A Rebellious Heroine

“Was ever woman in this humour woo’d? 
Was ever woman in this humour won? 
I’ll have her,—­but I will not keep her long.”
- “Richard III.”

There was no doubt about it that Harley, true to his purpose, was making a good fight to conquer without compulsion, and appreciated as much as I the necessity of reducing his heroine to concrete form as speedily as possible, lest some other should prove more successful, and so deprive him of the laurels for which he had worked so hard and suffered so much.  In his favor was his disposition.  He was a man of great determination, and once he set about doing something he was not an easy man to turn aside, and now that, for the first time in his life, he found himself baffled at every point, and by a heroine of no very great literary importance, he became more determined than ever.

“I’ll conquer yet,” he said to me, a week or so later; but the weariness with which he spoke made me fear that victory was afar off.

“I’ve no doubt of it—­ultimately,” I answered, to encourage him; “but don’t you think you’ll stand a better chance if you let her rest for a while, and then steal in upon her unawares, and catch her little romance as it flies?  She is apparently nerved up against you now, and the more conscious she is of your efforts to put her on paper, the more she will rebel.  In fact, her rebelliousness will become more and more a matter of whim than of principle, unless you let up on her for a little while.  Half of her opposition now strikes me as obstinacy, and the more you try to break her spirit, even though you do it gently, the more stubborn will she become.  Put this book aside for a few weeks anyhow.  Why not tackle something else?  You’d do better work, too, after a little variety.”

“This must be finished by September 1st, that’s why not,” said Stuart.  “I’ve promised Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick to send them the completed manuscript by that time.  Besides, no heroine of mine shall ever say that she swerved me from doing what I have set about doing.  It is now or never with Marguerite Andrews.”

So I left him at his desk, and for a week was busy with my own affairs.  Late the following Friday night I dropped in at Harley’s rooms to see how matters were progressing.  As I entered I saw him at his desk, his back turned towards me, silhouetted in the lamp-light, scratching away furiously with his pen.

“Ah!” I thought, as my eye took in the picture, “it goes at last.  I guess I won’t disturb his train of thought.”

And I tried to steal softly out, for he had not observed my entrance.  As luck would have it, I stepped upon the sill of the door as I passed out, and it creaked.

“Hello!” cried Harley, wheeling about in his chair, startled by the sound.

“Oh!  It’s you, is it?” he added, as he recognized me.  “What are you up to?  Come back here.  I want to see you.”

His manner was cheerful, but I could see that the cheerfulness was assumed.  The color had completely left his cheeks, and great rings under his eyes betokened weariness of spirit.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” said I, returning.  “You seem to have your pen on a clear track, with full steam up.”

“I had,” he said, quietly.  “I was just finishing up that Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick business.”

“Aha!” I cried, grasping his hand and shaking it.  “I congratulate you.  Success at last, eh?”

“Well, I’ve got something done—­and that’s it,” he said, and he tossed the letter block upon which he had been writing across the table to me.  “Read that, and tell me what you think of it.”

I read it over carefully.  It was a letter to Messrs. Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick, in which Stuart asked to be relieved of the commission he had undertaken: 

“I find myself utterly unable to complete the work in the stipulated time,” he wrote, “for reasons entirely beyond my control.  Nor can I at this writing say with any degree of certainty when I shall be able to finish the story.  I have made constant and conscientious effort to carry out my agreement with you, but fruitlessly, and I beg that you will relieve me of the obligation into which I entered at the signing of our contract.  Of course I could send you something long enough to cover the required space—­words come easy enough for that—­ but the result would be unsatisfactory to you and injurious to me were I to do so.  Please let me hear from you, releasing me from the obligation, at your earliest convenience, as I am about to leave town for a fortnight’s rest.  Regretting my inability to serve you at this time, and hoping soon to be able to avail myself of your very kind offer, I beg to remain,

“Yours faithfully,
“Stuart Harley.”

“Oh!” said I.  “You’ve finished it, then, by—­”

“By giving it up,” said he, sadly.

“It’s the strangest thing that ever happened to me, but that girl is impossible.  I take up my pen intending to say that she did this, and before I know it she does that.  I cannot control my story at all, nor can I perceive in what given direction she will go.  If I could, I could arrange my scenario to suit, but as it is, I cannot go on.  It may come later, but it won’t come now, and I’m going to give her up, and go down to Barnegat to fish for ten days.  I hate to give the book up, though,” he added, tapping the table with his pen-holder reflectively.  “Chadwick’s an awfully good fellow, and his firm is one of the best in the country, liberal and all that, and here at my first opportunity to get on their list, I’m completely floored.  It’s beastly hard luck, I think.”

“Don’t be floored,” said I.  “Take my advice and tackle something else.  Write some other book.”

“That’s the devil of it!” he replied, angrily pounding the table with his fist.  “I can’t.  I’ve tried, and I can’t.  My mind is full of that woman.  If I don’t get rid of her I’m ruined—­I’ll have to get a position as a salesman somewhere, or starve, for until she is caught between good stiff board covers I can’t write another line.”

“Oh, you take too serious a view of it, Stuart,” I ventured.  “You’re mad and tired now.  I don’t blame you, of course, but you mustn’t be rash.  Don’t send that letter yet.  Wait until you’ve had the week at Barnegat—­you’ll feel better then.  You can write the book in ten days after your return; or if you still find you can’t do it, it will be time enough to withdraw then.”

“What hope is there after that?” he cried, tossing a bundle of manuscript into my lap.  “Just read that, and tell me what’s the use.  I’d mapped out a meeting between Marguerite Andrews and a certain Mr. Arthur Parker, a fellow with wealth, position, brains, good looks—­in short, everything a girl could ask for, and that’s what came of it.”

I spread the pages out upon the table before me and read: