did it, she wrote on the bottom of the list of errands which she always
made on Saturday for her cousin her wish concerning her grave. The spot
she mentioned was a knoll near the house, where the ground rose a little
before it dipped into the sea. She reflected as she wrote that it was
wiser to be prepared for whatever could happen, and, although she would
not own it frankly even in these lonely musings, Ruth had felt strangely
weak and worn to-day.
She frugally blew out the candle when her writing was done, and with
calm content sat down again in her rocking-chair by the window darkening
to "a glimmering square." She heard the sound of the sea and the low
wind blowing over the wide plains; and, lulled by the soft sounds, she
fell at last asleep.
The wind rose in the night, and it was afternoon when the cousin from
the village came in sight of the red house. No smoke rose from its
chimney, and as he tied his clumsy sail-boat to the low wharf where so
long ago a yacht had been briefly fastened, a long wavering line of bees
rose glistening from the straw-thatched hives, floating upward and away
like the departing soul of mortal. Their mistress had been dead more
than twelve hours and they had not been told. Perhaps it was a chance
flight; perhaps they were seeking her serene spirit over the moors she
loved so well.
Interlude Seventh.
THIRTEEN.
THIRTEEN.
[_The drawing-room of Mr. Sylvanus Potts Thompson, banker. Mr. Thompson
and his wife, with ten guests, making a neat round dozen in all, are
waiting the announcement of dinner. Enter Mr. Sylvanus Potts, a wealthy
uncle from the country._]
_Mr. Potts._ I told the man there was no need to announce me; you knew
I was coming next week, and a few days don't matter. How do you do,
nephew? how do you do, Jane?
_Mr. Thompson._ Why, uncle, we did not expect you so soon, but we are
always glad to see you, of course.
_Mrs. Thompson._ Yes, always, dear Uncle Sylvanus. How is everybody at
home?
_Mr. P._ Oh, they're all well; you seem to be having a party, nephew?
_Mr. T._ Only a few friends to dinner. Let me introduce you.
[_He takes him on his arm and presents him to his guests. While this is
being done, a sentimental, elderly young woman, with thin curls, after
whispering impressively with her neighbor, glides up to the hostess, and
holds a moment's conversation with that lady. Mrs. Thompson turns pale,
and seems engaged in a mental calculation. Then she starts quickly
toward her husband and draws him aside_]
_Mrs. T._ Sylvanus, do you know how many people there are in this room?
_Mr. T._ Oh, about a dozen, I suppose.
_Mrs. T._ About a dozen! There are thirteen, Sylvanus, thirteen!
_Mr. T._ Well, what of it?
_Mrs. T._ What of it! Why, we can't sit down to dinner with thirteen at
table. Maria Smith says she should have a fit.
_Mr. T._ But she wouldn't, my dear; she's too fond of her dinner.
_Mrs. T._ Mr. Thompson, is it kind to speak so of my most particular
friend?
_Mr. T._ But what does Maria expect us to do about it? Turn Uncle
Sylvanus out of the house? Wasn't I named for him, and haven't I always
been his favorite? Do you want me to be left out of his will?
_Mrs. T._ But something must be done. Don't you see everybody is
whispering and counting? Can't we get somebody else?
_Servant_ (_who has entered unperceived_). There is a man downstairs,
sir, wants you to sign something.
_Mr. T._ Ah, my dear, here's the very man,--young Jones. He's our new
cashier, and a very clever fellow.
[_Exit Mr. Thompson. During his absence Mrs. Thompson communicates to
Miss Smith the solution of the difficulty at which they have arrived.
Everybody has soon heard of it, so that on Mr. Thompson's return with
Mr. Jones, the pair are greeted with much joking about the ill-luck
which is thus averted. The necessary introductions take place._]
_Mr. Jones._ I am sure I am rejoiced at being instrumental in bringing
good luck.
_Miss Smith._ You can certainly see how welcome you are, Mr. Jones.
_Mr. J._ But I fear it is not for myself, Miss Smith.
_Miss S._ That will undoubtedly come later, when we know you better.
_Mr. P._ I am glad you found somebody, nephew; for I must say I never
would have given up my dinner for a foolish superstition; and as I came
last and uninvited--
_Mrs. T._ (_relieved of her fears and remembering the will_) You are
always invited to this house, Uncle Potts; and we would never hear of
your going away.
