“Is it — agreeable?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Is it nourishing?”
“No, my lady. It is not intended to be eaten; it is to be chewed.”
“Then one does not swallow it when one supposes it to be sufficiently masticated?”
“No, my lady.”
“What does one do with it?”
“Beg pardon, my lady — one spits it out.”
“Ow,” said the girl.
VIII
She was lying on the bed when a relay of servants staggered in bearing gaudy piles of the most recent and popular novels, and placed them in tottering profusion upon the adjacent furniture.
The Lady Alene turned her head where it lay lazily pillowed on her left arm, and glanced indifferently at the multi-coloured battlement of books. The majority of the covers were embellished with the heads of young women, all endowed with vaudeville-like beauty — it having been discovered by intelligent publishers that a girl’s head on any book sells it.
On some covers were displayed coloured pictures of handsome and athletic American young men, usually kissing beautiful young ladies who wore crowns, ermines, and foreign orders over dinner dresses. Sometimes, however, they were kicking Kings. That seemed rather odd to the Lady Alene, and she sat up on the bed and reached out her hand. It encountered a book on which rested a small, oblong package. She took book and package. On the pink wrapper of the latter she read this verse:
Why are my teeth so white and bright? Because I chew with all my might The gum that fills me with delight And keeps me healthy day and night. Five cents.
The Lady Alene’s unaccustomed fingers became occupied with the pink wrapper. Presently she withdrew from it a thin and brittle object, examined it, and gravely placed it in her mouth.
For a while the perplexed and apprehensive expression remained upon her face, but it faded gradually, and after a few minutes her lovely features settled into an expression resembling contentment. And, delicately, discreetly, at leisurely intervals, her fresh, sweet lips moved as though she were murmuring a prayer.
All that afternoon she perused the first American novel she had ever read. And the cumulative effect of the fiction upon her literal mind was amazing as she turned page after page, and, gradually gathering mental and nervous speed, dashed from one chapter, bang! into another, only to be occultly adjured to “take the car ahead” — which she now did quite naturally, and on the run.
Never, never had she imagined such things could be! Always heretofore, to her, fiction had been a strict reflection of actuality in which a dull imagination was licensed to walk about if it kept off the grass. And it always did in the only novels to which she had been accustomed.
But good heavens! Here was a realism at work in these pages so astonishing yet so convincing, so subtle yet so natural, so matter of fact yet so astoundingly new to her that the book she was reading was already changing the entire complexion of the Yankee continent for her.
It had to do with a young, penniless, and athletic American who went to Europe, tipped a king off his throne, pushed a few dukes, counts, and barons out of the way, reorganized the army, and went home taking with him a beautiful and exclusive princess with honest intentions.
The inhabitants of several villages wept at his departure; the abashed nobility made unsuccessful attempts to shoot him; otherwise the trip to the Cunard Line pier was uneventful, and diplomatic circles paid no attention to the incident.
When the Lady Alene finished the story her oval face ached; but this was no time to consider aches. So with a charming abandon she relieved her pretty teeth of the morceau, replaced it with another, helped herself to a second novel, settled back on her pillow, and opened the enchanted pages.
And zip! Instantly she became acquainted with another athletic and penniless American who was raising the devil in the Balkans.
Never in her life had she dreamed that any nation contained such fearless, fascinating, resourceful, epigrammatic, and desirable young men! And here she was in the very midst of them, and never had realised it until now.
Where were they? All around her, no doubt. When, a few days later, she had read some baker’s dozen novels, and in each one of them had discovered similar athletic, penniless, and omniscient American young men, her opinion was confirmed, and she could no longer doubt that, like the fiction of her own country, the romances of American novelists must have a substantial foundation in solid fact.
There could be no use in quibbling. The situation had become exciting. Her youthful imagination was now fired; her Saxon blood thoroughly stirred. She knew perfectly well that there were in her own country no young men like these she had read about — not a man-jack among them who would ever dream of dashing about the world cuffing the ears of reprehensible monarchs, meting out condign punishment to refractory nobility, reconstructing governments and states and armies, and escaping with a princess every time.
Not that she actually believed that such episodes were of common occurrence. Young as she was she knew better. But somehow it seemed very clear to her that a race of writers who were so unanimous on the subject and a nation which so complacently read of these events without denying their plausibility, must within itself harbour germs and seeds of romance and reckless deeds which no doubt had produced a number of young men thoroughly capable of doing a few of the exciting things she had read about.
Now she regretted she had not noticed the men she had met; now she was indeed sorry she had not at least taken pains to learn to distinguish them one from the other. She wished that she had investigated this reckless, chivalrous, energetic, and distinguishing trait of the American young man.
