The Playwright and the Lady/Chapter 9

“I’ve been thinking of that poor girl,” she announced, the next morning. “Do you know, it seems to me that there was something quite heroic about her?”

“You are speaking of Cicely Breen? Well, I think I agree with you. It certainly was a far more honest thing to come over here to The Beeches than to remain under his roof and indulge in the usual clandestine affair. If there is such a thing as honesty in dishonesty, she chose it.”

“Dishonesty?” she repeated, thoughtfully. “Do you really mean that? Wouldn’t it have been dishonest of her to have pretended love for her husband when there was none? She was wicked as the world judges wickedness, but she was not dishonest. Surely you agree to that?”

“Yes, I believe I do. Frankly, I have always had a deep admiration for her. Consider the circumstances: A young girl and, if all the reports and her picture tell truth, a marvelously beautiful one, married to a man three times her age and brought up here to what in those days was little better than a wilderness. Left to her own devices more than half the time, I dare say, left to get through the days as best she might with half a dozen servants, maybe, and a few acquaintances scattered over fifty miles of country. How much love she may have had for her husband when she married him I don’t know. And that’s where she was at fault, in all likelihood. That she married him of her own will, I doubt; probably her parents advised the match, and she, perhaps brought up to view marriage as but the means to position and wealth, consented. I dare say as long as they remained abroad she was contented and maybe happy, but fancy her bewilderment when she found herself destined to spend the rest of her life shut in here with the river and the mountains!

“There can be no doubt about the old gentleman’s love for her, but that didn’t keep him from going off for months at a time to Washington or up the river to Albany. Doubtless when her child came she found life better, but maternal love could not at her age altogether satisfy. She was but nineteen when my handsome and dashing ancestor appeared on the scene. I fancy it’s rather to her credit—to the credit of both of them—that she resisted Thurlow Hood for two years. In those days there was less of distraction to be found in life; a woman’s mission was to be loved, a man’s to love. Well, there they were, the pair of them; young, hot-blooded and wildly in love with each other. There was no one to offer restraint to either of them. You know what happened. Wrong? Of course it was wrong, damnably wrong! I beg your pardon! But—but it was uncommonly near the right thing to do—in those days!”

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, “it isn’t right, of course, but—but I can’t help sympathizing with them, the poor, foolish things.”

“You’ve got to sympathize with them,” he said, emphatically. “It’s human nature. Even the folks hereabouts at the time sympathized with them, if the old tales are correct. But”—he paused a moment and studied frowningly the tip of his cigarette—“but all the time—up there—an old, gray-haired man sat and. watched and waited. What he waited for God only knows; but—there’s his side of it, too.”

“Yes,” she said, softly and with a little shiver. “I think I had almost forgotten him.” She looked back over her shoulder at the shuttered window at the corner of the Hall, from which, a hundred years before, Walford Forrest had peered forth in fair days and foul, and far into the nights, at The Beeches. She shuddered again. “Yes, there’s his side of it, too,” she whispered.

A moment of silence followed. Then:

“You spoke of a picture of her,” she said. “Is there one?”

“Yes, and I thought you might like to see it. I brought it along.” He pulled a small, black, hard-rubber case from his coat pocket, undid the little brass hook that held it closed, and passed it to her through the bars of the gate. The case held two pictures, those of a young woman and of a man of about thirty. She tilted the case until the faded daguerreotypes were visible, and studied them in silence.

“This is he, as well?” she asked.

“Yes; those were taken, I think, at the time they were married.” He leaned forward and she moved so that he could see the pictures. He felt her shoulder against his arm, through the gate, and from the corners of his eyes looked into a golden-brown mist that he realized with an odd mingling of ecstasy and fear to be her hair. And over his senses stole a faint and, as it seemed, familiar fragrance of violets. He put his hands behind him and clasped them tightly together, but he let his glances stray surreptitiously until—

“Poor girl,” she said, softly and with a little sigh. “Her beauty was faded then, but one can see that in her time she must have, been wonderful. The mouth, I think, is a little weak.” She glanced up questioningly, her eyes so near to his that he looked at the picture in a very panic.

“Yes, maybe she did, now that—er—that you mention it,” he murmured, vaguely.

“Did what?” she asked, in puzzlement.

“Eh?” He shook himself together and felt the blood creeping into his face. “I beg your pardon, but I don’t think I quite understood”

“I don’t think you did,” she laughed. “I said that her mouth looked a little weak, but it’s of no consequence.”

