A Book o' Nine Tales.
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“Yes,” she repeated; and then, with a yet more puzzled air, she turned to Mr. Lane to ask, “Is this mind-reading?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” returned he. “Mr. Gray can best tell what it is.”
“And the rest of the way to Boston,” I continued, ignoring the interruption, “you were elaborating your story. You took the heroine’s name from the same line, and had a pun at the climax about the hero’s becoming ‘lord of May.’”
“No,” Miss Graham retorted, beginning to enter into the spirit of the situation. “I deny the pun, although I acknowledge the rest. The pun I didn’t even think of.”
“Well, you see I haven’t read your manuscript, but I own I fell so low that I put in the pun myself. At least the old gentleman with a scar on his cheek, who sat in the corner of the car, gave you hints for – ”
“The uncle,” broke in Miss Graham, with a gleeful laugh at the remembrance of the oddity of the old gentleman’s appearance. “But how in the world did you know?”
“Oh, he did me. We evidently had the same mental experience; which proves, I suppose, that we are literary Corsican brothers or something of the sort.”
“But the great question to be settled is,” Mr. Lane observed, bringing in, after some further talk, the editorial consideration, “whose story this really is.”
“Miss Graham’s, by all means,” I said instantly. “Hers was first in the field, and if I hadn’t impertinently looked over her shoulder, I shouldn’t have had any share in it whatever.”
Miss Graham laughed, showing a delicious dimple, and Mr. Lane, who evidently had no desire to settle the question under discussion, looked inquiringly at her for a response to my words.
“You are very generous, Mr. Gray,” she answered; “but in the first place my story has never been accepted for the ‘Dark Red,’ and in the second, as the stories really ought to stand on their merits, I shall certainly not venture to put mine into competition with yours, but prefer to pocket my manuscript and retire.”
“I fear,” was my reply, “that I discover rather a tendency to sarcasm in what you say than any true humility. Of course the first point is one for Mr. Lane to settle.”
The editor cleared his throat with some embarrassment, but before he found the words he wanted, Miss Graham spoke again.
“I had not the slightest idea of being sarcastic, for, of course, it goes without saying that your story is better than mine; but since you choose to take it in that way, I am willing to leave the whole matter to Mr. Lane. He is at least the only person who has read both manuscripts.”
“Really,” Mr. Lane said, thus pushed into a corner, “I am extremely sorry to find myself placed in so trying a situation. There are points in which each story excels, and the best result would undoubtedly be attained by welding them together.”
“If that could be done,” said Miss Graham, thoughtfully.
“Now, in Mr. Gray’s version,” he continued, “the heroine is more attractive and real.”
“That,” I interpolated, trying to cover the awkwardness I felt by a jest, “is the first time in all my literary experience that the character I thought best in a story I’d written has seemed so to the editorial mind.”
The dark eyes of my neighbor gave me a bright, brief glance, but whether of sympathy with my statement or of contempt for the feebleness of my attempts at being jocose, I could not determine.
“While Miss Graham,” went on the editorial comment, “has decidedly the advantage in her hero.”
Miss Graham flushed slightly, but offered no remark in reply to this opinion beyond a smile which seemed one of frank pleasure. We sat in silence a moment, a not unnatural hesitancy preventing my making a proposition which had presented itself to my mind.
“If it will not seem impertinent to Miss Graham,” I ventured at length, “I would propose that we really do try the experiment of collaboration on this story. I have never worked with anybody, but I promise to be tractable; and the thing had so odd a beginning that it is a pity to thwart the evident intention of destiny that we shall both have a hand in it.”
To this proposition the lady at first returned a decided and even peremptory negative; but my persuasions, seconded by those of Mr. Lane, who was partly curious and partly anxious to escape from the necessity of arbitrating in the matter, in the end induced her to alter her decision.
The result of the interview was that when we left the office of the “Dark Red” Miss Graham had my manuscript and I hers, and that an appointment had been made for my calling upon her with a view to an interchange of comments and criticisms.
