The Playwright and the Lady/Chapter 15

Holding his prisoner firmly, Roger retired to the chair and sat down. The dachshund made no effort to escape, but her soft brown eyes shot hither and thither in search of rescue or fixed themselves in meek reproach on his face. Those eyes troubled him, and at length he was forced to self-defense.

“I know, girlie, it’s a blamed outrage, but at the same time it’s necessary. All’s fair in war, you know, and you are hostage for your mistress. But don’t be scared to death, because I wouldn’t hurt you for anything. You’re much too nice a little dog. There, doesn’t that feel good? Sometimes, do you know, I’ve wished I was a dog, so I could have my head scratched? Isn’t that a foolish thing to wish? And sometimes I’ve wished I was one particular little dog, with crooked legs and big, long, silky ears and liquid-brown eyes, which just at present look rather scared and very, very meek. I wonder where she kisses you, young lady? On the top of your head, or on those charming little brown spots above your eyes? I think if I knew I would—er—there, there, don’t be so coy! I’m old enough to be your—er—master. Wish I was, Gretchen! Wish—I—was! Oh, I’d be monstrous good to you, deed I would; I'd give you all the things you like best, and which aren’t at all good for your little tummy; cake—frosted cake, you know, not that plain, everyday kind—and candy and ice cream and chocolate and maple sugar and—and—oh, lots of beautiful, indigestible things! Don’t you wish you were my little dackel? Half mine, I mean.”

Perhaps there was something soothing in the recital of the list of edibles, or in the slow scratching of her head, for Gretchen at last laid her slim nose on Roger’s knee, emitted a long sigh and became, if not content, at least resolved to make the best of captivity.

Ten minutes passed, and ten more. It was almost half after the hour. Just as Roger slipped his watch back into his pocket there sounded a shrill whistle from the direction of the Hall. Gretchen raised her head. The whistle was repeated. She made a frantic lunge to escape, and, finding it useless, subsided, trembling.

Roger drew forth his handkerchief, knotted one end into the dog’s collar and set her down on the path. Finding the ground beneath her feet she began to tug and bark hysterically, but as Roger kept firm hold on the other end of the handkerchief the tugging was idle. But the bark produced results. Around the corner of the path came the dog’s mistress, sounding shrilly her silver whistle. Gretchen answered vociferously with a bay that would have done justice to a bloodhound. Roger sat still and watched developments with a wicked smile.

The whistling ceased. The whistler stood motionless afar off, quite evidently viewing the situation with dismay.

“Here, Gretchen!” she called. “Come, Gretchen!”

Gretchen pulled and whined dolefully, but she didn’t come.

Irresolutely her mistress advanced, still calling. But her tones held no confidence; she realized the futility of her efforts. Again she came to a standstill. A moment passed.

“Mr. Gale, will you please release Gretchen?” she called, with a dignity marred by anxiety. Roger shook his head.

“No, Mrs. Huggins, I will not,” he called in reply.

Again the proceedings stopped while the lady drew forth her watch and looked at it, and Gretchen, at the end of her leash, stood upright and begged frantically to her mistress for succor. Then the watch was replaced and its owner came straight for the gate, determination written large on her face. That face was paler than usual and the purple eyes looked as though they had recently held tears. Roger noted these facts and felt his heart melting. But he stifled sympathy and took a firmer hold on the handkerchief. She advanced to the chair and laid a white-gloved hand on its back, as though seeking support. A little disk of red crept into each pale cheek.

“Oh, is this your kindness?” she asked, in low tones, her lips a-tremble. “Why do you torment me? Don’t you understand how hard it is for me?”

“Oh, Lord!” he said to himself in dismay, “she’s going to cry! If she does it’s all up!” For fear she would guess that he was weakening he made his voice hard and harsh.

“Mrs. Huggins, I have no wish to torment you, but I am resolved to learn from you something more than was contained in your note.”

“Please!” she cried, faintly. “Don’t make it any harder!”

“You must tell me what it all means,” he said, doggedly.

“But there is no time,” she pleaded. “The train goes in twenty minutes and the carriage is waiting.”

“There are other trains; they go every hour.”

She looked at him a moment and saw that he would not relent. Her arms dropped and she sighed despairingly.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, wearily.

“I want you to sit there in that chair and answer my questions.” And when she had obeyed the first injunction: “Did you think for a moment,” he asked, “that I would be satisfied with what you wrote? Did you think you could undo everything with a lot of vague sentences that convey absolutely no meaning?”

He paused, but she made no answer. Her eyes were on the ground and her clasped hands trembled in her lap. He looked away and went on hurriedly.

“Tell me what it means, won’t you?” he pleaded. “Why will you not marry me? What is there now that wasn’t last night? I’ll swear you loved me then. What has happened? I must know, you see. You can’t put me out of your life like this with no reason offered. I’ve a right to know what it means; you owe me an explanation—dear!”

The last word brought her eyes to his, and he saw that they were brimming with tears. He cursed under his breath, at what it would have been difficult for him to have told.

“Oh, I know what you say is true,” she said, miserably, her eyes on her restless hands. “I do owe you an explanation, but—but won’t you—can’t you believe me when I tell you that—that it’s no use?”

“No,” he answered, gravely. “I must judge of that for myself.”

“Oh, you are cruel!” she cried, hotly.

“It’s you who are cruel,” he retorted. “You let me love you until you are the only happiness in life for me; you—you even pretend love for me; and now”

“Pretend!” she cried, under her breath.

“Yes, what else? Last night you gave me your kisses; this morning you tell me to forget you. Forget you! Why—oh, what’s the use in talking? Tell me what it all means, won’t you?”

“I can’t; I mean—oh, you wouldn’t understand, you wouldn’t be satisfied with it!”

“Wouldn’t be satisfied!” he claimed, triumphantly. “No, I wager I wouldn’t be satisfied! You see, you acknowledge yourself the weakness of your reason!”

“I didn’t—I haven’t!” she said, despairingly.

“You have. Whatever it is, it won’t do, dear. You’re mine, and, by God, I won’t give you up! You’re mine, do you hear, dear? Mine, I tell you!”

“Please, please!” she murmured, weakly.

“Now tell me,” he commanded.

“It won’t do any good,” she answered, hopelessly. “You won’t see it as I do. You—oh, why didn’t you believe what I wrote? But I’ll tell you—in a moment.” She clasped her hands together and held them still on her knees, her head bent and the brim of her black traveling hat throwing her eyes into shadow. Presently she went on quite calmly.

“To you remember the story you told me about Cicely Breen?”

“Certainly,” he answered, wonderingly.

“I—I let you think I didn’t know it all before; that I hadn’t heard it a hundred times in my life. And I made believe that I could not see the likeness between us. It was just as though I had lied to you. Cicely Breen was my great-great-grandmother.”

Roger gave a gasp of surprise and the handkerchief dropped from his hand. Gretchen slid under the gate and leaped into her mistress’ lap, but neither of them noticed her.

“Then you are Mrs. Ffoulke?” he asked. “But, no”

“I am her daughter, but she is no longer Mrs. Ffoulke. She married again, and my father is her second husband. She died three years ago in England, where I have lived almost all my life. My father still lives there.”

“I see,” he muttered. “Of course! The likeness should have told me. But—I don’t understand what this has to do with”

“Wait, please. I didn’t tell you that I had rented the Hall. But I let you think so, and that, too, was like a lie,” she said, wearily, “for I own it.”

“Nonsense!” he cried, impatiently.

“I knew you were here when I came; it—it was partly that that led me to come here for a while; I wanted to see what you were like. To us the Hoods have always seemed everything bad, on account of—of Cicely Breen, you know. I wanted to see.”

“But I am not a Hood,” he protested. “There hasn't been a Hood in the family for four generations!”

“I know, but it’s just the same. The curse still stands.”

“The curse?” he cried. “What! Look here, you don’t mean to tell me that you still believe in that old nonsense!”

“We don’t think it nonsense in our family,” she answered, quietly.

“But it is, though, the veriest nonsense ever uttered. But—but, surely, it isn’t that that you mean when”

“Yes. Oh, I knew you wouldn’t understand; that you’d think it silly. But I can’t help it! I wish I could!”

