WITH TITIAN TRESSES.
Mr. Weil deciphered the MSS. of Miss Fern with some difficulty. Not that
the handwriting was particularly illegible, though it did not in the
least resemble copperplate engraving; but, as Mr. Gouger had intimated,
the sentences were so badly constructed, and the punctuation so
different from that prescribed by the usual authorities, that he was
continually obliged to go back over his tracks and hunt for meanings.
Nevertheless, within an hour from the time when he sat down in his room
at the Hoffman House and opened the package he had brought, he had to
confess himself deeply interested.
Miss Fern had conceived some entertaining characters, and some very
unconventional situations. Her people were virile; her hero was strong
if not always grammatical; her heroine did and said things not common in
real life, and yet that were quite reasonable when her peculiar nature
and environment were considered.
Archie paused once in awhile to wonder how much of all this record was
within the direct knowledge of the young authoress; which expressions
conveyed her own ideas and which sentiments she would personally
endorse. Gouger might be right as to the exceeding purity of most of the
ladies who dealt in eroticism, but in this especial case Mr. Weil meant
to make an investigation on his own account before he accepted as a
universal rule the one his friend had laid down.
He did not go to sleep that night until he had finished his story. Had
it been arranged by a competent hand he could have read it in four
hours, but as it was he consumed eight in the work. With all its faults,
he liked it. There was something breezy about it, and it had a theme
that he did not remember had been treated exactly in the same way
before. Though, as he himself had said, without much talent for
composition, Archie had read a great many books. It is no proof because
a person cannot write that he would make a poor critic. Mr. Weil might
almost have filled Lawrence Gouger's place at Cutt & Slashem's. He had
written fugitive pieces in his time for the papers, in reference to his
travels, which had been extensive, and had even contributed occasional
book reviews to the magazines. His connection with Gouger enabled him to
keep in touch with what was going on in the literary world, and the
dozens of new volumes which passed through that office were always at
his disposal.
"She's not a fool, by any means," he remarked to himself, when he put
down the last sheet of Miss Fern's work. "A fellow who understood his
business might put that into such shape that it would be worth using. I
mean to find some one who can do it, and suggest the idea to her, when I
get to that stage in this affair. Let me see, who do I know that could
undertake it?"
He had begun to undress, and was in the act of taking off his collar as
he spoke. His mind ran over a list of struggling literary men. Something
seemed the matter with most of them. There was Hamlin, but he would be
too exacting, and would want to suggest alterations in the story itself,
which would never do. There was Insley, whose last three books had been
flat failures, and for whom Cutt & Slashem had positively refused to
print anything more; but Insley had gone into the country for the summer
and nobody knew his address. Then there was--
"_Roseleaf!_"
Archie received this thought like an inspiration. He threw his cravat on
the bureau and began tugging at his shoestrings to the imminent danger
of getting them into hard knots that no one could unravel. Roseleaf! Why
not? The boy would do almost anything he suggested, so great was his
confidence that a road to literary preferment could be staked out over
that path. Roseleaf would not undertake the work for the sake of
pecuniary compensation, but the thing could be presented to him in quite
another light. In Miss Fern's story there were living, breathing men and
women. In his own there were beautifully drawn marionettes. He could be
made to see that the study of the young lady's method was worth his
while. And then!
Mr. Weil's shoes lay on the floor, in the disorder of a bachelor who had
never in his life taken pains to put anything in the place where it
really belonged. He took out the studs of his shirt, pulled that garment
over his head, and then sat for some minutes wrapped in active thought.
"They must be introduced to each other!" he exclaimed, at last. "Between
them they have every qualification for success; apart they are like the
separated wheels of a watch. There is Shirley, with a style so sweetly
subtle, a grace so perfect, every line a gem; and with it all not a sign
of human emotion. There is Millicent, full of plot and daring and
breathing characters, and bold conceptions, and no more able to write
good English than an Esquimaux squaw. I have both these interesting
persons on my hands, and I must combine them, for their mutual good.