Upon the appointed evening I presented myself at the home of Miss Graham, and almost without the usual conventionalities concerning the weather we proceeded to discuss the stories. We began with great outward suavity and courtesy the exchange of compliments, which were so obviously formal and perfunctory that in a moment more we looked into each other’s faces and burst into laughter which if hardly polite was at least genuine.
“Come,” I said, “now the ice is broken and we can say what we really think; and I must be pardoned for saying that that hero of yours, whom Mr. Lane praised, is the most insufferable cad I’ve encountered this many a day. He can’t be set off against that lovely girl in my story. Why, the truth is, Miss Graham, I meant her to be what I fancied you might be. She’s the ideal I built up from seeing you in the cars.”
“I must say,” Miss Graham retorted with spirit, “that if you meant that pert heroine of yours for me, I am anything but complimented.”
“It is a pity, then, that you didn’t intend your hero for me, and we should have been more than quits.”
She blushed so vividly that a sudden light burst upon me.
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “he does have my eyes and beard; but you didn’t see me. It isn’t possible – ”
“But it is,” interrupted she, desperately. “With a mirror in the end of the car directly before me all the way from New York, do you suppose I could help seeing you! I’m sure you kept your eyes on me steadily enough to give me a good excuse.”
I whistled rudely; whereat she looked offended, and we went on from one thing to another until we had got up a very respectable quarrel indeed. There is nothing more conducive to a thoroughly good understanding between persons of opposite sex than a genuine quarrel; and having reached the point where there was no alternative but to separate in anger or to apologize, we chose the latter course, and having mutually humbled ourselves, after that got on capitally.
“It is my deliberate conviction,” she observed, when we at length got upon a footing sufficiently familiar for jesting, “that this story is really mine, and that you purloined it from me by some mysterious clairvoyance.”
“That may be,” I admitted. “I once guessed that a man was a bartender by the way he stirred his coffee at the steamer table, and that got me a very pretty reputation as a seer for a day or two; and very likely the truth is that I was all the time a mind-reader without knowing it.”
She smiled good-naturedly – more good-naturedly, indeed, than the jest deserved; and from that moment our acquaintance got on famously. The story was far from advancing as rapidly, however. A very brief time sufficed to reduce both versions of “April’s Lady” to hopeless confusion, but to build from the fragments a new and improved copy was a labor of much magnitude. Circumstances moreover, conspired to hinder our work. It was necessary that we verify our impressions of material we had used, and to do this we were obliged to attend the theatre together, to read together various poems, and together to hear a good deal of music. A little ingenuity, and a common inclination to prolong these investigations, effected so great a lengthening out that it was several months before we could even pretend to be ready to begin serious work upon the story; and even then we were far from agreeing in a number of important particulars.
“Agnes,” I remarked, one February evening, when we were on our way home from a concert to which we had boldly gone without even a pretence that it was in the remotest way connected with our literary project, “I fear we are becoming demoralized, and it seems to me the only hope of our ever completing ‘April’s Lady’ is to put everything else aside for the time being and give our minds to it. I can get my work arranged, and you can finish those articles for ‘The Quill’ by the middle of March. Then, we can be quietly married and go to some nice old-fashioned place – say St. Augustine – for a couple of months and get this magnum opus on paper at last.”
“As to being married,” returned she sedately, “have you considered that we could not possibly make a living, since we should inevitably be always writing the same things?”
“Why, that is my chief reason,” I retorted, “for proposing it. Think how awkward it is going to be if either of us marries somebody else, and then we write the same things. It is a good deal better to have our interests in common if our inventive faculty is to be so.”
“There is something in what you say,” Agnes assented; “and it would be especially awkward for you, since the invention is in my head.”
“Then we will consider it all arranged.”
“Oh, no, George; by no means. I couldn’t think of it for a minute!”