“Yes, yes, I see that it does,” he answered, eagerly. “Quite weak, I should say. And” suddenly he drew back from his study of the features and gazed perplexedly at the countenance beyond the gate.

“Why, what’s the matter?” she asked, smilingly. “Do you see a ghost?”

“The resemblance!” he fairly cried.

“Resemblance?” she echoed. “What do you mean?”

“Why, here, look for yourself!” He held forth the little case eagerly.

“But—I don’t understand,” she faltered. “Do you mean—but of course, I see now!” She glanced from his face to the man’s portrait and back again swiftly. “But it’s natural, isn’t it? He was your great-great-something-or-other, wasn’t he?”

“He? Who? But I mean the resemblance between you and that picture,” he exclaimed. “It’s extraordinary!”

She fell back from the gate, case in hand, and swept him a courtesy.

“Thank you,” she said, demurely. “Is the resemblance chiefly about the mouth?”

“It’s the whole face,” he stammered. “It—it’s wonderful! I don’t understand it!”

She held the picture off, held it nearer, tilted her head, half closed her eyes; then she observed him apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid I can’t see it as you do. I shouldn’t like to say it wasn’t there, but” She spread her hands apart.

“Can’t see it?” he said, in bewilderment. “But, my dear lady, it’s your picture!”

“If you like,” she responded, in the tone of one humoring the vagaries of an invalid. He sighed despairingly.

“It’s strange you can’t see it,” he muttered. “Tell me, are you related in any way with the Forrests?”

“Who can say? Perhaps I am a distant relative. I believe that, many years ago, our family lived somewhere in this State.”

“That must be it,” he said, eagerly. “There must be more than chance in it.”

“Very well; I am quite willing to acknowledge my relationship with such a charming young lady. And that, of course, makes you and I related, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“Second cousins,” he answered, promptly. “Really, I must apologize for making such a fuss about it, but the fact is, the resemblance took my breath away for the moment.”

She smiled carelessly and returned the case to him. “You are quite forgiven—cousin,” she said.

Dispossessing the dachshund, she seated herself in the chair again and took up her embroidery, which thus far had been entirely neglected. Roger went back to his own seat and silently lighted a cigarette. He frowned a bit during the operation, for the resemblance between the mysterious Mrs. Huggins and the face in the picture was startling enough to puzzle him. The delicate oval contour of the face was the same in each case, the eyes were startlingly alike, and the mouths, more in expression than shape, were very similar. It seemed almost impossible that she could fail to see the resemblance.

So busy was he with his thoughts that he did not notice the quick glances she shot at him from under her hat, glances that seemed striving to read his thoughts and that held something akin to uneasiness. It was she who presently broke the silence and brought him back to a realization of the moment’s demands with almost a shock.

“You must have thought a good bit about Cicely Breen,” she said, with a note of interrogation.

“I have; of late she has interested me a good deal. The fact is”—he hesitated as though doubtful of the wisdom of the confidence—“I’m practically writing a play around her.”

“Fancy!” She dropped her hands and looked across at him with wide eyes. “But—but that’s splendid! I’m awfully glad. Tell me all about it, please.”

He looked a little surprised. Her pleasure, beyond a doubt genuine, seemed to him rather strange.

“Why,” he answered, “I came up here to write a play for Miss Vynn, the English actress, of whom you have probably heard. I had a plot in mind when I came, and I dare say it would have turned out fairly well. But one night the story of Cicely Breen came to me. It attracted me at once. I have never cared much for the sex problem on the stage, but here there seemed a chance to introduce it in such a way as to make it quite secondary in interest to a problem of character. The more I thought about it, the more attracted I was by it. As a result, I stayed up most of the night piecing out the story as I had heard it with what few facts were to be gleaned from the journal of my grandmother, a delightfully gossipy old lady with literary proclivities, whose record of some forty years of her life is in the library back there. In the course of the search I found mention of daguerreotypes of Hood and his wife, and I hunted them up. Unfortunately, I have been quite unable to draw inspiration from that portrait. You see, I fancied I might get from it some insight into her character. However, I finally determined to borrow Cicely’s story for material, and I have done so.”

“Splendid!” cried the lady. “But—are you sure you can interest your audience in characters who have been dead for a hundred years? I mean, will not the period be against you somewhat?”

