Chapter IV: A Chapter from Harley, with Notes

A Rebellious Heroine

by John Kendrick Bangs

"Good-bye, proud world, I'm going home.
Thou art not my
friend, and I'm not thine."
- EMERSON.

I think the reader will possibly gain a better idea of what
happened at the Howlett dance, at which Count Bonetti was to have
been presented to Miss Andrews, if I forego the pleasure of writing
this chapter myself, and produce instead the chapter of Stuart
Harley's ill-fated book which was to have dealt with that most
interesting incident. Having relinquished all hope of ever getting
that particular story into shape without a change of heroine, and
being unwilling to go to that extreme, Mr. Harley has very kindly
placed his manuscript at my disposal.

"Use it as you will, my dear fellow," he said, when I asked him
for it. "I can't do anything with it myself, and it is merely
occupying space in my pigeon-holes for which I can find better use.
It may need a certain amount of revision--in fact, it is sure to, for
it is unconscionably long, and, thanks to the persistent failure of
Miss Andrews to do as I thought she would, may frequently seem
incoherent. For your own sake revise it, for the readers of your book
won't believe that you are telling a true story anyhow; they will say
that you wrote this chapter and attributed it to me, and you will
find yourself held responsible for its shortcomings. I have inserted
a few notes here and there which will give you an idea of what I
suffered as I wrote on and found her growing daily less and less
tractable, with occasionally an indication of the point of divergence
between her actual behavior and that which I expected of her."

To a fellow-workman in literary fields this chapter is of
pathetic interest, though it may not so appear to the reader who
knows little of the difficulties of authorship. I can hardly read it
myself without a feeling of most intense pity for poor Harley. I can
imagine the sleepless nights which followed the shattering of his
hopes as to what his story might be by the recalcitrant attitude of
the young woman he had honored so highly by selecting her for his
heroine. I can almost feel the bitter sense of disappointment, which
must have burned to the very depths of his soul, when he finally
realized how completely overturned were all his plans, and I cannot
forego calling attention to the constancy to his creed of Stuart
Harley, in sacrificing his opportunity rather than his principles, as
shown by his resolute determination not to force Miss Andrews to do
his bidding, even though it required merely the dipping of his pen
into the ink and the resolution to do so.

I cannot blame her, however. Granting to Harley the right to a
creed, Miss Andrews, too, it must be admitted, was entitled to have
views as to how she ought to behave under given circumstances, and if
she found her notions running counter to his, it was only proper that
she should act according to the dictates of her own heart, or mind,
or whatever else it may be that a woman reasons with, rather than
according to his wishes.

As to all questions of this kind, however, as between the two,
the reader must judge, and one document in evidence is Harley's
chapter, which ran in this wise:

A MEETING

"Stop beating, heart, and in a moment calm
The question
answer--is this, then, my fate?"
- PERKINS'S "Odes."

As the correspondents of the New York papers had surmised,
invitations for the Howlett ball were issued on the 12th. It is not
surprising that the correspondents in this instance should be guilty
of that rare crime among society reporters, accuracy, for their
information was derived from a perfectly reliable source, Mrs.
Howlett's butler, in whose hands the addressing of the envelopes had
been placed--a man of imposing presence, and of great value to the
professional snappers-up of unconsidered trifles of social gossip in
the pay of the Sunday newspapers, with many of whom he was on terms
of closest intimacy. Of course Mrs. Howlett was not aware that her
household contained a personage of great journalistic importance, any
more than her neighbor, Mrs. Floyd-Hopkins, was aware that it was her
maid who had furnished the Weekly Journal of Society with the vivid
account of the scandalous behavior, at her last dinner, of Major
Pompoly, who had to be forcibly ejected from the Floyd-Hopkins
domicile by the husband of Mrs. Jernigan Smith--a social morsel which
attracted much attention several years ago. Every effort was made to
hush that matter up, and the guests all swore eternal secrecy; but
the Weekly Journal of Society had it, and, strangely enough, had it
right, in its next issue; but the maid was never suspected, even
though she did appear to be possessed of more ample means than usual
for some time after. Mrs. Floyd-Hopkins preferred to suspect one of
her guests, and, on the whole, was not sorry that the matter had got
abroad, for everybody talked about it, and through the episode her
dinner became one of the historic banquets of the season.

The Willards, who were by this time comfortably settled at "The
Needles," their cottage on the cliff, it is hardly necessary to
state, were among those invited, and with their cards was included
one for Marguerite. Added to the card was a personal note from Mrs.
Howlett to Miss Andrews, expressing the especial hope that she would
not fail them, all of which was very gratifying to the young girl.

"See what I've got," she cried, gleefully, running into Mrs.
Willard's "den" at the head of the beautiful oaken stairs.