"I wonder what Gouger will say when I unfold my plan. Perhaps I had best
not tell him. He actually came near threatening, to-day, to send a line
to Miss Fern, warning her against me. He wouldn't have done it, though.
Lawrence has a bark that is worse than his bite by a great deal. Yes,
I'll bring these young folks together. I'll take them as Hermann does
the rabbits, and press them gently but firmly into one. And then sha'n't
we get a combination! And won't Mr. Lawrence Gouger hug himself when the
product of their joint endeavor comes to him for a reading!"
The muser finished disrobing and donned his night robes, but it was a
long time before he felt like slumber. He could think of nothing but his
scheme. As he revolved it over in his mind, it took many new forms. At
first Roseleaf was to be asked to rewrite the story that Miss Fern had
offered Cutt & Slashem. And afterwards there must be an entirely new
novel, conceived together and worked out slowly, using the best of what
was brightest in both of them.
The last idea Mr. Weil had before he relapsed into unconsciousness
contained two novels, worked out at the same time. Roseleaf was all
right, if he could only get a glimpse of realism into his work. Miss
Fern would have no trouble if her ideas could find a garb that suited
them.
There would be a way to make them of service to each other, and the time
to cross a bridge is always when you come to it. So thought Archie Weil,
as he fell asleep.
In the morning he laughed to think of the description he had given to
Shirley, in his offhand way, of "the perfect woman." It was a faithful
list of Miss Millicent's charms, so far as they were apparent to him.
Shirley had noted them down with great carefulness, and would be sure to
notice how fully the authoress met the ideal he now had in mind. It only
remained for the schemer to say something to Miss Fern that would
suggest Roseleaf to her, whenever they were made acquainted.
It must be plain to the reader that Mr. Weil's principal intention in
this whole matter was to dispose of the _ennui_ which idleness brings
even to its most adoring devotees. He had a fair fortune, accumulated
by a father who had denied himself every luxury to amass it. Drifting to
New York, he had found the vicinity of the Hoffman House very agreeable,
and his companions, with the exception of Mr. Gouger, were of about as
light views of life as himself. The critic was one of those strange
exceptions with which most of us come in contact, where persons of
entirely opposite tastes and inclinations become attached friends.
Breakfast was served so late to Mr. Weil that he had not finished that
repast when the young novelist made his appearance. Seating himself on
the side of the table that faced his friend, Mr. Roseleaf responded to
the latter's inquiries in regard to his health by saying that he was
quite well. Indeed, he looked it. His eye was bright, his cheek rosy.
His attire showed just enough of a negligent quality to be attractive.
There was an air about him such as is often associated with an artist of
the pencil and brush.
"Never better in health," he said, "but very anxious to begin something
definite in the way of work."
Mr. Weil smiled his most affable smile.
"What did I tell you to do, first?" he asked, playfully.
"To fall in love."
"Which you have not yet done!"
The young man shook his head.
"Good Heavens! And you have lost more than a week!"
Roseleaf colored more than ever.
"Isn't there something else--that I could--begin on?" he asked, humbly.
"I don't know of anything. Love is the alphabet of the novelist. You'd
best go straight. Aren't there any eligible young women at your lodging
house?"
The younger man thought a moment.
"No; only the chambermaid."
Mr. Weil sipped his coffee with a wise expression.
"It may come to that," he said, putting down the cup, "but we'll hope
not. We will hope not. What's the matter with Central Park? There are
five hundred nice girls there every afternoon."
"But I don't know them," said Roseleaf, desperately. "And--I have been
there. Yesterday one of them looked at me and smiled. I walked toward
her, and she slackened her speed. When I came within a few feet she
almost stopped. Then--I could think of nothing to say to her, and I
walked on, looking in the other direction."
Several breakfasters in the vicinity turned their heads to note the
couple at the table, from which a laugh that could be heard all over the
room came musically.
"Why didn't you say 'Good-morning?'"
"Yes! And she might have said 'Good-morning.' And then it would be my
turn, and what could I have done?"
Mr. Weil folded up his napkin and laid it by his plate.
