Chapter III: The Reconstruction Begins

A Rebellious Heroine

by John Kendrick Bangs

"Then gently scan your brother man,
     
Still gentler sister woman;
Tho' they may gang a kennin
wrang,
      To step aside is human."--BURNS.

When, a few days later, Harley came to the reconstruction of his
story, he began to appreciate the fact that what had seemed at first
to be his misfortune was, on the whole, a matter for congratulation;
and as he thought over the people he had sent to sea, he came to
rejoice that Marguerite was not one of the party.

"Osborne wasn't her sort, after all," he mused to himself that
night over his coffee. "He hadn't much mind. I'm afraid I banked
too much on his good looks, and too little upon what I might call her
independence; for of all the heroines I ever had, she is the most
sufficient unto herself. Had she gone along I'm half afraid I
couldn't have got rid of Balderstone so easily either, for he's a
determined devil as I see him; and his intellectual qualities were so
vastly superior to those of Osborne that by mere contrast they would
most certainly have appealed to her strongly. The baleful influence
might have affected her seriously, and Osborne was never the man to
overcome it, and strict realism would have forced her into an
undesirable marriage. Yes, I'm glad it turned out the way it did;
she's too good for either of them. I couldn't have done the tale as
I intended without a certain amount of compulsion, which would never
have worked out well. She'd have been miserable with Osborne for a
husband anyhow, even if he did succeed in outwitting Balderstone."

Then Harley went into a trance for a moment. From this he
emerged almost immediately with a laugh. The travellers on the sea
had come to his mind.

"Poor Mrs. Corwin," he said, "she's awfully upset. I shall have
to give her some diversion. Let's see, what shall it be? She's a
widow, young and fascinating. H'm--not a bad foundation for a
romance. There must be a man on the ship who'd like her; but, hang
it all! there are those twins. Not much romance for her with those
twins along, unless the man's a fool; and she's too fine a woman for
a fool. Men don't fall in love with whole families that way. Now if
they had only been left on the pier with Miss Andrews, it would have
worked up well. Mrs. Corwin could have fascinated some fellow-
traveller, won his heart, accepted him at Southampton, and told him
about the twins afterwards. As a test of his affection that would be
a strong situation; but with the twins along, making the remarks they
are likely to make, and all that--no, there is no hope for Mrs.
Corwin, except in a juvenile story--something like 'Two Twins in a
Boat, not to Mention the Widow,' or something of that sort. Poor
woman! I'll let her rest in peace, for the present. She'll enjoy
her trip, anyhow; and as for Osborne and Balderstone, I'll let them
fight it out for that dark-eyed little woman from Chicago I saw on
board, and when the best man wins I'll put the whole thing into a
short story."

Then began a new quest for characters to go with Marguerite
Andrews.

"She must have a chaperon, to begin with," thought Harley.
"That is indispensable. Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick regard
themselves as conservators of public morals, in their 'Blue and
Silver Series,' so a girl unmarried and without a chaperon would
never do for this book. If they were to publish it in their 'Yellow
Prism Series' I could fling all such considerations to the winds, for
there they cater to stronger palates, palates cultivated by French
literary cooks, and morals need not be considered, provided the story
is well told and likely to sell; but this is for the other series,
and a chaperon is a sine qua non. Marguerite doesn't need one half
as much as the girls in the 'Yellow Prism' books, but she's got to
have one just the same, or the American girl will not read about her:
and who is better than Dorothy Willard, who has charge of her
now?"

Harley slapped his knee with delight.

"How fortunate I'd provided her!" he said. "I've got my start
already, and without having to think very hard over it either."

The trance began again, and lasted several hours, during which
time Kelly and the Professor stole softly into Harley's rooms, and,
perceiving his condition, respected it.

"He's either asleep or imagining," said the Professor, in a
whisper.

"He can't imagine," returned the Doctor. "Call it--realizing.
Whatever it is he's up to, we mustn't interfere. There isn't any use
waking him anyhow. I know where he keeps his cigars. Let's sit down
and have a smoke."

This the intruders did, hoping that sooner or later their host
would observe their presence; but Harley lay in blissful
unconsciousness of their coming, and they finally grew weary of
waiting.

"He must be at work on a ten-volume novel," said the Doctor.
"Let's go."

And with that they departed. Night came on, and with it
darkness, but Harley never moved. The fact was he was going through
an examination of the human race to find a man good enough for
Marguerite Andrews, and it speaks volumes for the interest she had
suddenly inspired in his breast that it took him so long to find what
he wanted.