_Mr. Robinson._ Well, it is all very well to call it a superstition, you
know; but I knew--
[_Mr. Robinson proceeds to narrate a grewsome and melancholy tale, in
which disaster and death resulted from the imprudence of sitting down
with thirteen at table; half a dozen other guests begin simultaneously
the relation of six more equally or even more grewsome and melancholy
tales upon the same subject, when they are interrupted by the arrival of
a note for Mr. Robinson._]
_Mr. R._ My dear Mrs. Thompson, I am so sorry, but my brother has
telegraphed for me to come to him at once on a matter of the utmost
importance. I regret--
_Mrs. T._ But Mr. Robinson, don't you see that--
_Servant._ Dinner is served.
_Mr. T._ May I have the honor, Mrs. Brown?
_Miss S._ But we can't go to dinner now. Mr. Robinson is called away,
and that leaves us thirteen again.
[_An awful hush ensues, during which Mr. Robinson, finding himself
regarded as a criminal, suddenly slips away, leaving the company to
extricate themselves from their trying situation as best they can. The
hush is followed by a Babel of voices, in which all sorts of suggestions
are made._]
_Mr. J._ (_with heroic and renunciatory self-denial_) Let me speak,
please, Mrs. Thompson. It was very kind in your husband to invite me
to remain to dinner, but now that I shall be the thirteenth, I am sure
you'll excuse me.
_Mr. T._ But it seems so inhospitable.
_Mrs. T._ But it is more generous to deprive ourselves of Mr. Jones's
company than to be the means of bringing ill-luck upon him.
_Mr. J._ Quite right. I bid you good evening, Mrs. Thompson. I sincerely
hope nothing further will occur to mar the pleasure of your evening.
[_Mr. Jones having retired, a move is at once made toward the
dining-room, but just as Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Brown reach the
drawing-room door, they are confronted by Mr. Robinson, who comes in
breathless but triumphant._]
_Mr. R._ I thought it was so unkind of me to throw all your arrangements
into confusion after the ill-luck of numbers you have already had, that
I concluded to telegraph to my brother instead of going. Phew! How I
have hurried! I am glad I am in time.
_Mrs. Brown._ Mr. Thompson, I positively cannot sit down at table
with thirteen. My aunt died of it, and my second cousin. I am positive
it runs in the family, and I know I should be the one to bear the
consequence if we had thirteen at any table where I sat down.
[_The greatest confusion follows. Miss Maria Smith is heard to declare
that_ "Fate takes delight in persecuting her!" _while young Algernon
White mumbles something which has a distinct flavor of the Apostles'
Creed. Mr. Robinson shows a disposition to consider himself a most
ill-used individual, thus to be rewarded for the trouble he has taken._]
_Mr. T._ My dear, what shall we do now?
_Mrs. T._ There is only one thing that I can think of; we can send
across the street for Widow Ellis. You might go yourself and explain to
her how it is.
[_This suggestion being acted upon, the company settles into a solemn
gloom, pending the return of the host with Widow Ellis. Every one knows
the dinner will be spoiled, none being more acutely conscious of that
fact than the hostess, and every one is nearly perishing with hunger.
More grewsome and melancholy stories are told, but in a wavering and
subdued manner, as if they are being offered as excuses for resisting
the cravings of appetite, which are rapidly becoming insupportable.
Young White is heard to mutter, with fresh suspicions of theological
terms, that one might as well die of thirteen at table as of starvation,
and that for his part he prefers the former method of extinction.
The return of Mr. Thompson with the Widow Ellis awakens some feeble
enthusiasm, but it is evident that nothing short of a substantial dinner
can restore the spirits of the company._]
_Mr. P._ Well, nephew, now I hope we may have some dinner. I, for one,
am faint with hunger.
_Mr. T._ Oh, immediately. Mrs. Brown, we--
[_At this juncture poor Mrs. Thompson, overcome with anxiety, fatigue,
and hunger, produces a diversion by falling in a dead faint. The shrieks
of Miss Maria Smith are re-enforced by those of other ladies of the
company, and it is to be feared that Mr. Algernon White no longer enjoys
the exclusive privilege of indulging in ecclesiastical references. The
excitement usual upon such occasions reigns, and when at length Mrs.