Whether she did think of it for a minute is a point which may be left for the settling of those versed in the ways of the feminine mind; certain it is that the programme was carried out – except in one trifling particular. We were quietly married, we did go to St. Augustine, but as for doing anything with the story, that was quite another thing. We did not finish it then, and we have not finished it yet, and I have ceased to have any very firm confidence that we ever shall finish it; although, whenever arises one of those financial crises which are so painfully frequent in the family of a literary man, and we sit down to consider possible resources, one or the other of us is sure sooner or later to observe: —
“And then there is ‘April’s Lady,’ you know.”
Interlude Eighth.
A CUBAN MORNING
[Scene, the shady piazza of the hotel at Marianao, Cuba. Time, nine o’clock on a hot March morning. Miss Peltonville and Arthur Chester tête-à-tête.]
She. Why did you follow us to Cuba?
He. I have already told you that I thought you were in Florida.
She. Yes? And so you came to Marianao, where nobody comes at this time of year, in order that you might be perfectly safe from an encounter, I suppose.
He. Oh, I – that is; precisely.
She. I had a letter from Annie Cleaves yesterday.
He. Had you?
She. Yes; and she said you told her that you were coming to Cuba to find me.
He. Oh, that’s nothing. It isn’t to be supposed I told her the truth.
She. Do you speak the truth so seldom, then? Is there no dependence to be put on what you say?
He. None whatever; otherwise I should be continually hampered by the necessity of conforming my actions to my words. You can see yourself how inconvenient that would be.
She. For one who has had so little practice, very likely; but then you would find it a novel experience, I have no doubt.
He. Ah, you have given me an idea. I’ll try it when all other novelties in life are exhausted.
She. Don’t put it off too long, or from the force of habit you may find it impossible.
He. You underrate my adaptability.
She. Meanwhile I wish to know why you came.
He. Since you are here yourself, you might be supposed to regard the place as sufficiently interesting to attract the traveller.
She. Then you decline to tell me?
He. Oh, no; I came because you amuse me.
She. Thank you for nothing.
He. And consequently I am in love with you, as I did myself the honor to mention before you left New York.
She. Am I to understand that amusement is your idea of love?
He. Love certainly must be something that does not bore one.
She. But it seems a somewhat limited view to take.
He. Oh, it is only one way out of many; I assure you I have quantities of ideas upon the subject, all founded upon experience. I loved Lottie Greenwell because she made a glorious champagne cup. Indeed, for ten days I positively adored her, until one night she put in too much curaçoa, and I realized how uncertain a foundation my passion had. Then there was Elsie Manning. My passion for her was roused entirely by her divine waltzing, but I realized that it isn’t good form for a man to waltz with his wife, and I stood a much better chance if she married some other man. After that came Kate Turner; she writes so fascinating a letter that I lost my heart every time I saw her handwriting on the back of an envelope, although perhaps that feeling you would call only a fancy, since nobody would think of marrying on a virtue that is sure to end with the wedding. A wife never writes to her husband about anything but the servants and the payment of her milliner’s bills; so my flirtation with her wouldn’t really count as a love affair.
She. You excel in nice metaphysical distinctions.
He. Then there was Miss French. I loved her because she snubbed me, – just as I loved Nora Delaney for her riding, and Annie Cleaves for her music.
She. And now you love me, I am to understand, as suited to the position of court jester to your Royal Highness.
He. One must have some sort of a reason for being in love.
She. But one needn’t be in love.
He. Oh, yes; life is very dull otherwise; and besides, I have always thought it very stupid to marry without having been in love a dozen times at least. One is apt to lose his head otherwise; and how can he judge of the value of his passion without having had a good deal of experience?
She. So you advertise yourself as a marrying man?
He. Every bachelor is a marrying man. It is only a question of finding a convenient wife.
She. Like a convenient house, I suppose.
He. Exactly.
She. I wonder any woman ever consents to marry a man.
He. They know their own sex too well to be willing to marry a woman.
She. But men are such selfish creatures!
