The Playwright and the Lady/Chapter 3
III.
The next morning Roger stole a march on the heat. At six o’clock he arose, bathed, drank a cup of coffee and started to work in pajamas and dressing gown. A heavy mist hid the river and swirled and floated over the lowlands. The sun was veiled, but the day, nevertheless, promised to equal yesterday in torridness. Roger worked until nine and then dressed.
He had determined to attempt no more writing during the heat of the day, and so, after getting into white flannels, he lingered idly over a supplementary breakfast of berries and cream, toast and coffee in the shadowed dining room and then lounged out onto the veranda, the eternal cigarette dangling from his lips, and awaited the morning mail and papers. Gradually the sun dispelled the light clouds and burned away the mist on the river. At ten, Denis, caretaker, gardener and man-of-all-work, appeared, very hot and dusty, with the letters and newspapers, and Roger retired to the library with them.
To his relief there was a reply from Sommers, the theatrical manager and magnate for whom he had contracted to write the play upon which he was at work.
Sommers wrote:
My present idea is to present it during Christmas week, either at the Siddons or the Thirty-fourth Street. So we shall have to have the manuscript complete by September 15th. I forwarded your letter to Miss Vynn, and her reply is just received. She asks me to say to you that she leaves everything in your hands, as she is convinced that she can offer no suggestions of value. And she doesn’t want to see the play until it is finished. She writes that she is just leaving England, and as her address will be uncertain for some time she suggests that you write to her, if necessary, in my care, and promises to keep me informed of her whereabouts. Well, I guess we'll have to humor her. You know the profession, I guess, pretty well by this time; it seems that Nydia Vynn is no exception to the rule when it comes to freakishness. However, as «he seems satisfied to let you do everything your own way, there won’t be much necessity of conferring with her.
How about the title? Have you thought about that yet? You know I didn’t take much of a shine to “The Way of a Woman.” It’s rather reminiscent, and, besides, it doesn’t suggest strength. What we want, it seems to me, is something forceful—something on the order of that “Souls” that made such a hit in London last season. That was a great title. Did I tell you I’d bought the American rights for Agnes Wethern?
I suppose it’s fairly cool up your way. Here it’s like an oven in hell. Thanks for your invitation. If I can manage it, I'll run up to you some Friday afternoon and stay over Sunday. That’s the most I can hope for.
Well, yes, Roger was pretty well versed in the manners of stage folk, and their idiosyncrasies no longer held the power to either startle or annoy him. But he was, nevertheless, surprised at Nydia Vynn’s apparent indifference in the matter of the play in which she was to make her first American appearance. Certainly he was flattered—just as she had intended he should be, probably—by her faith in his ability and judgment, but, as he told himself with a spice of annoyance, the time to correct errors and make changes was during the writing and not when the thing was completed.
Well, he would take her at her word, and not offer again to consult her. After all, the innovation was not without its merits; he knew what it was to alter parts to please actors. As for Miss Vynn, if eccentricity denoted genius—and there are many who think it does—perhaps, after all, the English woman—English at least by courtesy—was as great an actress as the London critics had proclaimed.
What Sommers had written on the subject of titles didn’t disturb Roger. Their tastes in such matters were widely at variance, and the playwright had no doubt but that when the time came the right name would present itself; when it did it would, he told himself grimly, stick—whether Sommers liked it or disliked it. The time when policy made it advisable for Roger to defer in such affairs to the judgment of the managers or stars had long since passed.
Having finished with his mail and written a half dozen notes, Roger lighted a fresh cigarette and sought the Beech Walk, explaining to himself that its green gloom was more conducive to thought than the library or veranda. But as he strolled along under the motionless boughs he would not have impressed an observer, had there been one on hand, as being very deeply wrapped in thought. Now and then he removed the cigarette from his lips and whistled a bar of a song, and at every few steps his eyes sought the gate. If he was looking only for that he must have been satisfied, for, naturally, it stood just where it had stood the day before—that is, directly across the avenue, marking the line between The Beeches and the adjoining estate of Forrest Hall.
It was a very formidable gate, so far as breadth and height were concerned, but in design it was graceful and light. The two wrought-iron panels curved upward from the height of the brick pillars at either side and met in final airy convolutions twelve feet from the ground. But gray lichen and red rust were fast working ruin, and it would have taken more than a key to move the great bolt which had been shot into its socket more than sixty years ago, never again to be unlocked. On either side of the gate ran a high brick wall, coped with stone. In places it was crumbling away, but was still fairly impregnable to the trespasser. Time had turned the bricks to a soft purplish-brown, and where the shade was deep in summer the moss had wrought an emerald tapestry.
It was very silent at the gate. From a distance came the songs of birds and the rasp of countless locusts, but here the dropping of a leaf or the frisk of a squirrel sounded startlingly loud. Having reached the rusted barrier, Roger sank his hands in his pockets and gazed hopefully up the further walk. There was more sunlight there; the trees were less thick, and to the left they had been cut away, so that from where he stood a gradually-widening triangle of turf allowed a view of a portion of the big-turreted brick house beyond.
Up this vista Roger continued to look with admirable patience for several minutes. How long his patience would have lasted I cannot say, but presently it was rewarded.
Two figures, those of a woman and a dachshund, appeared at the far end cf the avenue, and, after standing there a moment in apparent irresolution, bent their steps toward Roger. The latter—it is to be presumed that he was not visible to the oncomers at that distance—moved away from the gates to a position a little at one side of the walk, from where, while ostensibly observing the havoc wrought by frost and tempest on the wall, he could observe the approach of—the dachshund.
Perhaps he was interested in dogs; at least, he looked very intently toward this one. And presently the dachshund became interested in Roger. Her pointed nose began to twitch and she emitted a series of warning growls and half-barks which should have appraised her mistress of the near presence of some intruder. But the mistress was apparently oblivious to the danger.
At a distance of a dozen paces from the gate, the dog broke into stentorian barks, which, considering the size of the body from which they emanated, were truly wonderful. At this the woman looked about her and Roger stepped into full view, felt for his hat, only to discover that he had left it at the house, and bowed profoundly.
The lady returned his salutation, but more moderately.
The dachshund growled ferociously and sidled behind her mistress’ skirts.
“I fear I startled you yesterday,” said Roger. “I am very sorry; neighbors here are not so numerous that we can afford to frighten them away.” He bowed again, this time less profusely. The lady smiled pleasantly.
“I confess I was a little surprised,” she answered. “I had not heard your steps and scarcely expected to find anyone here.”
“My own case exactly,” responded Roger. “The Hall has remained untenanted so long that I was quite thunderstruck when 1 looked up, and was at first tempted to believe you an apparition.”
“One might wish to be such in this weather, don’t you think?” she asked, smilingly. Her voice was deep-noted yet soft, and her pronunciation was so clear and true as to seem almost an affectation. Roger was charmed.
“I should be quite, quite happy were I a skeleton,” he answered, gravely. She shuddered deliciously.
“In which case, I fancy, I should have been more startled than I was.”
The dachshund had recovered her intrepidity and was now gingerly edging toward the gate, watching Roger from the corners of her bright eyes, prepared to bark and retreat at the first sign of danger. Roger snapped his fingers.
“Hello, young lady!” he said. “Come and see me.” He stepped forward, his hand held enticingly forth. The dachshund raised her head and howled excruciatingly. Her mistress smiled.
“She doesn’t make friends readily, especially with those of your sex,” she said. “Come, Gretchen.”
“I shall set myself to winning her regard,” laughed Roger. “I usually have success with dogs.” She raised her eyebrows the least bit in the world and he hurried on: “I am Roger Gale, of The Beeches,” he explained, “and I hope you will allow me a neighbor’s privilege, that of calling upon you.”
He fancied a tinge of reserve crept into her face.
“I hope you'll not think me unneighborly,” she replied, “when I explain that I have come here for—rest, and have given orders for the exclusion of callers.”
He bowed.
“In that case I shall not think of intruding,” he said, a trifle dryly. “I trust you will find Forrest Hall an ideal place for your purpose. At least, it is sufficiently quiet.”
“I have no doubt it will serve admirably,” she responded, indifferently. She turned to go.
“May I inquire whether you have taken the Hall for the season?” he asked. There was the slightest hesitation in her reply.