It seemed odd, too, that Pa-pa had never investigated it; that Ma-ma had never appeared to notice it.
She mentioned it at dinner carelessly, in the midst of a natural and British silence. Neither parent enlightened her. One said, “Fancy!” And the other said, “Ow.”
And so, as both parents departed the following morning to investigate the tarpon fishing at Miami, the little Lady Alene made private preparations to investigate and closely observe the astonishing, reckless, and romantic tendencies of the American young man. Her tour of discovery she scheduled for five o’clock that afternoon.
Just how these investigations were to be accomplished she did not see very clearly. She had carefully refrained from knowing anybody in the hotel. So how to go about it she did not know; but she knew enough after luncheon to have her hair done by somebody besides her maid, selected the most American gown in her repertoire, took a sunshade hitherto disdained, and glanced in the mirror at a picture in white, with gold hair, violet eyes, and a skin of snow and roses.
Further she did not know how to equip herself, except by going out doors at five o’clock. And at five o’clock she went.
From the tennis courts young men and girls looked at her. On the golf links youth turned to observe her slim and dainty progress. She was stared at from porch and veranda, from dock and deck, from garden and walk and orange grove and hedge of scarlet hibiscus.
From every shop window in the village, folk looked out at her; from automobile, wheeled chair, bicycle, and horse-drawn vehicle she was inspected. But she knew nobody; not one bright nod greeted her; not one straw hat was lifted; not one nigger grinned. She knew nobody. And, alas! everybody knew her. A cold wave seemed to have settled over Verbena Inlet.
Yet her father was not unpopular, nor was her mother either; and although they asked too many questions, their perfectly impersonal and scientific mission in Verbena Inlet was understood.
But the Lady Alene Innesly was not understood, although her indifference was noted and her exclusiveness amusedly resented. However, nobody interfered with her or her seclusion. The fact that she desired to know nobody had been very quickly accepted. Youth and the world at Verbena Inlet went on without her; the sun continued to rise and set as usual; and the nigger waiters played baseball.
She stood watching them now for a few minutes
, her parasol tilted over her lovely shoulders. Tiring of this, she sauntered on, having not the slightest idea where she was going, but very calmly she made up her mind to speak to the first agreeable looking young man she encountered, as none of them seemed at all inclined to speak to her.
Under her arm she had tucked a novel written by one Smith. She had read it half through. The story concerned a young and athletic and penniless man from Michigan and a Balkan Princess. She had read as far as the first love scene. The young man from Michigan was still kissing the Princess when she left off reading. And her imagination was still on fire.
She had wandered down to the lagoon without finding anybody sufficiently attractive to speak to. The water was blue and pretty and very inviting. So she hired a motor-boat, seated herself in the stern, and dabbled her fingers in the water as the engineer took her whizzing across the lagoon and out into the azure waste, headed straight for the distant silvery inlet.
IX
She read, gazed at the gulls and wild ducks, placed a bit of gum between her rose-leaf lips, read a little, glanced up to mark the majestic flight of eight pelicans, sighed discreetly, savoured the gum, deposited it in a cunning corner adjacent to her left and snowy cheek, and spoke to 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 to read it.”
The boatman glanced ironically at the scarlet bound volume which bore the portrait of a pretty girl on its covers.
“Is it that book by John Smith they’re sellin’ so many of down to the hotel?” he inquired slowly.
“I believe it was written by one Smith,” she said, turning over the volume to look. “Yes, John Smith is the author’s name. No doubt he is very 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 Inlet Point.”
“Where?”
“Over there, where them gulls is flying.”
The girl looked earnestly at the point. All she saw were snowy dunes and wild 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 them dunes a-writing pieces like billy-bedam. Yes’m.”
“Do you think he is there now?” she asked with a slight catch in her breath.
“Well, we kin soon find out — —” He swung the tiller; the little boat rushed in a seething circle toward the point, veered westward, then south.
“Yaas’m,” said the boatman presently. “Mr. Smith he’s reclinin’ out there onto his stummick. I guess he’s just a thinkin’. He thinks more’n five million niggers, he does. Gor-a-mighty! I never see such a man for thinkin’! He jest lies onto his stummick an’ studies an’ ruminates like billy-bedam. Yaas’m. Would you want I should land you so’s you can take a peek at him?”
“Might I?”
“Sure, Miss. Go up over them dunes and take a peek at him. He won’t mind. Ten to nothin’ he won’t even see ye.”
There was a little dock built of coquina. A power boat, a sloop, several row-boats, and a canoe lay there, riding the little, limpid, azure-tinted wavelets. Under their keels swam gar-pike, their fins and backs also shimmering with blue and turquoise green.