He. You are amazingly pretty when you toss your head that way. It is worth coming from New York to see.
She. It is well you think so; otherwise you might consider your voyage a waste of time.
He. What, with the certainty of your consenting to marry me?
She. I like your assurance! Why should I marry you?
He. I supposed that with your sex the fact of my amazing attachment would be a sufficient reason.
She. Your knowledge of our sex is then remarkably limited. Apparently, whether I happen to love you is of no particular consequence.
He. Oh, love is said to beget love.
She. But you love me, you say, because I amuse you. Now you don’t amuse me in the least, and as I do not know just how to cultivate a passion simply on the rather doubtful ground of your affection, especially with the chance of its being transient, there really seems to be very little chance of reciprocity.
He. Do you know what a tremendously hot day it is?
She. I don’t see the connection, and I am sure I am cool enough.
He. But you make it very hot for me! How picturesque that ragged fellow over there looks, riding on the top of his high saddle.
She. With a string of mules tied to his horse’s tail. I am fond of the mules, their bells are so musical.
He. And their bray.
She. And the muleteers sing such weird songs. I hear them going by about four o’clock in the morning, on their way to the Havana market, and the effect is most fascinating.
He. I should have expected you to be fond of the mules.
She. Why?
He. A fellow feeling is said to have a softening effect, and the mule’s strongest characteristic is —
She. Consistency!
He. And as I was about to remark, we are apt to value others most for the virtues we do not ourselves possess.
She. You are sufficiently rude.
He. There is always danger that honesty will be thought rude.
She. Really, you begin to amuse me. Please go on; I would like to try falling in love on the amusement plan; it must be very droll.
He. Oh, bother the amusement! Like the young ladies in novels, I would be loved for myself alone.
She. I fear that would be more difficult than the other way. What have you ever done to make me admire you?
He. Perhaps nothing. Admiration presupposes the capability of appreciation.
She. Ah! What have you done, then, worthy of admiration?
He. I have managed to find you at Marianao, and bring about a tête-à-tête before I have been here fifteen hours.
She. Wonderful man! And of all that, what comes?
He. That I ask you to marry me. That is certainly something.
She. Yes; it isn’t much, and you have done it before. But as you say, it is certainly something.
He. You are always flattering! Really, one wouldn’t have expected you to be light now, when it is my deepest affections and all that sort of touching thing with which you are trifling.
She. You are a humbug!
He. Of course; so are you; so is everybody. Civilization is merely the apotheosis of humbug.
She. My friend, that trick of striving after epigram is fast making you as bad as a confirmed punster.
He. Still, it is all true. I am a humbug in proposing to you; you, if you reject me —
She. I certainly do, most emphatically and finally!
He. You make me the happiest of men.
She. You make your system of humbug far too complicated for me to follow.
He. Why, this is genuine.
She. Anything genuine from you, I fear, is impossible.
He. Oh, no; I have to be genuine occasionally, for the sake of contrast. The humbug was in asking you to marry me, and I wouldn’t have had you say yes for the world.
She. I never suspected you of insanity, Mr. Chester. Am I to infer that the climate of Cuba, or the wines —
He. Oh, neither, I assure you. Besides, Cuba has no wines, as you ought to know. Now, see; I’ll do you the rare honor of telling you the truth. Of course, you are at liberty to believe it or not, as you please; and very likely you won’t, because it happens to be as true as the Gospel, revised version. Some days since, I asked Annie Cleaves to marry me.
She. What particular thing had she been playing to rouse you to that point of enthusiasm?
He. If my memory serves me, it was the Chopin Nocturne in G minor. She did play extremely well, and as we happened to be in the conservatory afterward, I improved the opportunity to propose.
She. Oh, very naturally!
He. It is a form of words that comes very readily to my lips, as you know. Annie confessed to that very superfluous and old-fashioned sentiment called love, which wasn’t in good form, I’ll admit; but in consideration for the object of her attachment, and the fact that on that particular evening I was in love myself, I managed to overlook it.