"You coward," he replied, affably, "you could have done a thousand
things. You could have remarked that the day was fair, or that you
wondered if it would rain. And you could have asked her to stroll over
to a restaurant and take a little refreshment. Once opposite to her, the
rest would have come fast enough."
The novelist took out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his
forehead. It all seemed very easy the way Archie described it, but he
was sure it would be very different in practice. How could he know, he
demanded, that the young lady would go to the restaurant with him? She
might have declined, and then he would have been in a worse position
than ever.
"Declined!" echoed Archie. "Declined a lunch? Declined ice cream?
Declined champagne frappe! Well, you _are_ ignorant of the sex. My dear
boy, it is evident that I shall have to introduce you to the leading
lady of your company, and if you will be patient for a very few days, I
hope to be able to do so."
Rousing himself with a show of genuine interest, Roseleaf inquired for
further particulars.
"Listen," replied the other. "I expect, to-morrow evening, to spend a
few hours in the company of one of the most charming members of her sex.
She, like you, has an ambition to become a successful writer. Like you,
also, she lacks some of the prime qualities that are needed for that
end. It happens, however, that the things wanting are entirely different
in each of your cases--that you will, if you choose, be able to
supplement and perfect each other. I shall tell her that I know a young
man of literary taste who will give her advice on the points in which
she is deficient. With such an opening you will be at once on Easy
street, and if you cannot fall in love within forty-eight hours, I shall
regard you as a case too hopeless to merit further attention at my
hands."
The young man's cheek glowed with pleasure.
"That is more like it," he said. "When do you think I shall be able to
meet this young lady?"
"Within a week or two, at the latest. I must sound her before I trust
you with her, for she is nearly as much a stranger to me, so far, as to
you. Of course there is no objection--quite the contrary--to your
falling in love elsewhere in the meantime, if opportunity serves."
At this moment Mr. Weil called his companion's attention to a rather
corpulent gentleman who had just entered the breakfast room and was
stopping near the door to hold a brief conversation with some one he had
met there.
"You see that fellow?" he remarked. "Wait a minute, and I will get him
over here. If you ever want to put a real character into one of your
stories you will only need to take his photograph. In actual life he is
as dull as a rusty meat axe, but for literary purposes he would be a
godsend."
Catching the eye of the person of whom he was speaking, Mr. Weil
motioned to him to come to his part of the room, and as he approached
arranged a chair for him invitingly.
"Mr. Boggs, I want to present a young friend of mine to you," said
Archie, rising. "Mr. Walker Boggs--Mr. Shirley Roseleaf."
Mr. Boggs went through the usual ceremony, announcing that he was most
happy, etc., in the perfunctory style that a million other men follow
every day. Then he took the chair that was offered him, and gave an
order for his breakfast to a waiter.
"Are you a New Yorker, Mr. Roseleaf?" he asked, when this important
matter was disposed of.
"Mr. Roseleaf is staying here for the present," explained Mr. Weil. "He
is a novelist by profession, and I tell him there is no better place to
study the sensational than this vicinity."
The young man's color deepened. He doubted if it was right to introduce
the subject in exactly these terms. Mr. Boggs' next question did not
detract from his uneasiness.
"Excuse me--I am not altogether up in current literature, and I must ask
what Mr. Roseleaf has written."
Mr. Weil helped his young friend out of this dilemma as well as he
could.
"He has written nothing, as yet; at least nothing that has been
printed," he said. "He is wise, I think, in laying a deep foundation for
his romances, instead of rushing into print with the first thoughts that
enter his head, as so many do, to their own subsequent regret and the
distress of their readers. I want him to meet men and women who have
known what life is by their own experiences. You ought to be worth
something to a bright writer, Walker. You have had many an adventure in
your day."
Mr. Walker Boggs shrugged his shoulders.
"In my 'day,' yes," he assented. "Enough to fill the Astor and Lenox
libraries and leave enough for Charlie Dillingham and The American News
Company. But that is nothing but history now. My 'day' is over and it
will never return."
He paused and ran his right hand dejectedly across his vest in the
vicinity of the waist band. Though he knew perfectly what Mr. Boggs
referred to, Archie Weil wanted him to express it in his own words to
Shirley.