“For a month, maybe.” She smiled politely, bowed and beckoned to Gretchen. “Good-morning,” she said.
“Good-morning,” answered Roger. And then, when she had gone some little way up the path, “Would it be wrong,” he asked, “to hope that, since I may not have the pleasure of calling upon you, I may have the good fortune to find you here again some day?”
She turned, and his heart lightened at sight of the merriment in her eyes and the little quiver at her lips.
“This walk has its attractions,” she answered, demurely, thrusting the point of her sunshade into the green mold, “and it is quite within the probabilities that I shall make use of it on occasions.”
“One could not say when such occasions would occur?” he asked, very humbly. She shook her head as she patted down with the toe of her shoe the earth she had excavated.
“One would have no idea,” she answered, gravely.
“I suppose not,” he said, regretfully. “And yet—it has seemed to me that this walk is cooler in the forenoons. Have you—that is, do you agree with me?”
“I have never tried it in the afternoon,” she said, “and so am unable to give an opinion.”
“Pray accept my word for it! In the morning the sun”
“Therefore I shall try it some afternoon and see. On such important questions it is well to judge for oneself. Good-morning,” she said again.
She went slowly up the avenue, from gloom to sunlight, the absurd dachshund trotting alongside and swinging its tail joyously. Roger had never before experienced any desire to be a dog, but just now it occurred to him that the metamorphosis might possess advantages.
At lunch Roger ate what was placed before him by the silent and attentive Alfred in a manner thoughtful and abstracted. But Alfred, accustomed to his master’s vagaries, displayed no surprise when the latter poured the vinegar onto his cold lamb instead of the sliced tomatoes, presuming that, as usual, he was deep in the problems of his play. The surprise came a moment later when Roger asked abruptly:
“Did you find out who had taken the Hall?”
“Hoh, yes, sir, begging your pardon, sir, for not mentioning it, sir. The ’All ’as been taken for the season, sir, but the parties are to remain but a month.”
“And the name?”
“’Uggins, sir, a Mrs. ’Uggins; first name not mentioned, sir.”
“’Uggins? Do you mean Higgins?”
“No, sir. ’Uggins was the name, sir.
“Oh, Huggins! What a devil of a name! Are you sure that’s right?”
“Quite, sir. Hi ’ad it from Denis, sir, who ’ad it from Mrs. Leary, sir.”
“Who’s Mrs. Leary? Not the lady with the incendiary cow, I hope?”
“Has to the cow, sir, Hi really can’t say. Mrs. Leary is the caretaker at the ’All, sir.”
“Oh, yes. And you’re sure she said Mrs. Huggins?”
“Yes, sir, Mrs. ’Uggins was what she said.”
“Well, is there a Mr. ’Uggins?”
“No mention was made of hany, sir.”
“Um!” Roger scowled at his cigarette. “Deuce of a name!” he muttered. “Must be some mistake. Huggins! Oh, rot! It’s impossible!”
“Beg pardon, sir?” asked Alfred, anxiously.
“Never mind. Tell Denis to find out about Mr. Huggins. I—er—I used to know a family of Hugginses; maybe these are some of the same Hugs—that is, Hugginses. Where does the lady hail from?”
“Sir?”
“Where is she from, you blockheaded Britisher?”
“Well, Mrs. Leary didn’t quite know, sir, but they came here from New York.”
“They? I thought you said’”
“There’s a companion, sir, a lady companion.”
“Oh, there is, eh? And what’s her name? Scrooge?”
“Hi didn’t learn, sir, but Hi will make hinquiries.”
“Well, never mind about her; tell Denis to find out about the other—the Mrs.—er—Huggins; where she’s from; who Mr. Huggins is—or was! But don’t let them know at the Hall that the—er—the information is for me. Understand?”
“Quite, sir,” answered Alfred, with suspicious lack of vocal or facial expression. Roger glanced at him sharply and went out on the veranda. There, with hands in pockets, he stood for a minute frowning at the blazing salvia. Then:
“Huggins!” he muttered, disgustedly, and “Mrs. Huggins!” he growled, indignantly. “Oh, it can’t be! It’s too cursed ridiculous!”