlypossesses such a capacity for detail.
Without even arousing young Smith from his absorbed preoccupation, sheseated herself on the unincumbered camp-chair, laid her book on herknees, rested both elbows on it, propped her chin on both clasped hands,and watched the proceedings.
The lead figure in the bowler hat seemed to be in a bad way. Severaldozen Boznovian soldiers were aiming an assortment of firearms at him;cavalry were coming at a gallop, too, not to mention a three-gun batteryon a dead run.
The problem seemed to be how, in the face of such a situation, was thelead gentleman in the bowler hat to get away, much less penetrate thecity?
Flight seemed hopeless, but presently Smith picked him up, marched himalong the edge of the moat, and gave him a shove into it.
"He's swimming," said Smith, aloud to himself. "Bang! Bang! But theydon't hit him.... Yes,
they do; they graze his shoulder. It is the onlywound possible to polite fiction. There is consequently a streak of redin the water. Bang--bang--bang! Crack--crack! The cavalry empty theirpistols. Boom! A field piece opens---- Where the devil is thatbattery----"
"The magnificent realism of it fascinated the LadyAlene."]
Smith reached over, drew horses, cannoniers, gun and caisson over thedrawbridge, galloped them along the moat, halted, unlimbered, trainedthe guns on the bowler hatted swimmer, and remarked, "Boom!"
"The shell," he murmured with satisfaction, "missed him and blew up inthe casemates. Did it kill anybody? No; that interferes with theaction.... He dives, swims under water to an ancient drain." Smith stucka peg where the supposed drain emptied into the moat.
"That drain," continued Smith thoughtfully, "connects with the royalresidence.... Where's that Princess? Can she see him dive into it? Ordoes she merely suspect he is making for it? Or--or--doesn't she knowanything about it?"
"She doesn't know anything about it!" exclaimed Lady Alene Innesly. Thetint of excitement glowed in her cheeks. Her lilac-tinted eyes burnedwith a soft, blue fire.
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