The Playwright and the Lady/Chapter 10

Love, like any other trouble, may be borne philosophically. Roger realized the fact and strove to benefit thereby. When, after struggling from three o’clock to five in an unsuccessful endeavor to transcribe twelve lines of dialogue onto paper, he lost sight of his labors entirely and found himself engaged—in imagination—in sparkling yet tender conversation with a pair of beautiful violet eyes—why, he accepted the situation with philosophy; that is, he lighted a fresh cigarette, swept the manuscript onto the floor, put his feet on the table, his hands behind his head, and continued the conversation. It was marvelous, considering the fact that he was normally conscientious to a fault, how little he was troubled by the thought of work neglected. Sommers was expecting the completed typewritten manuscript of the play—or pretended he was—by the fifteenth of September. It now lacked but a few days of the first. And there remained unfinished all of the third act save the opening scene. And Roger, realizing all this, smiled fatuously and marveled that he had never before caught the wealth of music contained in the three short syllables of the word “Harriet.”

Perhaps life was flowing along too smoothly. At least, it is a fact that a certain amount of opposition is necessary to most men to produce earnest endeavor, and certain that more good work has been blighted by ease than by hardship. Life was going very well with Roger. He was head over ears in love, and while he could not congratulate himself upon having awakened in the object of his regard a similar sentiment, on the other hand she made no effort to avoid him; in fact, it would have been evident to a much less conceited man that the lady showed a marked preference for his society. There existed between them a delightful good-fellowship, which, while it at times heightened the attractions of a closer intimacy to the point of causing him dissatisfaction, was yet far more precious than anything he had ever experienced. That he had won her friendship, and at an expense of less than half of the forty thousand minutes at his disposal, was clear. That in the course of time he might win her love did not seem improbable; at least, on occasions. There were other moments when such a consummation appeared worse than impossible. But even at such times he summoned philosophy to the aid of his drooping hopes. If there were forty thousand minutes in a month, there were many millions in a lifetime.

But at this time, as has been hinted, his work suffered. The late August days were filled with sunshine and pleasant heat, with clear skies and the songs of birds. Each morning witnessed a meeting at the gate, meetings sometimes lasting until a tiny tinkling from the Hall announced that lunch was awaiting and that the sun was an hour past the meridian. Each afternoon saw Roger settle determinedly down to his work and sit with idle pen while the shadows lengthened across the lawn. Each evening saw him strolling with glowing cigar up and down the walk before the house, his gaze returning time and again to the little speck of light that, finding a path through the beech grove, served as a beacon for his thoughts.

The play was duly read and listened to with flattering attention by one, at least, of his audience. Gretchen appeared to find it dull. She yawned frequently and once even went to such a length to show her contempt for the proceedings as to arise disgustedly and retreat out of earshot, throwing herself down with a long-drawn sigh of relief. But her mistress more than atoned for such discourtesy. She was enthusiastic over the play, and surprised Roger by her knowledge of technical points.

“You almost make me suspect you of being a brother—that is, a sister-playwright,” he said, suspiciously.

“My dear Mr. Gale,” she answered, smilingly, “if I have never written a play, and I assure you I haven’t, at least I’ve seen a great many; and I fancy I have in a way studied them.”

She refrained religiously from criticism until he begged for it. Then what she had to say was much to the point, even if flattering. There was but one alteration she suggested, and that was less a suggestion than a command. But Roger instantly saw the value of it and was eager in his gratitude. She cut short his thanks.

“Nonsense! You’d have seen it yourself the next time you read it,” she declared.

When the second act was finished, with Miriam sitting with clinched hands and half-closed eyes listening for the closing of the door behind the departing Aberthaw, she leaped to her feet with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Oh, it’s good!” she cried. “I—I” She met Roger’s eyes, admiring and astonished, and she paused with a little laugh of confusion. “Dear me, you’ve got me quite worked up. But, do you know, I almost think I could do Miriam myself!”

“And, by Jove,” he answered, admiringly, “I half believe you could!”

She dropped him a courtesy before she sank back in her chair.

“If Nydia Vynn doesn’t make that the biggest, grandest kind of a success, I'll—I'll tell her what I think of her! But you must get on with it. I’m dying to hear the last act. You must work—work!”

He smiled at her earnestness, then grew sober himself.

“You’re right,” he answered. “I must get to work again. Somehow, of late, I haven’t been able to settle down to it. I—perhaps it’s the weather,” he added, untruthfully.