Thompson is restored to consciousness, but is found to be too ill to
stand, and is borne off to her chamber, the company, once more reduced
to thirteen, distributes itself in a stricken and overwhelmed state
about the drawing-room, with the air of having ceased to struggle
against an adverse fate._]
_Widow E._ We are thirteen again, neighbor; and if you'll excuse me--
_Mr. P._ Thirteen or no thirteen, nephew, I'm going to have something to
eat if it's in this house.
[_He disappears toward the dining-room, and as the resolution of Widow
Ellis seems to have solved once more the dreadful conundrum of the fated
number, the company hastily follow, too nearly famished to notice that
the lady does not carry out her apparent intention of returning home, so
that after all they sit down thirteen at table._]
Tale the Eighth.
APRIL'S LADY.
APRIL'S LADY.
It was fortunate that when the editor of the "Dark Red" magazine first
did me the honor to request a story from my pen, I had one ready for
him, and one, moreover, with which I was so well satisfied. I had so
long vainly desired to be really asked for a contribution, and thus
raised from the numerous and indiscriminate company of scribblers who
send hopeful manuscripts to the magazines, and in trembling uncertainty
await the issue, that it is not strange my bosom swelled with gratified
pride, and that I dispatched my copy with so perfect a sense of
complacency that I almost seemed to condescend a little in letting the
editor have it.
I was fond of that story. I experienced a certain delight in recalling
the circumstances under which it was composed, and I felt in it that
confidence which an author is sure to have in work which has sprung
spontaneously, and as it were full-grown, from his brain. Every
literary worker, down to the veriest penny-a-liner of them all, knows
the difference between a tale which makes itself, so to speak, growing
unforced into beauty and completeness like a crystal, and a laboriously
constructed piece of work, be it contrived never so ingeniously and
cleverly. The fiction I sent to the editor of the "Dark Red" was of the
former variety. It had come into my head all of itself, as the children
say, while I was travelling between New York and Boston, so complete and
so distinct that I scarcely seemed to have more to do with its creation
than the later putting upon paper.
The circumstances were these:--
I had reached the Grand Central Station just in time to catch the
morning train; and as the cars swept out into the daylight, I settled
myself into a seat with a comfortable and something too self-satisfied
feeling. In the first place, I was glad to be out of New York,--partly
because it was hot and dusty there, partly because I am not over-fond of
Gotham, and partly because sundry pleasant bachelor friends and divers
good times were awaiting me at the Boston end of the journey.
I looked out upon the sunny landscape, over which the splendors of
an April day cast a glow of warmth and brightness, smiled at the
remembrance of a retort I had made at the Century Club on the previous
evening, which seemed to me rather neat, and then with a sort of mental
nod of farewell to all the outside world I took up my book and prepared
to follow the fortunes of the woful and wicked, but thoroughly charming
French heroine with whose adventures I was at that particular time
occupying myself. To my vexation, however, I discovered that instead of
the second volume I had taken the first, and as I had no especial desire
to peruse again the somewhat detailed account of the heroine's youth,
her career at school, her first confession and early marriage,--all
these being preliminary to the impropriety and the interest of the
book, which, after the reprehensible manner of French novels, began
together,--I laid down the volume with a sigh, and resigned myself to
a ride of unalleviated dulness.
A resource instantly presented itself, however, in the page which the
lady in the seat before me was reading. As I glanced up I saw that she
was entertaining herself with poetry, and the next moment a familiar
line caught my eye:--
"If you were April's lady, and I were lord of May."
"Swinburne," I mused, "or a collection of selected poems, perhaps.
Wiseacres would say one ought to know what a reader is like by the book
she reads; but in the first place that's nonsense, and in the second
place I don't know what book she is reading. She has an exquisite ear,
and her hair is something bewildering. 'If you were April's lady.'
April's lady should be a capricious creature, all smiles and tears, with
winning ways and wilful wiles,--impulsive and wayward, and thoroughly
enchanting. It would not,"--my thoughts ran on in a professional turn,
while my eyes dwelt appreciatively, if somewhat presumptuously, upon the
lovely curve of my neighbor's neck,--"it would not be a bad notion to
write a story of such a maiden and call it 'April's Lady.' Let me see,
what should it be like?"
