Chapter VII: A Breach of Faith

A Rebellious Heroine

by John Kendrick Bangs

"Having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath,
Study to break it, and
not to break my troth."
- "Love's Labor's Lost."

When I assured Harley that I should keep my hands off his
heroine until he requested me to do otherwise, after my fruitless
attempt to discipline her into a less refractory mood, I fully
intended to keep my promise. She was his, as far as she possessed
any value as literary material, and he had as clear a right to her
exclusive use as if she had been copyrighted in his name--at least so
far as his friends were concerned he had. Others might make use of
her for literary purposes with a clear conscience if they chose to do
so, but the hand of a friend must be stayed. Furthermore, my own
experience with the young woman had not been successful enough to
lead me to believe that I could conquer where Harley had been
vanquished. Physical force I had found to be unavailing. She was too
cunning to stumble into any of the pitfalls that with all my
imagination I could conjure up to embarrass her; but something had to
be done, and I now resolved upon a course of moral suasion, and
wholly for Harley's sake. The man was actually suffering because she
had so persistently defied him, and his discomfiture was all the more
deplorable because it meant little short of the ruin of his life and
ambitions. The problem had to be solved or his career was at an end.
Harley never could do two things at once. The task he had in hand
always absorbed his whole being until he was able to write the word
finis on the last page of his manuscript, and until the finis to this
elusive book he was now struggling with was written, I knew that he
would write no other. His pot-boilers he could do, of course, and so
earn a living, but pot-boilers destroy rather than make reputations,
and Harley was too young a man to rest upon past achievements;
neither had he done such vastly superior work that his fame could
withstand much diminution by the continuous production of ephemera.
It was therefore in the hope of saving him that I broke faith with
him and temporarily stole his heroine. I did not dream of using her
at all, as you might think, as a heroine of my own, but rather as an
interesting person with ideas as to the duty of heroines--a sort of
Past Grand Mistress of the Art of Heroinism--who was worth
interviewing for the daily press. I flatter myself it was a good
idea, worthy almost of a genius, though I am perfectly well aware
that I am not a genius. I am merely a man of exceptional talent. I
have talent enough for a genius, but no taste for the unconventional,
and by just so much do I fall short of the realization of the hopes
of my friends and fears of my enemies. There are stories I have in
mind that are worthy of the most exalted French masters, for
instance, and when I have the time to be careful, which I rarely do,
I can write with the polished grace of a De Maupassant or a James,
but I shall never write them, because I value my social position too
highly to put my name to anything which it would never do to publish
outside of Paris. I do not care to prove my genius at the cost of
the respect of my neighbors--all of which, however, is foreign to my
story, and is put in here merely because I have observed that readers
are very much interested in their favorite authors, and like to know
as much about them as they can.

My plan, to take up the thread of my narrative once more, was,
briefly, to write an interview between myself, as a representative of
a newspaper syndicate, and Miss Marguerite Andrews, the "Well-Known
Heroine." It has been quite common of late years to interview the
models of well-known artists, so that it did not require too great a
stretch of the imagination to make my scheme a reasonable one. It
must be remembered, too, that I had no intention of using this
interview for my own aggrandizement. I planned it solely in the
interests of my friend, hoping that I might secure from Miss Andrews
some unguarded admission that might operate against her own
principles, as Harley and I knew them, and that, that secured, I
might induce her to follow meekly his schedule until he could bring
his story to a reasonable conclusion. Failing in this, I was going
to try and discover what style of man it was she admired most, what
might be her ideas of the romance in which she would most like to
figure, and all that, so that I could give Harley a few points which
would enable him so to construct his romance that his heroine would
walk through it as easily and as docilely as one could wish. Finally,
all other things failing, I was going to throw Harley on her
generosity, call attention to the fact that she was ruining him by
her stubborn behavior, and ask her to submit to a little temporary
inconvenience for his sake.

As I have already said, so must I repeat, there was genius in
the idea, but I was forced to relinquish certain features of it, as
will be seen shortly. I took up my pen, and with three bold strokes
thereof transported myself to Newport, and going directly to the
Willard Cottage, I rang the bell. Miss Andrews was still elusive.
With all the resources of imagination at hand, and with not an
obstacle in my way that I could not clear at a bound, she still held
me at bay. She was not at home--had, in fact, departed two days
previously for the White Mountains. Fortunately, however, the butler
knew her address, and, without bothering about trains, luggage, or
aught else, in one brief paragraph I landed myself at the Profile
House, where she was spending a week with Mr. and Mrs. Rushton of
Brooklyn. This change of location caused me to modify my first idea,
to its advantage. I saw, when I thought the matter over, that, on
the whole, the interview, as an interview for a newspaper syndicate,
was likely to be nipped in the bud, since the moment I declared
myself a reporter for a set of newspapers, and stated the object of
my call, she would probably dismiss me with the statement that she
was not a professional heroine, that her views were of no interest to
the public, and that, not having the pleasure of my acquaintance, she
must beg to be excused. I wonder I didn't think of this at the
outset. I surely knew Harley's heroine well enough to have foreseen
this possibility. I realized it, however, the moment I dropped
myself into the great homelike office of the Profile House. Miss
Andrews walked through the office to the dining-room as I registered,
and as I turned to gaze upon her as she passed majestically on, it
flashed across my mind that it would be far better to appear before
her as a fellow-guest, and find out what I wanted and tell her why I
had come in that guise, rather than introduce myself as one of those
young men who earn their daily bread by poking their noses into other
people's business.