“But you must,” she said, eagerly. “Why, it’s almost September and you’ve promised it for the fifteenth! We mustn’t risk anything by delay.”

Neither he nor she noticed that suggestion of partnership at the moment, though later he recalled it and derived from it a new measure of hope.

That evening before dinner he was standing on the porch when he was visited by a second Great Idea. Between the house and stable a flower garden, formally inclosed by hedges of box, was aflame with the colors of the late summer blossoms. He summoned Alfred.

“Alfred,” he demanded, “is a flower a vegetable?”

Alfred thrust out his under lip, as was his custom during moments of intense concentration of thought. At last:

“Flowers, sir,” he said, with a fine judicial air, “his vegetation. Vegetation his something has grows to be hadmired. Hon the hother ’and, sir, vegetables hare made to heat. Hin my humble opinion, Mr. Gale, a flower his not a vegetable, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Roger, gravely. “My idea to a dot. That is all, Alfred. Or, no, you might send Denis here.”

“Hat once, sir.”

When the gardener appeared:

“Denis, it seems to me that we have more flowers than we need,” said Roger. “What do you think?”

Denis thrust his cap back and scratched his head, a process resulting in the same mental stimulation supplied by Alfred’s out-thrust lip.

“Well, sor, there’s a devil of a lot of them, askin’ yer pardon, sor.”

“Exactly. And it would seem that here is an excellent chance to indulge in philanthropy, Denis.”

Denis shot a puzzled glance from the corners of his eyes and had recourse again to his head.

“Philanthropy, as you of course know, Denis, is the giving to others of what you have too much of.”

“Yes, sor—oh, yes!”

“Well, now, suppose you meet me here in the morning at, say, seven o’clock with a basket and an ax, or whatever the implement is you use to cut flowers with.”

“Very good, sor. A knife will do the thrick, sor.”

Denis was promptly on time in the morning, and Roger led him out through the dew-drenched grass to the flower garden, where at the latter’s direction he cut and cut until the basket was piled high with fresh, pearl-bedecked buds and blossoms and greenery. On top Roger placed an envelope addressed to “Mrs. Huggins, Forrest Hall.”

“There, now you take that over right away, before they begin to wilt.”

“Shall I leave them with Mrs, Leary, sor?”

“I suppose so, yes. But tell her they’re for Mrs. Huggins, so there won’t be any mistake about it. She might think, you know, that you were bringing her a little personal token of regard. And, by the way, Denis, how is that affair coming on?”

“Manin’ me and the widdy, sor?”

“Exactly. Have you—er—reached a satisfactory understanding yet?”

“We have that, sor; ’tis all sittled.”

“By Jove! You don’t tell me? I congratulate you—and Mrs. Leary as well. When is it to be?”

“Manin’ the weddin’, sor?”

“Meaning the wedding.”

“Well, sor, I haven’t fixed on the date of it yet, sor, but twill be some time along in the autumn, sor.”

“Hum! You haven’t fixed on it! Sounds as though you weren’t going to give her a voice in the matter, Denis.”

Denis smirked deprecatingly.

“Sure, she’s lavin’ them details to me, sor.

“Oh, I see; you’re master of the situation, eh? Well, make the most of your authority before marriage, Denis, for, while I don’t want to discourage you, you know, yet I will give you what is vulgarly known as a straight tip to the effect that you'll have damn’ little to say about the details afterward!”

“Be gor, ’tis the truth yer spake!” said Denis, ruefully. “For on top of all else, sor, she do be a widdy, and widdies is the divil, sor, askin’ yer pardon.”

“Hum!” said Roger, thoughtfully. “Well, run along now and deliver that buttonhole bouquet there. And my compliments to Mrs. Leary, and tell her I congratulate her and will dance at her wedding if I’m hereabouts.”

“Thank yer, sor, and” Denis paused and wiped an incipient smile from his lips with the back of his freckled hand.

“Well?”

“Sure, sor, manin’ no offinse, might we be congratulatin’ yersilf, sor?”

“Eh? What do you mean?”

Denis looked slyly at the overflowing basket and back to Roger. The latter laughed good-naturedly.

“Nonsense, Denis, don’t be a fool. Go on now and get back to your breakfast.”

But when he had obeyed and was halfway to the corner of the house Roger called after him:

“Denis!”

“Yes, sor?”

“I'll accept those congratulations for future reference.”

The recipient of the flowers was for a moment puzzled over the message contained in the accompanying envelope. When she understood she laughed quietly and lifted the blossoms from their basket very tenderly. The message, penned on the back of one of Roger’s cards, ran: