A Book o' Nine Tales Part 30

I whistled rudely; whereat she looked offended, and we went on from one thing to another until we had got up a very respectable quarrel indeed.

There is nothing more conducive to a thoroughly good understanding between persons of opposite s.e.x than a genuine quarrel; and having reached the point where there was no alternative but to separate in anger or to apologize, we chose the latter course, and having mutually humbled ourselves, after that got on capitally.

"It is my deliberate conviction," she observed, when we at length got upon a footing sufficiently familiar for jesting, "that this story is really mine, and that you purloined it from me by some mysterious clairvoyance."

"That may be," I admitted. "I once guessed that a man was a bartender by the way he stirred his coffee at the steamer table, and that got me a very pretty reputation as a seer for a day or two; and very likely the truth is that I was all the time a mind-reader without knowing it."

She smiled good-naturedly--more good-naturedly, indeed, than the jest deserved; and from that moment our acquaintance got on famously. The story was far from advancing as rapidly, however. A very brief time sufficed to reduce both versions of "April's Lady" to hopeless confusion, but to build from the fragments a new and improved copy was a labor of much magnitude. Circ.u.mstances moreover, conspired to hinder our work. It was necessary that we verify our impressions of material we had used, and to do this we were obliged to attend the theatre together, to read together various poems, and together to hear a good deal of music. A little ingenuity, and a common inclination to prolong these investigations, effected so great a lengthening out that it was several months before we could even pretend to be ready to begin serious work upon the story; and even then we were far from agreeing in a number of important particulars.

"Agnes," I remarked, one February evening, when we were on our way home from a concert to which we had boldly gone without even a pretence that it was in the remotest way connected with our literary project, "I fear we are becoming demoralized, and it seems to me the only hope of our ever completing 'April's Lady' is to put everything else aside for the time being and give our minds to it. I can get my work arranged, and you can finish those articles for 'The Quill' by the middle of March. Then, we can be quietly married and go to some nice old-fas.h.i.+oned place--say St. Augustine--for a couple of months and get this _magnum opus_ on paper at last."

"As to being married," returned she sedately, "have you considered that we could not possibly make a living, since we should inevitably be always writing the same things?"

"Why, that is my chief reason," I retorted, "for proposing it. Think how awkward it is going to be if either of us marries somebody else, and then we write the same things. It is a good deal better to have our interests in common if our inventive faculty is to be so."

"There is something in what you say," Agnes a.s.sented; "and it would be especially awkward for you, since the invention is in my head."

"Then we will consider it all arranged."

"Oh, no, George; by no means. I couldn't think of it for a minute!"

Whether she did think of it for a minute is a point which may be left for the settling of those versed in the ways of the feminine mind; certain it is that the programme was carried out--except in one trifling particular. We were quietly married, we did go to St. Augustine, but as for doing anything with the story, that was quite another thing. We did not finish it then, and we have not finished it yet, and I have ceased to have any very firm confidence that we ever shall finish it; although, whenever arises one of those financial crises which are so painfully frequent in the family of a literary man, and we sit down to consider possible resources, one or the other of us is sure sooner or later to observe:--

"And then there is 'April's Lady,' you know."

Interlude Eighth.

A CUBAN MORNING.

A CUBAN MORNING.

[_Scene, the shady piazza of the hotel at Marianao, Cuba. Time, nine o'clock on a hot March morning. Miss Peltonville and Arthur Chester tete-a-tete._]

_She._ Why did you follow us to Cuba?

_He._ I have already told you that I thought you were in Florida.

_She._ Yes? And so you came to Marianao, where n.o.body comes at this time of year, in order that you might be perfectly safe from an encounter, I suppose.

_He._ Oh, I--that is; precisely.

_She._ I had a letter from Annie Cleaves yesterday.

_He._ Had you?

_She._ Yes; and she said you told her that you were coming to Cuba to find me.

_He._ Oh, that's nothing. It isn't to be supposed I told her the truth.

_She._ Do you speak the truth so seldom, then? Is there no dependence to be put on what you say?

_He._ None whatever; otherwise I should be continually hampered by the necessity of conforming my actions to my words. You can see yourself how inconvenient that would be.

_She._ For one who has had so little practice, very likely; but then you would find it a novel experience, I have no doubt.

_He._ Ah, you have given me an idea. I'll try it when all other novelties in life are exhausted.

_She._ Don't put it off too long, or from the force of habit you may find it impossible.

_He._ You underrate my adaptability.

_She._ Meanwhile I wish to know why you came.

_He._ Since you are here yourself, you might be supposed to regard the place as sufficiently interesting to attract the traveller.

_She._ Then you decline to tell me?

_He._ Oh, no; I came because you amuse me.

_She._ Thank you for nothing.

_He._ And consequently I am in love with you, as I did myself the honor to mention before you left New York.

_She._ Am I to understand that amus.e.m.e.nt is your idea of love?

_He._ Love certainly must be something that does not bore one.

_She._ But it seems a somewhat limited view to take.

_He._ Oh, it is only one way out of many; I a.s.sure you I have quant.i.ties of ideas upon the subject, all founded upon experience. I loved Lottie Greenwell because she made a glorious champagne cup. Indeed, for ten days I positively adored her, until one night she put in too much curacoa, and I realized how uncertain a foundation my pa.s.sion had. Then there was Elsie Manning. My pa.s.sion for her was roused entirely by her divine waltzing, but I realized that it isn't good form for a man to waltz with his wife, and I stood a much better chance if she married some other man. After that came Kate Turner; she writes so fascinating a letter that I lost my heart every time I saw her handwriting on the back of an envelope, although perhaps that feeling you would call only a fancy, since n.o.body would think of marrying on a virtue that is sure to end with the wedding. A wife never writes to her husband about anything but the servants and the payment of her milliner's bills; so my flirtation with her wouldn't really count as a love affair.

_She._ You excel in nice metaphysical distinctions.

_He._ Then there was Miss French. I loved her because she snubbed me,--just as I loved Nora Delaney for her riding, and Annie Cleaves for her music.

_She._ And now you love me, I am to understand, as suited to the position of court jester to your Royal Highness.

_He._ One must have some sort of a reason for being in love.

_She._ But one needn't be in love.

_He._ Oh, yes; life is very dull otherwise; and besides, I have always thought it very stupid to marry without having been in love a dozen times at least. One is apt to lose his head otherwise; and how can he judge of the value of his pa.s.sion without having had a good deal of experience?