He jumped from his chair, threw back his head and laughed loudly, but there was as much irritation as there was amusement in that laugh.

“Please don’t laugh,” she said, uneasily.

“Not laugh? But what else is there to do? You surely don’t expect me to consider such old-granny stuff seriously? Why, it was all past and done with a hundred years ago!”

“What does the verse say?” she asked, earnestly.

She repeated the doggerel in a way that brought a qualm of misgiving to even Roger. But he laughed scornfully.

“Very well, what then? ‘Till Love shall lay a Dead Man’s hate’; that’s my love for you and your love for me; don’t you see, dear?” But she shook her head, unconvinced.

“‘Till Time shall first destroy the Gate’,” she corrected, sadly.

“But, great Scott! you don’t mean to let a few pieces of old rusted iron stand between us, do you? Why, it’s absolutely absurd! I never heard of such stuff and nonsense!” He paused, at a loss for further epithets, and stared blankly at her unresponsive face. There was a little silence. Then:

“The little girl with the green frock and yellow curls was I,” she said, reminiscently. He started.

“What little girl?”

“The one you saw here when you were a boy. I lived here until I was nine.”

“Was it?” he asked. But his thoughts soon flew back to the present.

“Besides,” he asked, suddenly, “what is it you fear? You don’t expect old Walford Forrest to arise from his grave and haunt you if you marry me, do you?”

“I fear it will bring trouble to you,” she answered, simply. His irritation melted.

“If that is all, don’t trouble your head with it any more,” he said, lightly. “I’ll take all the trouble that comes and not make a murmur, if I have you.”

“Oh, no, I mustn’t!” she said, miserably. “You mustn’t ask me! You must go away! Don’t you see how hard it is for me?”

“Why?” he asked, softly. He left the chair in which he had again seated himself and went close to the gate. “Why?”

She lifted her eyes to his face. There was no need to ask again. A great wave of joy rushed from his heart, half blinding him. His hands closed on the bars before him and he thrust against them in a sudden impulse to reach her and take her in his arms. And, lo! under his grasp, the iron snapped and came away like rotted wood! With a cry he seized his chair and brought it with all his might against the gate. There was a shower of red dust and the iron tracery crumbled and fell at his feet. He strode over the débris and caught her to him.

“There the curse, dear!” he cried, his kisses raining upon her upturned face and wet eyes. “It was only a fancy, sweetheart, but even that has gone.”

“Wait, wait!” she panted, striving to hold him away. “I—there is something else!”

“Oh, Lord!” he said, in mock despair. “Must I smash down the Hall, too?”

“Listen. I let you think I was a—a widow.”

“You let me think? What do you mean?” he cried, anxiously.

“I’m not a widow,” she faltered, dropping her eyes.

“Do you mean—that you’re married?” he gasped.

She shook her head.

“No, I—I’ve never been married.”

“Oh?”

“And my name is not—not what you think it is,” she went on, hurriedly. “I’m not Mrs. Huggins; Mrs. Huggins is my old nurse; she’s with me here.”

He passed his hand across his brow as though to sweep aside a cloud of bewilderment.

“I—I’m sorry I let you think things that weren’t so,” she murmured, her fingers twisting at a button of his coat, “but, you see, I didn’t want you to know about it until it was all done. It—it was a—a sort of surprise for you. And I didn’t know you were going to—to care for me. After the play was finished”

“What are you talking about?” he cried, helplessly. “If you aren’t Harriet Huggins, who are you? Who is it I’ve fallen in love with? I may be fussy, but, really, I’d like to know.”

She was laughing and blushing now, her cheek laid caressingly against his coat.

“Call it idle curiosity if you like,” he went on, stooping to press a kiss on the slim white hand at his shoulder, “but”

There was a warning bark from Gretchen, and—

“Hello, Gale!” shouted a voice behind them. They sprang apart. Down the avenue, from the direction of The Beeches, strode Burlington. “They told me you were somewhere about, and so” His voice trailed away into embarrassed silence as he caught sight of Roger’s companion. Then he sprang forward impetuously, cleared the ruins of old Walford Forrest’s gate with one stride and hurried toward them.

“My dear Miss Vynn!” he cried.