Роберт Чамберс: A Young Man in a Hurry

And while his pencil flew he murmured lazily to himself: "You don't know what I'm doing, do you? I wonder what you'd do if you did know?…Thank you, ma belle, for sitting so still. Won't you smile a little? No?… Who are you? What are you?—with your dimpled white hands framing your face…. I had no idea you were half so lovely! … or is it my fancy and my pencil which endow you with qualities that you do not possess?… There! you moved. Don't let it occur again."…

He passed a soft eraser over the sketch, dimming its outline; picked out a brush and began in color, rambling on in easy, listless self–communion: "I've asked you who you are and you haven't told me. Pas chic, ça. There are thousands and thousands of dark–eyed little things like you in this city. Did you ever see the streets when the shops close? There are thousands and thousands like you in the throng;—some poor, some poorer; some good, some better; some young, some younger; all trotting across the world on eager feet. Where? Nobody knows. Why? Nobody knows. Heigh–ho! Your portrait is done, little neighbor."

He hovered over the delicate sketch, silent a moment, under the spell of his own work. "If you were like this, a man might fall in love with you," he muttered, raising his eyes.

The development of ideas is always remarkable, particularly on a sunny day in spring–time. Sunshine, blue sky, and the perfume of the wistaria were too much for Tennant.

"I'm going out!" he said, abruptly, and put on his hat. Then he drew on his gloves, lighted a cigarette, and glanced across at his neighbor.

"I wish you were going, too," he said.

His neighbor had risen and was now standing by her window, hands clasped behind her, gazing dreamily out into the sunshine.

"Upon my word," said Tennant, "you are really as pretty as my sketch! Now isn't that curious? I had no idea—"

A rich tint crept into his neighbor's face, staining the white skin with carmine.

"The sun is doing you good," he said, approvingly. "You ought to put on your hat and go out."

She turned, as though she had heard his words, and picked up a big, black straw hat, placing it daintily upon her head.

"Well!—if—that—isn't—curious!" said Tennant, astonished, as she swung nonchalantly towards an invisible mirror and passed a long, gilded pin through the crown of her hat.

"It seems that I only have to suggest a thing—" He hesitated, watching her.

"Of course it was coincidence," he said; "but—suppose it wasn't? Suppose it was telepathy—thought transmitted?"

His neighbor was buttoning her gloves.

"I'm a beast to stand here staring," he murmured, as she moved leisurely towards her window, apparently unconscious of him. "It's a shame," he added, "that we don't know each other! I'm going to the Park; I wish you were—I want you to go—because it would do you good! You must go!"

Her left glove was now buttoned; the right gave her some difficulty, which she started to overcome with a hair–pin.

"If mental persuasion can do it, you and I are going to meet under the wistaria arbor in the Park," he said, with emphasis.

To concentrate his thoughts he stood rigid, thinking as hard as a young man can think with a distractingly pretty girl fastening her glove opposite; and the effort produced a deep crease between his eyebrows.

"You—are—going—to—the—wistaria—arbor—in—the Park!" he repeated, solemnly.

She turned as though she had heard, and looked straight at him. Her face was bright with color; never had he seen such fresh beauty in a human face.

Her eyes wandered from him upward to the serene blue sky; then she stepped back, glanced into the mirror, touched her hair with the tips of her gloved fingers, and walked away, disappearing into the gloom of the room.

An astonishing sense of loneliness came over him—a perfectly unreasonable feeling, because every day for months he had seen her disappear from the window, always viewing the phenomenon with disinterested equanimity.

"Now I don't for a moment suppose she's going to the wistaria arbor," he said, mournfully, walking towards his door.

But all the way down in the elevator and out on the street he was comforting himself with stories of strange coincidences; of how, sometimes, walking alone and thinking of a person he had not seen or thought of for years, raising his eyes he had met that person face to face. And a presentiment that he should meet his neighbor under the wistaria arbor grew stronger and stronger, until, as he turned into the broad, southeastern entrance to the Park, his heart began beating an uneasy, expectant tattoo under his starched white waist–coat.

"I've been smoking too many cigarettes," he muttered. "Things like that don't happen. It would be too silly—"

And it was rather silly; but she was there. He saw her the moment he entered the wistaria arbor, seated in a rustic recess. It may be that she was reading the book she held so unsteadily in her small, gloved fingers, but the book was upside down. And when his footstep echoed on the asphalt, she raised a pair of thoroughly frightened eyes.

"HE SAW HER THE MOMENT HE ENTERED THE WISTARIA ARBOR"

His expression verged on the idiotic; they were a scared pair, and it was only when the bright flush of guilt flooded her face that he recovered his senses in a measure and took off his hat.

"I—I hadn't the slightest notion that you would come," he stammered. "This is the—the most amazing example of telepathy I ever heard of!"

"Telepathy?" she repeated, faintly.

"Telepathy! Thought persuasion! It's incredible! It's—it's a—it was a dreadful thing to do. I don't know what to say."

"Is it necessary for you to say anything to—me?"

"Can you ever pardon me?"

"I don't think I understand," she said, slowly. "Are you asking pardon for your rudeness in speaking to me?"

"No," he almost groaned; "I'll do that later. There is something much worse—"

Her cool self–possession unnerved him. Composure is sometimes the culmination of fright; but he did not know that, because he did not know the subtler sex. His fluency left him; all he could repeat was, "I'm sorry I'm speaking to you—but there's something much worse."

"I cannot imagine anything worse," she said.

"Won't you grant me a moment to explain?" he urged.

"How can I?" she replied, calmly. "How can a woman permit a man to speak without shadow of excuse? You know perfectly well what convention requires."

Hot, uncomfortable, he looked at her so appealingly that her eyes softened a little.

"I don't suppose you mean to be impertinent to me," she said, coldly.

He said that he didn't with so much fervor that something perilously close to a smile touched her lips. He told her who he was, and the information appeared to surprise her, so it is safe to assume she knew it already. He pleaded in extenuation that they had been neighbors for a year; but she had not, apparently, been aware of this either; and the snub completed his discomfiture.

"I—I was so anxious to know you," he said, miserably. "That was the beginning—"

"It is a perfectly horrid thing to say," she said, indignantly. "Do you suppose, because you are a public character, you are privileged to speak to anybody?"

He attempted to say he didn't, but she went on: "Of course that is not a palliation of your offence. It is a dreadful condition of affairs if a woman cannot go out alone—"

"Please don't say that!" he cried.

"I must. It is a terrible comment on modern social conditions," she repeated, shaking her pretty head. "A woman who permits it—especially a woman who is obliged to support herself—for if I were not poor I should be driving here in my brougham, and you know it!—oh, it is a hideously common thing for a girl to do!" Opening her book, she appeared to be deeply interested in it. But the book was upside down.