The Playwright and the Lady/Chapter 4

The next day again Roger strolled down the Beech Walk and spent half an hour or so in quiet, undisturbed contemplation of nature as represented by the smooth gray trunks and clustering branches of the beeches lining the avenue and the sunflecked triangle of turf beside the Hall. Nature, it would appear, does not always reward the student with contentment, for Roger returned to the house looking both warm and aggrieved.

Later in the day, what time the sunlight slanted through the trees in long saffron shafts and the intense and silent torpor of mid-afternoon had given way to occasional breaths of air from the mountains and the stirrings of wakening birds and insects, Roger again made the pilgrimage. But, as before, the long avenue beyond the old gate was deserted, and at the further end, where the sentinel trees dispersed, the sunlight massed in a golden blur that softened and rounded the angles of the old Hall until it looked like a castle in a fairy tale.

The pilgrimage cost Roger his bath and left him with so little ambition that he did not dress for his solitary dinner, but had the table moved to the open window and sat down to it without his coat—a breach of etiquette quite unusual, but really excusable when the temperature was considered.

The window faced the north, but the sunset was so radiant that its glow rendered unnecessary the old silver candelabrum which Alfred had placed in the center of the snowy cloth and dimmed the slender, wavering flames of the three candles. A lemon-yellow radiance flooded the table, and the various objects upon it cast long, blue shadows over the cloth.

The salad which Alfred placed before him held strange tones of color where the fresh, crisp leaves of lettuce curled in the mingled lights. And it was the salad that presented Roger with an idea of such brilliancy that he dropped his fork and snapped his fingers in triumph.

He summoned Alfred impatiently and bade him send for Denis. The latter appeared presently, buttoning his jacket and stroking his damp, carroty locks into order, and halted embarrassedly at the door.

“Oh, come in, Denis,” said Roger.

Denis stepped forward and smiled fatuously, uncomfortably.

“How’s the garden getting along, Denis? Need rain rather badly, don’t we?”

“Yes, sor, we do that.”

“Nice lettuce you sent in, though.”

“Thank ye, sor; ’tis fair, considerin’, sor.”

“It’s very good indeed. By the way, did Alfred give you a message from me about our neighbors at the Hall?”

“He did, sor, an’ I was to the Hall this mornin’, sor.”

“Ah! And did you find out anything?”

“No, sor, not to speak of. The lady do be from New York.”

“Nothing else?”

“Divil a scrap, sor.”

“Well, it’s of no consequence. I fancied the lady might be—er—an old acquaintance. Have they a garden at the Hall this summer?”

“Not to speak of, sor. Mrs. Leary put down a few peas and some lettuce, but there's little to show, sor.”

“Too bad. Fresh vegetables are very necessary, Denis. And what you get from the stores aren’t the same as those out of your own garden.”

“’Tis gospel truth, sor. Sure, the stuff they do have in the village ain’t fit for a cow, sor, let alone a gentleman, sor.”

“Yes, that’s so. I fancy she must feel the want of good vegetables during this hot weather.”

“She must, sor.”

“Yes, and so it occurred to me that it would be a kindness to spare her a few things. I presume we have plenty?”

“Sure, there’s more’n ten folks could ate, let alone the four of us, beggin’ yer pardon, sor.”

“So I fancied. Now, suppose you take a basket over early in the morning, with some peas and lettuce and—and”

“Some of the new bates, sor?”

“To be sure, Denis, the new beets.”

“And shtring beans, sor, maybe? And a head of the young cauliflower?”

“Exactly, Denis; in fact, whatever you think she’d like.”

“Yes, sor; very well, sor. I’ll be afther fixin’ a basket that'll make her eyes shtick from the head of her, sor?”

“Mrs. Huggins, Denis?”

“Mrs. Leary, sor.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Leary. Well, now, I was thinking of Mrs. Huggins, Denis. To be sure, I should be very glad to have Mrs. Leary participate, as she probably will, in the contribution, but the things are to go to Mrs. Huggins, Denis.”

“Oh, sor, very well, sor. I’ll give them into her own hands, sor.”

“What? You'll do nothing of the sort. Simply present the basket to Mrs. Leary and tell her that Mr. Gale sends it to Mrs. Huggins with his compliments.”

“Very well, sor. Was there anything else, sor?”

“That’s all. Er—by the way, Denis, this Mrs. Leary, is she a widow?”

“Yes, sor.”

“Attractive?”

“A fine figger of a woman, sor, askin’ yer pardon.”

“Money?”

“So they do be sayin’, sor.”

“Well, I wish you luck, my man.”

“Who, sor, me?” Denis smirked broadly and strove to look unconscious. “Oh, sor, sure there’s many a one do be afther her.”

“Well, what of it?” asked Roger, with a sudden burst of vehemence, tossing his cigarette through the darkening window. “What of it? You’ve a tongue in your head, haven’t you? Talk to her, man! Make her love you! If she’s worth winning, win her! What the devil! Don’t stand there staring open-mouthed like a chloroformed catfish! Be after her, man. Look at that moon out there; what better night do you want for your wooing? Speak her soft, but if she won’t listen take her in your arms and make her! If she’ll tell you no, stop her mouth with a kiss, Denis. Get out of here, you idiot; you're wasting your time! You’re no lover to loiter indoors on a night like this!”

Denis, still staring in open-mouthed admiration, retreated toward the door. When he had reached it he made a sketchy scrape and bow, and spoke in an awed and husky whisper.

“Sure, I'll do my best, sor, and if I could talk to her like that, sor, there’d be somethin’ doin’! It’s yerself, Misther Gale, must be a holy terror with the ladies, sor!”

Having closed the door behind him, he pushed it softly open again and thrust his red face back into view.

“Askin’ yer pardon, sor, for the familyarity, sor!”