She. Very good of you, I’m sure. I hope Annie appreciated your generosity.
He. Very likely she didn’t. Your sex very seldom do appreciate masculine virtues; but Annie has a far more old-fashioned and worse vice than love. Why, the girl, in the midst of these enlightened nineteenth-century days, actually goes to the nonsensical bother of keeping a conscience! It must be more trouble to attend to, Agnes, than her aunt Wheeler’s seven pet poodles and three red-headed parrots.
She. I suppose you are right. You don’t speak from experience, though, do you?
He. Oh, no; I never had a conscience: as a boy, I preferred white mice; now I have my horses, you know.
She. And your innumerable loves.
He. If such trifles are to be taken into account.
She. Go on about Annie.
He. Well, on my confessing how far I had carried my flirtation with you – I can’t, for the life of me, tell how I happened to speak of it; I am usually more discreet.
She. I should hope so.
He. Oh, I am, I assure you; but the loves are so numerous, while I am but one, that they sometimes get the better of my discretion. What is one among so many?
She. Oh, in this case, absolutely nothing.
He. Thank you again.
She. But to continue —
He. Well, to continue, Annie actually seemed to think that you had some sort of claim upon me. Fancy!
She. She needn’t have troubled.
He. Oh, of course not. Why, I have offered myself to dozens of girls, with no more idea of marrying them than I have of becoming a howling dervish; and more than that, I have habitually been accepted. That is one thing about you that attracted me, do you know? There is a beautiful novelty about being rejected.
She. So that is the secret of my amusing you, is it? You ought to have explained this to Annie.
He. Oh, she wouldn’t have understood. Like every other girl, ’twas the personal application that she was touched by. You see she didn’t know the other girls, and she did know you; and she seems to think your no more binding than any other person’s yes. Perhaps she knows that a woman’s negative —
She. Really, Arthur, that’s so hackneyed that if you haven’t the gallantry not to say it you ought to be ashamed to repeat anything so stale.
He. Perhaps you are right; I have known you to be on very rare occasions. However, Annie insisted that I should come, and, as she said, “assure myself of your sentiments and of my own.” Did you ever hear anything more absurd? As if I didn’t know, all the time, that you were dying for me; and as if I – despite my mad and overpowering passion for your lovely self, Miss Peltonville – couldn’t tell as well in New York as in Cuba whether I wanted to marry her or not.
She. If you were no better informed of your own sentiments than of mine, I don’t wonder she doubted your conclusions.
He. Oh, she didn’t in the least.
She. At least, Annie may set her mind quite at rest, so far as I am concerned.
He. Thank you so much. It is such a relief to have things settled.
She. What would you have done if I had accepted you?
He. Oh, I was confident of my ability of putting the question so that you wouldn’t.
She. I have almost a mind to do it, even now.
He. Really?
She. Oh, don’t be alarmed. There is one insuperable obstacle.
He. What is that?
She. Yourself.
He. Then I am quite safe. That is a permanent one.
She. Well, I wish Annie joy of her bargain. She is worthy of a better fate; and since we are talking frankly, I must say that what she can see in you I can’t imagine.
He. These things are so strange; there is no accounting for them. Why, I have been perfectly puzzled – do you know? – ever since I came last night, to tell what I found in you last winter.
She. Since we seem to be striving to outdo each other in abuse, it is quite in keeping for me to add, that I have no occasion to bother my head on such a question, for I never pretended to have found anything in you.
He. But then, as I said, you amused me; and one may sometimes be so far amused that —
She. His amusement may even amount to astonishment, perhaps; and, by the way, that gentleman on the gray horse, just coming between the China laurels with papa, expects to marry me.
He. Fred Armstrong, by all that is unspeakable! Agnes Peltonville, I humble myself in the dust before you; and no humiliation could be greater than going down into Cuban dust. You are an angel; you have removed my last fear.