Chapter X: By Way of Epilogue

A Rebellious Heroine

by John Kendrick Bangs

"Let, down the curtain, the farce is done."
- RABELAIS.

I suppose my story ought to end here, since Harley's rebellious
heroine has finally been subdued for the use of his publishers and
the consequent declaration of dividends for the Harley exchequer; but
there was an epilogue to the little farce, which nearly turned it
into tragedy, from which the principals were saved by nothing short
of my own ingenuity. Harley had fallen desperately in love with
Marguerite Andrews, and Marguerite Andrews had fallen in love with
Stuart Harley, and Harley couldn't find her. She eluded his every
effort, and he began to doubt that he had drawn her from real life,
after all. She had become a Marjorie Daw to him, and the notion that
he must go through life cherishing a hopeless passion was distracting
to him. His book was the greatest of his successes, which was an
additional cause of discomfort to him, since, knowing as he now did
that his study was not a faithful portrayal of the inner life of his
heroine, he felt that the laurels that were being placed upon his
brow had been obtained under false pretences.

"I feel like a hypocrite," he said, as he read an enthusiastic
review of his little work from the pen of no less a person than Mr.
Darrow, the high-priest of the realistic sect. "I am afraid I shall
not be able to look Darrow in the eye when I meet him at the
club."

"Never fear for that, Stuart," I said, laughing inwardly at his
plight. "Brazen it out; keep a stiff upper lip, and Darrow will
never know. He has insight, of course, but he can't see as far in as
you and he think."

"It's a devilish situation," he cried, impatiently striding up
and down the room, "that a man of my age should be so hopelessly in
love with a woman he can't find; and that he can't find her is such a
cruel sarcasm upon his literary creed! What cursed idiosyncrasy of
fate is it that has brought this thing upon me?"

"It's the punishment that fits your crime, Harley," I said.
"You've been rather narrow minded in your literary ideas. Possibly
it will make a more tolerant critic of you hereafter, when you come
to flay fellows like Balderstone for venturing to think differently
from you as to the sort of books it is proper to write. He has as
much right to the profits he can derive from his fancy as you have to
the emoluments of your insight."

"I'd take some comfort if I thought that she really loved me,"
he said, mournfully.

"Have no doubt on that score, Stuart," I said. "She does love
you. I know that. I wish she didn't."

"Then why can't I find her? Why does she hide from me?" he
cried, fortunately ignoring my devoutly expressed wish, which slipped
out before I knew it.

"Because she is a woman," I replied. "Hasn't your analytical
mind told you yet that the more a woman loves a man, the harder he's
got to work to find it out and--and clinch the bargain?"

"I suppose you are right," he said, gloomily. "But if I were a
woman, and knew I was killing a man by keeping myself in hiding, I'd
come out and show myself at any cost, especially if I loved him."

"Now you are dealing in imagination, Harley," I said; "and that
never was your strong point."

Nevertheless, he was right on one point. The hopelessness of
his quest was killing Harley--not physically exactly, but
emotionally, as it were. It was taking all the heart out of him, and
his present state of mind was far more deplorable than when he was
struggling with the book, and constantly growing worse. He tried
every device to find her--the Willards were conjured up, and knew
nothing; Mrs. Corwin and the twins were brought back from Europe, and
refused to yield up the secret; all the powers of a realistic pen
were brought to bear upon her, and yet she refused utterly to
materialize.

Finally, I found it necessary to act myself. I could not stand
the sight of Harley being gradually eaten up by the longing of his
own soul, and I tried my hand at exploration. I had no better
success for several weeks; and then, like an inspiration, the whole
thing came to me. "She won't come when he summons her, because she
loves him. She won't summon him to come to her, for the same reason.
Why not summon both of them yourself to a common ground? Embalm
them in a little romance of your own. Force them if need be, but get
them there, and so bring them together, and let them work out their
own happiness," said I to myself. The only difficulty that presented
itself was as to whether or not Marguerite would allow herself to be
forced. It was worth the trial, however, and fortune favored me. I
found her far from rebellious. My pen had hardly touched paper when
she materialized, more bewilderingly beautiful than ever. I laid the
scene of my little essay at Lake-wood, and I found her sitting down
by the water, dreamily gazing out over the lake. In her lap was
Stuart Harley's book, and daintily pasted on the fly-leaf of this was
the portrait which had appeared in the August issue of The Literary
Man, which she had cut out and preserved.

Having provided the heroine with a spot conducive to her
comfort, I hastened to transport Harley to the scene. It was easy to
do, seeing how deeply interested I was in my plot and how willing he
was. I got him there looking like a Greek god, only a trifle more
interesting, because of his sympathy-arousing pallor--the pallor
which comes from an undeserved buffeting at the hands of a
mischievous Cupid. I know it well, for I have observed it several
times upon my own countenance. The moment Harley appeared upon the
scene I chose to have Marguerite hastily clasp the book in her hands,
raise it to her lips, and kiss the picture--and it must have been
intensely true to life, for she did it without a moment's hesitation,
almost anticipating my convenience, throwing an amount of passion
into the act which made my pen fairly hiss as I dipped it into the
ink. Of course Harley could not fail to see it--I had taken care to
arrange all that--and equally of course he could not fail to
comprehend what that kiss meant; could not fail to stop short, with a
convulsive effort to control himself--heroes always do that; could
not fail thereby to attract her attention. After this nothing was
more natural than that she should spring to her feet, "the blushes of
a surprised love mantling her cheeks"; it was equally natural that
she should try to run, should slip, have him catch her arm and save
her from falling, and--well, I am not going to tell the whole story.
I have neither the time, the inclination, nor the talent to lay bare
to the world the love-affairs of my friend. Furthermore, having got
them together, I discreetly withdrew, so that even if I were to try
to write up the rest of the courtship, it would merely result in my
telling you how I imagined it progressed, and I fancy my readers are
as well up in matters of that sort as I am. Suffice it to say,
therefore, that in this way I brought Stuart Harley and Marguerite
Andrews together, and that the event justified the means: and that
the other day, when Mr. and Mrs. Harley returned from their
honeymoon, they told me they thought I ought to give up humor and
take to writing love-stories.

"That kissing the picture episode," said Stuart, looking
gratefully at me, "was an inspiration. To my mind, it was the most
satisfactory thing you've ever done."

"I like that!" cried his wife, with a mischievous twinkle in her
eye. "He didn't do it. It was I who kissed the picture. He couldn't
have made me do anything else to save his life."

"Rebellious to the last!" said I, with a sigh to think that I
must now write the word "Finis" to my little farce.

"Yes," she answered. "Rebellious to the last. I shall never
consent to be the heroine of a book again, until--"

She paused and looked at Stuart.

"Until what?" he asked, tenderly.

"Until you write your autobiography," said she. "I have always
wanted of be the heroine of that."

And throwing down my pen, I discovered I was alone.