And upon this impulse I fell to pondering, when suddenly, as if by
magic, a tale presented itself all complete in my mind. My mental action
appeared to me more like that of remembering than of creating, so real
and so complete was the pretty history. The self-willed, volatile damsel
whose fortunes it concerned seemed one whom I had known, and whom I
might meet again some day. In my mind she assumed, it is true, an
outward semblance similar to that of the lady before me, upon whose
back I fixed my regards in an absorbed stare, which should have
disturbed her could looks make themselves felt. She did not move,
however, and as she did not turn the leaf of her book, I fancied she
might have fallen into a reverie as deep as my own. I had not been able
fully to see her face, although a lucky turn had given me a glimpse of a
profile full of character and beauty, and which made me desire to behold
more. I did not, however, trouble myself about the exact details of
my heroine's features, since every story-teller has a stock of choice
personal charms with which to endow his fictitious children, but
continued to gloat over my little romance; and so vividly was the tale
of "April's Lady" impressed upon my mind that although some weeks
elapsed before I found time to put it upon paper, I had not the
slightest difficulty in recalling even its most trifling incidents.
Almost the whole of my journey was taken up in turning the story over
in my mind, and when we drew into the Boston station, and my neighbor
closed her volume to begin the collection of her numerous feminine
possessions, I had half a mind to lean forward and thank her for having
given me, although unconsciously, so good a story.
It did seem to me, even after I had sent my manuscript off and the
dreadful moment came when one realizes that it is too late to make
changes and consequently thinks of plenty of things he wishes to alter,
that "April's Lady" was the best work I had ever done. I had let a month
or two pass between its first writing and the final revision, and I was
pretty well satisfied that I had produced a really capital story. I
fondly hoped Mr. Lane, the editor of the "Dark Red," would be moved
by its excellence to give me further orders; and the eagerness with
which I one morning tore open an envelope upon which I recognized his
handwriting, may be easily enough imagined, at least by members of the
literary guild. My impatience gave place to profound astonishment as I
read the following note:--
OFFICE DARK RED MAGAZINE,
BOSTON, September 27.
MY DEAR MR. GRAY,--Can you drop into my office to-morrow about noon?
By some odd coincidence I received a story very similar to your
"April's Lady," and bearing the same title, several days earlier,
and should like to talk with you about it.
Very truly yours,
J. Q. LANE.
I was utterly confounded. I racked my brains to discover who could
possibly have stolen my story, and even suspected the small black girl
who dusted my rooms, although the sooty little morsel did not know one
letter from another. The first draft of the story had lain in my desk
for some time, it was true, yet that any literary burglar should have
forced an entrance and then contented himself with copying this seemed,
upon the whole, scarcely probable. I ransacked my memory for some old
tale which I might unconsciously have plagiarized, but I could think
of nothing; and, moreover, I reflected that the coincidence of names
certainly could not be accounted for in this way, even did I recall the
germ of my plot.
I presented myself at the office of the "Dark Red" at the hour appointed
with a clear conscience, it is true, but with positively no suggestion
whatever to offer in regard to the method by which a copy of my story
could have reached the editor in advance of my own manuscript.
Mr. Lane received me with the conventionally cordial manner which is as
much a part of editorial duties as is the use of the blue pencil, and
without much delay came to the business of the call.
"There is something very singular about this affair," he said, laying
out my manuscript, and beside it another which I could see was written
in a running feminine hand. "If the stories were a little more alike,
I should be sure one was copied from the other; as it is, it is
inconceivable that they have not at least a common origin. Where did you
get your idea?"
"Why, so far as I know," I replied in perplexity, "I evolved it from
my inner consciousness; but the germ may have been the unconscious
recollection of some incident or floating idea. I've tried to discover
where I did get the fancy, but without a glimmer of success. Who sent
you the other version?"
"A lady of whose integrity I am as sure as I am of yours. That's the
odd part of it. Besides, you are both of you too clever to plagiarize,
even if you weren't too honest. The mere similarity of theme isn't so
strange; that happens often enough; but that the title of the stories
should be identical, and that in each the heroine should be named May--"
"Is her heroine named May?" I interrupted in astonishment; "why, then,
she must have seen my copy; or," I added, a new thought striking me,
"she must have got the name in the same way I did. I took the title of
the story and the name of the heroine from a line of Swinburne, and--"
"And," interrupted the editor in turn, catching up the manuscript before
him, "so did she."
And he showed me, written at the head of the page:--
"If you were April's lady, and I were lord of May."