Along about nine o'clock he gave a deep sigh and returned to
earth.

"I guess I've got him," he said, wearily, rubbing his forehead,
which began to ache a trifle. "I'll model him after the Professor.
He's a good fellow, moderately good-looking, has position, and
certainly knows something, as professors go. I doubt if he is
imposing enough for the American girl generally, but he's the best I
can get in the time at my disposal."

So the Professor was unconsciously slated for the office of
hero; Mrs. Willard was cast for chaperon, and the Doctor, in spite of
Harley's previous resolve not to use him, was to be introduced for
the comedy element. The villain selected was the usual poverty-
stricken foreigner with a title and a passion for wealth, which a
closer study of his heroine showed Harley that Miss Andrews
possessed; for on her way home from the pier she took Mrs. Willard to
the Amsterdam and treated her to a luncheon which nothing short of a
ten-dollar bill would pay for, after which the two went shopping,
replenishing Miss Andrews's wardrobe--most of which lay snugly stored
in the hold of the New York, and momentarily getting farther and
farther away from its fair owner--in the course of which tour Miss
Andrews expended a sum which, had Harley possessed it, would have
made it unnecessary for him to write the book he had in mind at
all.

"It's good she's rich," sighed Harley. "That will make it all
the easier to have her go to Newport and attract the Count."

At the moment that Harley spoke these words to himself Mrs.
Willard and Marguerite, accompanied by Mr. Willard, entered the
mansion of the latter on Fifth Avenue. They had spent the afternoon
and evening at the Andrews apartment, arranging for its closing until
the return of Mrs. Corwin. Marguerite meanwhile was to be the guest
of the Willards.

"Next week we'll run up to Newport," said Dorothy. "The house
is ready, and Bob is going for his cruise."

Marguerite looked at her curiously for a moment.

"Did you intend to go there all along?" she asked.

"Yes--of course. Why do you ask?" returned Mrs. Willard.

"Why, that very idea came into my mind at the moment," replied
Marguerite. "I thought this afternoon I'd run up to Riverdale and
stay with the Hallidays next week, when all of a sudden Newport came
into my mind, and it has been struggling there with Riverdale for two
hours--until I almost began to believe somebody was trying to compel
me to go to Newport. If it is your idea, and has been all along,
I'll go; but if Stuart Harley is trying to get me down there for
literary purposes, I simply shall not do it."

"You had better dismiss that idea from your mind at once, my
dear," said Mrs. Willard. "Mr. Harley never compels. No compulsion
is the corner-stone of his literary structure; free will is his
creed: you may count on that. If he means to make you his heroine
still, it will be at Newport if you are at Newport, at Riverdale if
you happen to be at Riverdale. Do come with me, even if he does
impress you as endeavoring to force you; for at Newport I shall be
your chaperon, and I should dearly love to be put in a book--with
you. Bob has asked Jack Perkins down, and Mrs. Howlett writes me
that Count Bonetti, of Naples, is there, and is a really delightful
fellow. We shall have--"

"You simply confirm my fears," interrupted Marguerite. "You are
to be Harley's chaperon, Professor Perkins is his hero, and Count
Bonetti is the villain--"

"Why, Marguerite, how you talk!" cried Mrs. Willard. "Do you
exist merely in Stuart Harley's brain? Do I? Are we none of us
living creatures to do as we will? Are we nothing more than
materials pigeon-holed for Mr. Harley's future use? Has Count
Bonetti crossed the ocean just to please Mr. Harley?"

"I don't know what I believe," said Miss Andrews, "and I don't
care much either way, as long as I have independence of action. I'll
go with you, Dorothy; but if it turns out, as I fear, that we are
expected to act our parts in a Harley romance, that romance will
receive a shock from which it will never recover."

"Why do you object so to Mr. Harley, anyhow? I thought you
liked his books," said Mrs. Willard.

"I do; some of them," Marguerite answered; "and I like him; but
he does not understand me, and until he does he shall not put me in
his stories. I'll rout him at every point, until he--"

Marguerite paused. Her face flushed. Tears came into her
eyes.

"Until he what, dearest?" asked Mrs. Willard,
sympathetically.

"I don't know," said Marguerite, with a quiver in her voice, as
she rose and left the room.

"I fancy we'd better go at once, Bob," said Mrs. Willard to her
husband, later on. "Marguerite is quite upset by the experiences of
the day, and New York is fearfully hot."

"I agree with you," returned Willard. "Jerrold sent word this
afternoon that the boat will be ready Friday, instead of Thursday of
next week; so if you'll pack up to-morrow we can board her Friday,
and go up the Sound by water instead of by rail. It will be
pleasanter for all hands."

Which was just what Harley wanted. The Willards were of course
not conscious of the fact, though Mrs. Willard's sympathy with
Marguerite led her to suspect that such was the case; for that such
was the case was what Marguerite feared.

"We are being forced, Dorothy," she said, as she stepped on the
yacht two days later.

"Well, what if we are? It's pleasanter going this way than by
rail, isn't it?" Mrs. Willard replied, with some impatience. "If we
owe all this to Stuart Harley, we ought to thank him for his
kindness. According to your theory he could have sent us up on a hot,
dusty train, and had a collision ready for us at New London, in order
to kill off a few undesirable characters and give his hero a chance
to distinguish himself. I think that even from your own point of
view Mr. Harley is behaving in a very considerate fashion."

"No doubt you think so," returned Marguerite, spiritedly. "But
it's different with you. You are settled in life. Your husband is
the man of your choice; you are happy, with everything you want. You
will do nothing extraordinary in the book. If you did do something
extraordinary you would cease to be a good chaperon, and from that
moment would be cast aside; but I--I am in a different position
altogether. I am a single woman, unsettled as yet, for whom this
author in his infinite wisdom deems it necessary to provide a lover
and husband; and in order that his narrative of how I get this person
he has selected--without consulting my tastes--may interest a lot of
other girls, who are expected to buy and read his book, he makes me
the object of an intriguing fortune-hunter from Italy. I am to
believe he is a real nobleman, and all that; and a stupid wiseacre
from the York University, who can't dance, and who thinks of nothing
but his books and his club, is to come in at the right moment and
expose the Count, and all such trash as that. I know at the outset
how it all is to be. You couldn't deceive a sensible girl five
minutes with Count Bonetti, any more than that Balderstone man, who
is now making a useless trip across the Atlantic with my aunt and her
twins, could have exerted a 'baleful influence' over me with his
diluted spiritualism. I'm not an idiot, my dear Dorothy."

"You are a heroine, love," returned Mrs. Willard.

"Perhaps--but I am the kind of heroine who would stop a play
five minutes after the curtain had risen on the first act if the
remaining four acts depended on her failing to see something that was
plain to the veriest dolt in the audience," Marguerite replied, with
spirit. "Nobody shall ever write me up save as I am."

"Well--perhaps you are wrong this time. Perhaps Mr. Harley
isn't going to make a book of you," said Mrs. Willard.

"Very likely he isn't," said Marguerite; "but he's trying it--I
know that much."

"And how, pray?" asked Mrs. Willard.

"That," said Marguerite, her frown vanishing and a smile taking
its place--"that is for the present my secret. I'll tell you some
day, but not until I have baffled Mr. Harley in his ill-advised
purpose of marrying me off to a man I don't want, and wouldn't have
under any circumstances. Even if I had caught the New York the other
day his plans would have miscarried. I'd never have married that
Osborne man; I'd have snubbed Balderstone the moment he spoke to me;
and if Stuart Harley had got a book out of my trip to Europe at all,
it would have been a series of papers on some such topic as 'The
Spinster Abroad, or How to be Happy though Single.' No more shall I
take the part he intends me to in this Newport romance, unless he
removes Count Bonetti from the scene entirely, and provides me with a
different style of hero from his Professor, the original of whom, by-
the-way, as I happen to know, is already married and has two
children. I went to school with his wife, and I know just how much
of a hero he is."

And so they went to Newport, and Harley's novel opened
swimmingly. His description of the yacht was perfect; his narration
of the incidents of the embarkation could not be improved upon in any
way. They were absolutely true to the life.

But his account of what Marguerite Andrews said and did and
thought while on the Willards' yacht was not realism at all--it was
imagination of the wildest kind, for she said, did, and thought
nothing of the sort.

Harley did his best, but his heroine was obdurate, and the poor
fellow did not know that he was writing untruths, for he verily
believed that he heard and saw all that he attributed to her exactly
as he put it down.

So the story began well, and Harley for a time was quite happy.
At the end of a week, however, he had a fearful set-back. Count
Bonetti was ready to be presented to Marguerite according to the
plan, but there the schedule broke down.

Harley's heroine took a new and entirely unexpected tack.