"You wouldn't think," continued Mr. Boggs, after a pause which seemed
filled with strange emotions, "that my figure was once the admiration of
every lady who saw it, that they used to stop and gaze at me with eyes
of positive envy. And now--look at this!"
He indicated his embonpoint again, and shook his head wrathfully.
"It is simply damnable," he continued, as neither of the others thought
best to interrupt him. "When I was twenty-four I had a reputation that
was as wide as the continent. When I walked down Broadway you would have
supposed a procession was passing, the crowds gathered in such numbers.
If it was mentioned that I would spend a week at Saratoga or Newport,
the hotels had not a room to spare while I remained. The next year I
married, and as one of the fashion journals put it, two thousand women
went into mourning. For a decade I devoted myself entirely to my wife
and to business. I made some money, and kept out of the public eye.
Then my wife died, and I retired from the firm with which I had been
connected. The next twelve months dragged terribly. I did not know what
to do. Finally I decided that there was but one course open to me. I
must resume again the position I had vacated as a leader of fashion."
Mr. Weil bowed, as if to say that this was a very natural and
praiseworthy conclusion; precisely as if he had not heard the story told
in substantially the same way a dozen times before. He was watching
Roseleaf's interested expression and had difficulty in repressing an
inclination to laugh aloud.
"I sought out the best tailor in the city," continued Mr. Boggs. "I went
to the most fashionable hair dresser. I spent considerable time in
selecting hats, cravats and gloves. When all was ready I took a stroll,
as I had done in the old days, from Fiftieth street, down Fifth Avenue
and Broadway to Union Square. I met a few acquaintances who stared at me
slightly, but did not act in the least impressed. The women merely
glanced up and glanced away again. What was the matter? I went home and
took a long survey of myself in the mirror, a cheval glass that showed
me from crown to toe. My costume was perfect. There was not a wrinkle in
my face--this was several years ago, remember. There was not a gray hair
in my head then--there are a few now, I admit. 'What is it?' I asked
myself a hundred times as I stood there, studying out the cursed
problem. My tie was all right, my shirt front of the latest cut, my
watch chain straight from Tiffany's, my--ah! I saw it all in a moment!"
Roseleaf, who did not see it even yet, wore such an astonished
expression that Mr. Weil had to stuff his napkin into his mouth to
prevent an explosion.
"It was this devilish abdomen!" said Mr. Boggs, slapping that portion of
his frame as if he had a special grudge against it and would be glad if
he could hit it hard enough to bring it to a realizing sense of its
turpitude. "My figure had gone to the devil! It was not as large as it
is now, but it was large enough to cook my gruel. My waist had increased
so gradually that I had never noticed it. I got a tape and took its
measure. Forty-two inches, sir! The jig was up. With a heart as young as
ever, with a face as good and a purse able to supply all reasonable
demands, I was knocked out of the race on the first round by this
adipose tissue that no ingenuity could hope to conceal!"
Mr. Weil could wait no longer. His musical laugh rang out over the room.
"Let this be a warning to you, Shirley," he said, "to wear corsets."
"It is no joke," was the indignant comment of Mr. Walker Boggs, as he
proceeded to add to his rotundity by devouring the hearty breakfast that
the waiter had just brought him. "I am left like a marooned sailor on
the sea of life. The only occupation that could have entertained me is
gone. It is no time to enter business again, I couldn't have selected a
wiser one to leave it. I don't want to marry, once was enough of that.
The only women I can attract are those commercially inclined females
that any other man could have as well as I. What is the result? My life
is ruined. I take no pleasure in anything. I eat, walk about, go to a
play, sleep. A _pig_ could do as much; and a pig would not have these
memories to haunt him, these recollections of a time so different that I
am almost driven wild."
Roseleaf felt a sincere pity for the unfortunate gentleman, and did not
see the slightest element of humor in his melancholy recital. But Archie
Weil could not be restrained.
"You're right about that pig business," he remarked. "You recall the
incident in Mother Goose, where--
'A little pig found a fifty dollar note,
And purchased a hat and a very fine coat.'