(Note.--At this point in Harley's manuscript there is evidence
of indecision on the author's part. His heroine had begun to bother
him a trifle. He had written a half-dozen lines descriptive of Miss
Andrews's emotions at receiving a special note of invitation,
subsequently erasing them. The word "gleefully" had been scratched
out, and then restored in place of "scornfully," which had at first
been substituted for it. It was plain that Harley was not quite
certain as to how much a woman of Miss Andrews's type would care for
a special attention of this nature, even if she cared for it at all.
As a matter of fact, the word chosen should have been "dubiously,"
and neither "gleefully" nor "scornfully"; for the real truth was that
there was no reason why Mrs. Howlett should so honor Marguerite, and
the girl at once began to wonder if it were not an extra precaution
of Harley's to assure her presence at the ball for the benefit of
himself and his publishers. The author finally wrote it as I have
given it above, however, and Miss Andrews received her special
invitation "gleefully"--according to Harley. He perceives her doubt,
however, without comprehending it; for after describing Mrs.
Willard's reading of the note, he goes on.)

"That is very nice of Mrs. Howlett," said Mrs. Willard, handing
Marguerite back her note. "It is a special honor, my dear, by which
you should feel highly flattered. She doesn't often do things like
that."

"I should think not," said Marguerite. "I am a perfect stranger
to her, and that she should do it at all strikes me as being most
extraordinary. It doesn't seem sincere, and I can't help thinking
that some extraneous circumstance has been brought to bear upon her
to force her to do it."

(Note.--Stuart Harley has commented upon this as follows: "As I
read this over I must admit that Miss Andrews was right. Why I had
Mrs. Howlett do such a thing I don't know, unless it was that my own
admiration for my heroine led me to believe that some more than usual
attention was her due. In my own behalf I will say that I should in
all probability have eliminated or corrected this false note when I
came to the revision of my proofs." The chapter then proceeds.)

"What shall we wear?" mused Mrs. Willard, as Marguerite folded
Mrs. Howlett's note and replaced it in its envelope.

"I must positively decline to discuss that question. It is of
no public interest," snapped Marguerite, her face flushing angrily.
"My clothing is my own business, and no one's else." She paused a
moment, and then, in an apologetic tone, she added, "I'd be perfectly
willing to talk with you about it generally, my dear Dorothy, but not
now."

Mrs. Willard looked at the girl in surprise.

(Note.--Stuart Harley has written this in the margin: "Here you
have one of the situations which finally compelled me to relinquish
this story. You know yourself how hard it is to make 30,000 words
out of a slight situation, and at the same time stick to probability.
I had an idea, in mapping out this chapter, that I could make three
or four interesting pages--interesting to the girls, mind you--out of
a discussion of what they should wear at the Howlett dance. It was a
perfectly natural subject for discussion at the time and under the
circumstances. It would have been a good thing in the book, too, for
it might have conveyed a few wholesome hints in the line of good
taste in dress which would have made my story of some value. Women
are always writing to the papers, asking, 'What shall I wear here?'
and 'What shall I wear there?' The ideas of two women like Mrs.
Willard and Marguerite Andrews would have been certain to be
interesting, elevating, and exceedingly useful to such people, but
the moment I attempted to involve them in that discussion Miss
Andrews declined utterly to speak, and I was cut out of some six or
seven hundred quite important words. I had supposed all women alike
in that matter, but I find I was mistaken; one, at least, won't
discuss clothes--but I don't wonder that Mrs. Willard looked up in
surprise. I put that in just to please myself, for of course the
whole incident would have had to be cut out when the manuscript went
to the type-setter." The chapter takes a new lead here, as
follows:)

Mrs. Willard was punctiliously prompt in sending the acceptances
of herself and Mr. Willard to Mrs. Howlett, and at the same time
Marguerite's acceptance was despatched, although she was at first
disposed to send her regrets. She was only moderately fond of those
inconsequent pleasures which make the life social. She was a good
dancer, but a more excellent talker, and she preferred talking to
dancing; but the inanity of what are known as stair talks at dances
oppressed her; nor did she look forward with any degree of pleasure
to what we might term conservatory confidences, which in these
luxurious days have become so large a factor in terpsichorean
diversions, for Marguerite was of a practical nature. She had once
chilled the heart of a young poet by calling Venice malarious (Harley
little realized when he wrote this how he would have suffered had he
carried out his original intention and transplanted Marguerite to the
City of the Sea!), and a conservatory to her was a thing for mid-day,
and not for midnight. She was therefore not particularly anxious to
spend an evening--which began at an aggravatingly late hour instead
of at a reasonable time, thanks to a social custom which has its
foundation in nothing short of absolute insanity--in the pursuit of
nothing of greater value than dancing, stair talks, and conservatory
confidences; but Mrs. Willard soon persuaded her that she ought to
go, and go she did.

It was a beautiful night, that of the 22d of July. Newport was
at her best. The morning had been oppressively warm, but along about
three in the afternoon a series of short and sharp electrical storms
came, and as quickly went, cooling the heated city, and freshening up
the air until it was as clear as crystal, and refreshing as a draught
of cold spring-water.

At the Howlett mansion on Bellevue Avenue all was in readiness
for the event. The caterer's wagons had arrived with their dainty
contents, and had gone, and now the Hungarian band was sending forth
over the cool night air those beautiful and weird waves of melody
which entrance the most unwilling ear. About the broad and spacious
grounds festooned lights hung from tree to tree; here and there
little rose-scented bowers for tete-a-tete talks were set; from
within, streaming through the windows in regal beauty, came the
lights of the vast ballroom, the reception-rooms, and the beautifully
designed dining-hall--lately added by young Morris Black, the
architect, to Mrs. Howlett's already perfect house.

On the ballroom floor are some ten or twenty couples gracefully
waltzing to the strains of Sullivan, and in the midst of these we see
Marguerite Andrews threading her way across the room with some
difficulty, attended by Mr. and Mrs. Willard. They have just
arrived. As Marguerite walks across the hall she attracts every one.
There is that about her which commands attention. At the instant of
her entrance Count Bonetti is on the qui Vive.

"Py Chove!" he cries, as he leans gracefully against the doorway
opening into the conservatory. "Zare, my dear friend, zat iss my
idea of ze truly peautiful woman. Vat iss her name?"

"That is Miss Andrews of New York, Count," the person addressed
replies. "She is up here with the Willards."

"I musd meed her," says the Count, his eye following Marguerite
as she walks up to Mrs. Howlett and is greeted effusively by that
lady.

Marguerite is pale, and appears anxious. Even to the author the
ways of the women in his works are inscrutable; so upon this
occasion. She is pale, but I cannot say why. Can it be that she has
an intuitive knowledge that to-night may decide her whole future
life? Who can tell? Woman's intuitions are great, and there be those
who say they are unerringly true. One by one, with the exception of
Count Bonetti, the young men among Mrs. Howlett's guests are
presented--Bonetti prefers to await a more favorable opportunity--and
to all Marguerite appears to be the beautiful woman she is. Hers is
an instant success. A new beauty has dawned upon the Newport
horizon.

Let us describe her as she stands.

(Note.--There is a blank space left here. At first I thought it
was because Harley wished to reflect a little before drawing a
picture of so superb a woman as he seemed to think her, and go on to
the conclusion of the chapter, the main incidents being hot in his
mind, and the purely descriptive matters more easily left to calmer
moments. He informs me, however, that such was not the case. "When
I came to describe her as she stood," he said, "she had disappeared,
and I had to search all over the house before I finally found her in
the conservatory. So I changed the chapter to read thus:")

After a half-hour of dancing and holding court--for Marguerite's
triumph was truly that of a queen, it was so complete--Miss Andrews
turned to Mr. Willard and took his arm.

"Let us go into the conservatory," she said, in a whisper. "I
have heard so much about Mrs. Howlett's orchids, I should like to see
them."

Willard, seeing that she was tired and slightly bored by the
incessant chatter of those about her, escorted her out through the
broad door into the conservatory. As she passed from the ballroom
the dark eyes of Count Bonetti flashed upon her, but she heeded them
not, moving on into the floral bower in apparently serene
unconsciousness of that person's presence. Here Willard got her a
chair.

"Will you have an ice?" he asked, as she seated herself beneath
one of the lofty palms.

"Yes," she answered, simply. "I can wait here alone if you will
get it."

Willard passed out, and soon returned with the ice; but as he
came through the doorway Bonetti stopped him and whispered something
in his ear.

"Certainly, Count, right away," Willard answered. "Come
along."

Bonetti needed no second bidding, but followed Willard closely,
and soon stood expectant before Marguerite.

"Miss Andrews," said Willard, "may I have the pleasure of
presenting Count Bonetti?"

The Count's head nearly collided with his toes in the bow that
he made.

"Mr. Willard," returned Miss Andrews, coldly, ignoring the
Count, "feeling as I do that Count Bonetti is merely a bogus Count
with acquisitive instincts, brought here, like myself, for literary
purposes of which I cannot approve, I must reply to your question
that you may not have that pleasure."

With which remark (concludes Stuart Harley) Miss Marguerite
Andrews swept proudly from the room, ordered her carriage, and went
home, thereby utterly ruining the second story of her life that I had
undertaken to write. But I shall make one more effort.