A Rebellious Heroine | Page 5

a straight line. I'll take your collective and
separate words for anything on the subject of surgery or mathematics,
but when it comes to my work I wouldn't bank on your theories if they
were endorsed by the Rothschilds."
"He'll never write a decent book in his life if he clings to that theory,"
said Kelly, after Harley had departed. "There's precious little in the way
of the dramatic nowadays in the lives of people one cares to read
about."
Nevertheless, Harley had written interesting books, books which had
brought him reputation, and what is termed genteel poverty--that is to
say, his fame was great, considering his age, and his compensation was
just large enough to make life painful to him. His income enabled him
to live well enough to make a good appearance among, and share
somewhat at their expense in the life of, others of far greater means; but
it was too small to bring him many of the things which, while not
absolutely necessities, could not well be termed luxuries, considering
his tastes and his temperament. A little more was all he needed.
"If I could afford to write only when I feel like it," he said, "how happy
I should be! But these orders--they make me a driver of men, and not
their historian."
In fact, Harley was in that unfortunate, and at the same time happy,
position where he had many orders for the product of his pen, and such
financial necessities that he could not afford to decline one of them.
And it was this very situation which made his rebellious heroine of
whom I have essayed to write so sore a trial to the struggling young
author.

It was early in May, 1895, that Harley had received a note from Messrs.
Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick, the publishers, asking for a story from
his pen for their popular "Blue and Silver Series."
"The success of your Tiffin-Talk," they wrote, "has been such that we
are prepared to offer you our highest terms for a short story of 30,000
words, or thereabouts, to be published in our 'Blue and Silver Series.'
We should like to have it a love-story, if possible; but whatever it is, it
must be characteristic, and ready for publication in November. We
shall need to have the manuscript by September 1st at the latest. If you
can let us have the first few chapters in August, we can send them at
once to Mr. Chromely, whom it is our intention to have illustrate the
story, provided he can be got to do it."
The letter closed with a few formalities of an unimportant and
stereotyped nature, and Harley immediately called at the office of
Messrs. Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick, where, after learning that their
best terms were no more unsatisfactory than publishers' best terms
generally are, he accepted the commission.
And then, returning to his apartment, he went into what Kelly called
one of his trances.
"He goes into one of his trances," Kelly had said, "hoists himself up to
his little elevation, and peeps into the private life of hoi polloi until he
strikes something worth putting down and the result he calls literature."
"Yes, and the people buy it, and read it, and call for more," said the
Professor.
"Possibly because they love notoriety," said Kelly, "and they think if
they call for more often enough, he will finally peep in at their
key-holes and write them up. If he ever puts me into one of his books
I'll waylay him at night and amputate his writing-hand."
"He won't," said the Professor. "I asked him once why he didn't, and he
said you'd never do in one of his books, because you don't belong to
real life at all. He thinks you are some new experiment of an
enterprising Providence, and he doesn't want to use you until he sees
how you turn out."
"He could put me down as I go," suggested the Doctor.
"That's so," replied the other. "I told him so, but he said he had no
desire to write a lot of burlesque sketches containing no coherent idea."
"Oh, he said that, did he?" observed the Doctor, with a smile.

"Well--wait till Stuart Harley comes to me for a prescription. I'll get
even with him. I'll give him a pill, and he'll disappear--for ten days."
Whether it was as Kelly said or not, that Harley went into a trance and
poked his nose into the private life of the people he wrote about, it was
a fact that while meditating upon the possible output of his pen our
author was as deaf to his surroundings as though he had departed into
another world, and it rarely happened that his mind emerged from that
condition without bringing along