Had this course been based upon any thing more solid than a pure
bit of imagination, I should have found it difficult to accommodate
myself so easily to circumstances. If it had been Harley instead of
myself, it would have been impossible, for Harley would never have
stooped to provide himself with a trunk containing fresh linen and
evening-dress clothes and patent-leather pumps by a stroke of his
pen. This I did, however, and that evening, having created another
guest, who knew me of old and who also was acquainted with Miss
Andrews, just as I had created my excellent wardrobe, I was
presented.

The evening passed pleasantly enough, and I found Harley's
heroine to be all that he had told me and a great deal more besides.
In fact, so greatly did I enjoy her society that I intentionally
prolonged the evening to about three times its normal length--which
was a very inartistic bit of exaggeration, I admit; but then I don't
pretend to be a realist, and when I sit down to write I can make my
evenings as long or as short as I choose. I will say, however, that,
long as my evening was, I made it go through its whole length without
having recourse to such copy-making subterfuges as the description of
doorknobs and chairs; and except for its unholy length, it was not at
all lacking in realism. Miss Andrews fascinated me and seemed to
find me rather good company, and I found myself suggesting that as
the next day was Sunday she take me for a walk. From what I knew of
Harley's experience with her, I judged she'd be more likely to go if
I asked her to take me instead of offering to take her. It was a
subtle distinction, but with some women subtle distinctions are
chasms which men must not try to overleap too vaingloriously, lest
disaster overtake them. My bit of subtlety worked like a charm. Miss
Andrews graciously accepted my suggestion, and I retired to my couch
feeling certain that during that walk to Bald Mountain, or around the
Lake, or down to the Farm, or wherever else she might choose to take
me, I could do much to help poor Stuart out of the predicament into
which his luckless choice of Miss Andrews as his heroine had plunged
him. And I wasn't far wrong, as the event transpired, although the
manner in which it worked out was not exactly according to my
schedule.

I dismissed the night with a few paragraphs; the morning, with
its divine service in the parlor, went quickly and impressively; for
it is an impressive sight to see gathered beneath those towering
cliffs a hundred or more of pleasure and health seekers of different
creeds worshipping heartily and simply together, as accordantly as
though they knew no differences and all men were possessed of one
common religion--it was too impressive, indeed, for my pen, which has
been largely given over to matters of less moment, and I did not
venture to touch upon it, passing hastily over to the afternoon, when
Miss Andrews appeared, ready for the stroll.

I gazed at her admiringly for a moment, and then I began:

"Is that the costume you wore"--I was going to say, "when you
rejected Parker?" but I fortunately caught my error in time to pass
it off--"at Newport?" I finished, with a half gasp at the narrowness
of my escape; for, it must be remembered, I was supposed as yet to
know nothing of that episode.

"How do you know what I wore at Newport?" she asked, quickly--so
quickly that I almost feared she had found me out, after all.

"Why--ah--I read about you somewhere," I stammered. "Some
newspaper correspondent drew a picture of the scene on the promenade
in the afternoon, and--ah--he had you down."

"Oh!" she replied, arching her eyebrows; "that was it, was it?
And do you waste your valuable time reading the vulgar effusions of
the society reporter?"

Wasn't I glad that I had not come as a man with a nose to
project into the affairs of others--as a newspaper reporter!

"No, indeed," I rejoined, "not generally; but I happened to see
this particular item, and read it and remembered it. After all," I
added, as we came to the sylvan path that leads to the Lake--"after
all, one might as well read that sort of stuff as most of the novels
of the present day. The vulgar reporter may be ignorant or a boor,
and all that is reprehensible in his methods, but he writes about
real flesh and blood people; and, what is worse, he generally
approximates the truth concerning them in his writing, which is more
than can be said of the so-called realistic novel writers of the day.
I haven't read a novel in three years in which it has seemed to me
that the heroine, for instance, was anything more than a marionette,
with no will of her own, and ready to do at any time any foolish
thing the author wanted her to do."

Again those eyes of Miss Andrews rested on me in a manner which
gave me considerable apprehension. Then she laughed, and I was at
ease again.

"You are very amusing," she said, quietly. "The most amusing of
them all."

The remark nettled me, and I quickly retorted:

"Then I have not lived in vain."

"You do really live, then, eh?" she asked, half chaffingly,
gazing at me out of the corners of her eyes in a fashion which
utterly disarmed me.

"Excuse me, Miss Andrews," I answered, "but I am afraid I don't
understand you."

"I am afraid you don't," she said, the smile leaving her lips.
"The fact that you are here on the errand you have charged yourself
with proves that."

"I am not aware," I said, "that I have come on any particularly
ridiculous errand. May I ask you what you mean by the expression
'most amusing of them all'? Am I one among many, and, if so, one
what among many what?"

"Your errand is a good one," she said, gravely, "and not at all
ridiculous; let me assure you that I appreciate that fact. Your
question I will answer by asking another: Are you here of your own
volition, or has Stuart Harley created you, as he did Messrs.
Osborne, Parker, and the Professor? Are you my new hero, or
what?"

The question irritated me. This woman was not content with
interfering seriously with my friend's happiness: she was actually
attributing me to him, casting doubts upon my existence, and placing
me in the same category with herself--a mere book creature. To a man
who regards himself as being the real thing, flesh and blood, and,
well, eighteen-carat flesh and blood at that, to be accused of living
only a figmentary existence is too much. I retorted angrily.

"If you consider me nothing more than an idea, you do not
manifest your usual astuteness," I said.

Her reply laid me flat.

"I do not consider you anything of the sort. I never so much as
associated you with anything resembling an idea. I merely asked a
question," she said. "I repeat it. Do you or do you not exist? Are
you a bit of the really real or a bit of Mr. Harley's realism? In
short, are you here at Profile Lake, walking and talking with me, or
are you not?"

A realizing sense of my true position crept over me. In reality
I was not there talking to her, but in my den in New York writing
about her. I may not be a realist, but I am truthful. I could not
deceive her, so I replied, hesitatingly:

"Well, Miss Andrews, I am--no, I am not here, except in
spirit."

"That's what I thought," she said, demurely. "And do you exist
somewhere, or is this a 'situation' calculated to delight the
American girl--with pin-money to spend on Messrs. Herring, Beemer,
& Chadwick's publications?"

"I do exist," I replied, meekly; for, I must confess it, I
realized more than ever that Miss Andrews was too much for me, and I
heartily wished I was well out of it. "And I alone am responsible
for this. Harley is off fishing at Barnegat--and do you know why?"

"I presume he has gone there to recuperate," she said.

"Precisely," said I.

"After his ungentlemanly, discourteous, and wholly uncalled-for
interference with my comfort at Newport," she said, her face flushing
and tears coming into her eyes, "I don't wonder he's prostrated."

"I do not know to what you refer," said I.

"I refer to the episode of the runaway horse," she said, in
wrathful remembrance of the incident. "Because I refuse to follow
blindly his will, he abuses his power, places me in a false and
perilous situation, from which I, a defenceless woman, must rescue
myself alone and unaided. It was unmanly of him--and I will pay him
the compliment of saying wholly unlike him."

I stood aghast. Poor Stuart was being blamed for my act. He
must be set right at once, however unpleasant it might be for me.

"He--he didn't do that," I said, slowly; "it was I. I wrote
that bit of nonsense; and he--well, he was mad because I did it, and
said he'd like to kill any man who ill-treated you; and he made me
promise never to touch upon your life again."

"May I ask why you did that?" she asked, and I was glad to note
that there was no displeasure in her voice--in fact, she seemed to
cheer up wonderfully when I told her that it was I, and not Stuart,
who had subjected her to the misadventure.

"Because I was angry with you," I answered. "You were ruining
my friend with your continued acts of rebellion: he was successful;
now he is ruined. He thinks of you day and night--he wants you for
his heroine; he wants to make you happy, but he wants you to be happy
in your own way; and when he thinks he has discovered your way, he
works along that line, and all of a sudden, by some act wholly
unforeseen, and, if I may say so, unforeseeable, you treat him and
his work with contempt, draw yourself out of it--and he has to begin
again."

"And why have you ventured to break your word to your friend?"
she asked, calmly. "Surely you are touching upon my life now, in
spite of your promise."

"Because I am willing to sacrifice my word to his welfare," I
retorted; "to try to make you understand how you are blocking the
path of a mighty fine-minded man by your devotion to what you call
your independence. He will never ask you to do anything that he
knows will be revolting to you, and until he has succeeded in
pleasing you to the last page of his book he will never write again.
I have done this in the hope of persuading you, at the cost even of
some personal discomfort, not to rebel against his gentle leadership-
-to fall in with his ideas until he can fulfil this task of his,
whether it be realism or pure speculation on his part. If you do
this, Stuart is saved. If you do not, literature will be called upon
to mourn one who promises to be one of its brightest ornaments."

I stopped short. Miss Andrews was gazing pensively out over the
mirror-like surface of the Lake. Finally she spoke.

"You may tell Mr. Harley," she said, with a sigh, "that I will
trouble him no more. He can do with me as he pleases in all save one
particular. He shall not marry me to a man I do not love. If he
takes the man I love for my hero, then will I follow him to the
death."

"And may I ask who that man is?"

"You may ask if you please," she replied, with a little smile.
"But I won't answer you, except to say that it isn't you."

"And am I forgiven for my runaway story?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "You wouldn't expect me to condemn a man for
loyalty to his friend, would you?"

With which understanding Miss Andrews and I continued our walk,
and when we parted I found that the little interview I had started to
write had turned into the suggestion of a romance, which I was in
duty bound to destroy--but I began to have a glimmering of an idea as
to who the man was that Marguerite Andrews wished for a hero, and I
regretted also to find myself convinced of the truth of her statement
that that man did not bear my name.