Lady Alene rose; her boatman aided her, and she sprang lightly to the coquina dock and walked straight over the low dune in front of her.
There was nothing whatever in sight except beach-grapes and scrubby tufts of palmetto, and flocks of grey, long-legged, long-billed birds running to avoid her. But they did not run very fast or very far, and she saw them at a little distance loitering, with many a bright and apparently 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 a cluster of palms and palmettos.
From where she stood she could see a cove — merely a tiny crescent of sand edged by a thin blade of cobalt water, and curtained by the palmetto forest. And on this little crescent beach, in the shade of the palms, 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 toy shovel.
He was clad in white flannels; beside him she noticed a red tin pail, such as children use for gathering shells. Near this stood two camp-chairs, one of which was piled with pads of yellow paper and a few books. She thought his legs very eloquent. Sometimes they lay in picturesque repose, crossed behind him; at other moments they waved in the air or sprawled widely, appearing to express the varying emotions which 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 ten minutes to find out. He continued to sprawl and dig holes in the sand.
Learning nothing, and her interest increasing inversely, she began to walk toward him. It was her disposition to investigate whatever interested her. Already she was conscious of a deep interest in his legs.
From time to time low dunes intervened to hide the little cove, but always when she crossed them, pushing her way through fragrant thickets of sweet bay and sparkle-berry shrub, cove and occupant came into view again. And his legs continued to wave. The nearer she drew the less she comprehended the nature of his occupation, and the more she decided to find out what he could be about, lying there flat on his stomach and digging and patting the sand.
Also her naturally calm and British heart was beating irregularly and fast, because she realised the fact that she was approaching the vicinity of one of those American young men who did things in books that she never dreamed could be done anywhere. Nay — under her arm was a novel written by this very man, in which the hero was still kissing a Balkan Princess, page 169. And it occurred to her vaguely that her own good taste and modesty ought to make an end of such a situation; and that she ought to finish the page quickly and turn to the next chapter to relieve the pressure on the Princess.
Confused a trifle by a haunting sense of her own responsibility, by the actual imminence of such an author, and by her intense curiosity concerning what he was now doing, she walked across the dunes down through little valleys all golden with the flowers of a flat, spreading vine. The blossoms were larger and lovelier than the largest golden portulacca, but she scarcely noticed their beauty as she resolutely approached the cove, moving forward under the cool shadow of the border forest.
He did not seem to be aware of her approach, even when she came up and stood by the camp-chairs, parasol tilted, looking down at him with grave, 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 several assorted 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 drawbridge bridged the moat, guarded by lead soldiers in Boznovian uniform.
And lead soldiers were everywhere in the miniature city; the keep bristled with their bayonets; squads of them marched through street and square; they sat at dinner in the market place; their cannon winked and blinked in the westering sun on every battlement.
And after a little while she discovered two lead figures which were not military; a civilian wearing a bowler hat; a feminine figure wearing a crown and ermines. The one stood on the edge of the moat outside the drawbridge: t
he other, in crown and ermines, was apparently observing him 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 out in concrete detail some incident of an unwritten novel. And the magnificent realism of it fascinated the Lady Alene. Genius only possesses such a capacity for detail.
“The magnificent realism of it fascinated the Lady Alene.”
Without even arousing young Smith from his absorbed preoccupation, she seated herself on the unincumbered camp-chair, laid her book on her knees, 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. Several dozen Boznovian soldiers were aiming an assortment of firearms at him; cavalry were coming at a gallop, too, not to mention a three-gun battery on a dead run.
The problem seemed to be how, in the face of such a situation, was the lead gentleman in the bowler hat to get away, much less penetrate the city?
Flight seemed hopeless, but presently Smith picked him up, marched him along the edge of the moat, and gave him a shove into it.
“He’s swimming,” said Smith, aloud to himself. “Bang! Bang! But they don’t hit him.... Yes, they do; they graze his shoulder. It is the only wound possible to polite fiction. There is consequently a streak of red in the water. Bang — bang — bang! Crack — crack! The cavalry empty their pistols. Boom! A field piece opens —— Where the devil is that battery — —”
Smith reached over, drew horses, cannoniers, gun and caisson over the drawbridge, galloped them along the moat, halted, unlimbered, trained the guns on the bowler hatted swimmer, and remarked, “Boom!”
“The shell,” he murmured with satisfaction, “missed him and blew up in the casemates. Did it kill anybody? No; that interferes with the action.... He dives, swims under water to an ancient drain.” Smith stuck a peg where the supposed drain emptied into the moat.
“That drain,” continued Smith thoughtfully, “connects with the royal residence.... Where’s that Princess? Can she see him dive into it? Or does she merely suspect he is making for it? Or — or — doesn’t she know anything about it?”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 675