"Well," I remarked, with a not unnatural mingling of philosophy and
annoyance, "it is all of a piece with my theory that ideas are in the
air, and belong, like wild geese, to whoever catches them first; but it
is vexatious, when I captured a fancy that particularly pleased me, to
find that some woman or other has been smart enough to get salt on its
tail-feathers before I did."
Mr. Lane smiled at my desperate air, and at that moment his little
office-boy, whom I particularly detest because of the catlike stillness
and suddenness of his movements, silently produced first himself and
then a card.
"'Agnes Graham,'" read Mr. Lane. "Here is your rival to speak for
herself. I hope you don't mind seeing her?"
"Oh, by no means," I replied rather ungraciously. "Let us see what she
is like, and what she will have to say about this puzzle."
The name was not wholly new to me, as I had seen it signed to various
magazine articles, concerning which at this moment I had only the most
vague and general idea. I was sitting with my back to the door, and in
rising I still kept my face half turned away from the lady who entered,
but I saw the reflection of her face in a mirror opposite without any
sense of recognition. As she advanced a step or two, however, and half
passed me, I knew her. The delicate ear, the fine sweep of the neck, the
knot of golden brown hair, were all familiar. It was the lady who had
sat before me in the cars from New York on that April day.
As she turned in recognition of Mr. Lane's introduction, a faint flush
seemed to show that she too recognized me, although I was unable to
understand how she should know me, since she certainly had not turned
her head once in the entire journey. I set it down to pure feminine
intuition, not having wholly freed myself from that masculine
superstition which regards woman's instinct as a sort of supernatural
clairvoyance.
My sensations on discovering her identity were not wholly unlike those
of a man who inadvertently touches a charged Leyden jar.
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, "what a psychological conundrum, or
whatever you choose to call it. The whole matter is as plain to me now
as daylight."
"Well?" Mr. Lane asked, while Miss Graham regarded me with an air which
seemed to question whether my insanity were of a dangerous type.
"Pardon me, Miss Graham, if I cross-question you a little," I went on,
becoming somewhat excited. "You came from New York on the morning train
on Wednesday, the fifteenth--no, the sixteenth of last April, did you
not?"
"Yes," she answered, her color again a trifle heightened, but her
appearance being rather that of perplexity than of self-consciousness.
"And on the way you read Swinburne till you came to the line,
'If you were April's lady, and I were lord of May,'
and it occurred to you what a capital name for a story 'April's Lady'
would be?"
"Yes," she repeated; and then, with a yet more puzzled air, she turned
to Mr. Lane to ask, "Is this mind-reading?"
"I'm sure I don't know," returned he. "Mr. Gray can best tell what it
is."
"And the rest of the way to Boston," I continued, ignoring the
interruption, "you were elaborating your story. You took the heroine's
name from the same line, and had a pun at the climax about the hero's
becoming 'lord of May.'"
"No," Miss Graham retorted, beginning to enter into the spirit of the
situation. "I deny the pun, although I acknowledge the rest. The pun I
didn't even think of."
"Well, you see I haven't read your manuscript, but I own I fell so low
that I put in the pun myself. At least the old gentleman with a scar on
his cheek, who sat in the corner of the car, gave you hints for--"
"The uncle," broke in Miss Graham, with a gleeful laugh at the
remembrance of the oddity of the old gentleman's appearance. "But how
in the world did you know?"
"Oh, he did me. We evidently had the same mental experience; which
proves, I suppose, that we are literary Corsican brothers or something
of the sort."
"But the great question to be settled is," Mr. Lane observed, bringing
in, after some further talk, the editorial consideration, "whose story
this really is."
"Miss Graham's, by all means," I said instantly. "Hers was first in
the field, and if I hadn't impertinently looked over her shoulder, I
shouldn't have had any share in it whatever."
Miss Graham laughed, showing a delicious dimple, and Mr. Lane, who
evidently had no desire to settle the question under discussion, looked
inquiringly at her for a response to my words.
"You are very generous, Mr. Gray," she answered; "but in the first place
my story has never been accepted for the 'Dark Red,' and in the second,
as the stories really ought to stand on their merits, I shall certainly
not venture to put mine into competition with yours, but prefer to
pocket my manuscript and retire."
"I fear," was my reply, "that I discover rather a tendency to sarcasm in
what you say than any true humility. Of course the first point is one
for Mr. Lane to settle."