"There are strange parallels in history."
Mr. Boggs would have replied to this remark in the terms it deserved had
he not been too much engaged at the moment in masticating a particularly
fine chop. As it was he growled over the meat like a mastiff in bad
humor.
"Are there no remedies for excessive accumulation of fat in the
abdominal region?" asked Weil, taking his advantage. "It seems to me I
have read advertisements of them in the newspapers."
"Remedies!" retorted the other, having swallowed the food and
supplemented it with a glass of ale. "There are a thousand, and I have
tried them all. I have taken things by the gross. I have paid money to
every quack I could find. For awhile I starved myself so nearly to death
that I went to making my will. And every day I grew stouter. I don't
know what I measure now, and I don't care. A few fathoms more or less,
doesn't count, when one falls from a steamer in midocean."
Mr. Weil took occasion to say that there was no need for this extreme
discouragement. A little coin in the hand, or a new diamond ring, would
still bring youth and beauty to his disconsolate friend.
"That's just it," retorted Boggs. "It's the contrast that's killing me.
The only women who would look at me to-day are mercenary ones that
wouldn't care if I was black as Othello or big as George IV. Why, I
could show you a trunkful of letters, written me by the finest women in
this country, when I was at my best. They breathe but one thing--love,
love, love! I lived on it! It was the air that kept my lungs in motion.
And I thought to go back to it so easily! _Ah!_"
Mr. Boggs commenced upon his fourth chop and emptied the last of the
quart bottle into his glass.
"Well, I'm sorry for you," said Weil. "I think the times must have
changed, as well as yourself, though. Now, here's a young fellow, with
all the qualifications of face, figure and address that you once had,
and he claims to be unable to make the acquaintance of a single
interesting woman between Brooklyn Bridge and Spuyten Duyvil."
The heavy eyes of Mr. Walker Boggs rested upon the youthful face
opposite to him. Under the scrutiny to which he was subjected Roseleaf
reddened, in the way he had. He had never looked more handsome.
"This is evidently a jest of yours," said Boggs, turning to Mr. Weil.
"Not in the least, I assure you."
"Then I say he can do what he likes, and I know it," replied the stout
man. "If I had his form I'd have to ask the police to clear the way for
me. I have seen circulation impeded in front of this very hotel because
I was coming out to take my carriage. If he won't look at them, why, of
course, the women can't do it all, but it lies with him."
Roseleaf's eyes glistened with a strange mixture of hope and fear. He
did not think he would care to be in such great demand as that, but he
dearly wished to break through the iron bars that enclosed him. He
glanced in a glass that paneled the wall near by. He was good-looking
enough, it was no vanity to say so. What he lacked was confidence.
"He is afraid of them, that's his trouble," smiled Weil. "We will cure
him of that, and when he gets to know women as they are he will give us
a novel that will set all creation by the ears. Gouger--you know
Gouger--says he writes the purest English. All he needs is a taste of
life."
To this Mr. Boggs gave his unqualified assent. And he added that if he
could be of any service in the matter he would only be too glad.
"We thank you for the offer, and may be able later to make use of it,"
said Mr. Weil. "And now good-morning, for we have important business to
attend to."
Roseleaf looked long and earnestly at the person they were leaving. He
seemed to him a very ordinary individual. If such a man had won the
love of scores of beautiful women, surely he himself could gain the
affections of one. When he stood with Weil in front of the hotel, by
which an unrivaled procession of ladies and gentleman was already
beginning to pass, though it was only eleven o'clock, he felt much
encouraged.
"They are looking at you," whispered Archie, "plenty of them. Did you
see those two girls in pink in that landau? Why, they nearly broke their
necks to get the last glimpse of you. There is another lady who would
stop if you asked her, pretty as any of them, though she must be nearly
thirty. Your eyes are not open. Ah, here is something better! In that
carriage, with the Titian tresses!"
It was Miss Millicent Fern, and she bowed to Mr. Weil. Then her bright
eyes lit up with a new lustre as they fell upon his companion.