“I feared it. It is my first attempt at serious drama, and I thought it would not do to handicap myself at the start in such fashion. So I have brought the story down to date, placed it in a village outside of London, made the elderly husband the president of a city bank and the lover a young architect, a well-balanced chap in whom the practical and the artistic are pretty evenly mixed. The other characters are quite secondary—a tender-hearted, sentimental young old-maid, an addle-pated, mercenary, middle-aged mischief-maker of a woman, and a good hearted and pig-headed curate.”

“But you have followed her story closely?”

“Cicely’s? Up to a certain point. Up to the point where she is forced to chose between sending Aberthaw—the lover, you understand—away, and going to him quite openly in defiance of all laws and conventions.”

“And after that?”

“That is the end.”

“But—but” she gasped.

“I know it is irregular,” he answered, smilingly; “but I think I can make it effective. The second act terminates in a love scene between Miriam and Aberthaw, in which, after almost yielding, she sends the lover away. In the third act she strives to drive thoughts of him out of her heart by devotion to her child. Aberthaw has promised not to see her again, save at her request, and he does not again appear. But he writes her a letter in which he tells her that he cannot keep his promise while he is in the same country with her and that he has determined to go to America. He makes a last appeal to her, and tells her that he has already secured passage for them both on a boat sailing the next day. After reading the letter she summons the child’s nurse and, without bidding it good-by, silently watches it led away. Then she writes a note. That done she crosses the room and rings a bell. As she does so, she gazes intently out of window—and the curtain falls.”

When he ceased his listener was looking at him with shining eyes, but he knew that it was Miriam Tregatha she saw and not he. After a moment she dropped her gaze and he heard her take a deep breath.

“It is daring!” she said, softly.

He answered with a smile and a shrug of his broad shoulders.

“But I like it,” she went on, something of excitement in her voice. “It will succeed; I’m certain of it!”

“I hope you are right,” he replied. “And I hope you will do me the favor of witnessing the first performance. I shall be very happy to send you a box.”

“Thank you, but you may be quite certain I shall be on hand.” She seemed amused—at what he could not think, unless it was his offer of seats. “And now,” she continued, “I’m going to ask a favor.”

“It is granted.”

“Wait until you hear what it is,” she cautioned. “I want you to read it to me; will you?”

“Well,” he answered, hesitatingly, “I am a thundering poor reader, and I’m afraid you'd be horribly bored.”

“But if I am willing to risk that?”

“In that case, yes,” he replied.

“That’s nice of you,” she said, rewarding him with a radiant smile. ““We will begin to-morrow, if you please. And now tell me something about this Miss Vynn.”

“You have never seen her?

“Why—yes,” she answered, with a trace of embarrassment; “I saw her in London last winter. But I should like to hear your opinion of her.”

“It isn’t valuable,” he replied, “for I’ve never seen her. Fate has seemed against it. Twice I have attempted it, both times in London last season, and each time something entirely unforeseen occurred at the last moment to prevent it. However, London thinks her a great actress, and I have no doubt that we on this side will agree with them; we usually do, I think. Sommers, who is to manage her here, expects great things.”

“Is she—is she attractive?”

“Very—on the stage; or, at least, they say so.”

“But you have seen her picture?”

“Yes, but it was remarkably bad as a likeness of anyone; it was in one of the weeklies. They say she is averse to being photographed, but that is probably a press-agent’s yarn.”

“I fear you are a cynic.”

“Good heavens, no! It only seems to me unlikely that an actress who must, from the natural condition of things, depend largely upon notoriety for success should refuse to be photographed.”

“I don’t like that word ‘notoriety,’” she said, frowningly.

“Then I will change it to ‘publicity,’” he answered.

“Then you don’t think that an actress has any right to lead a private existence off the stage?”

“Frankly, I don’t. An actor is a public personage, as much so as the King of England, the President of the United States, the last successful prize fighter, or a favorite Spanish toreador. To attempt to stand in the limelight for three hours a day and draw back into his shell the other twenty-one is absurd. And it can’t be done.”

“Perhaps you are right,” she said, with a sigh.

“However, very few of them ever attempt it,” he added. “And I don’t think this English actress is sincere in the matter.”

“English? I fancied she was an American. I’m certain I’ve seen it stated so somewhere.”

“I believe she was born in this country, and I’ve no doubt but that as soon as she arrives here we shall claim her. But I think she has spent most of her life abroad and is probably quite as British as though she had been born there.”

“It is strange that you should be writing a play for her without ever having seen her,” she mused. “I fancy you must know a good bit of her through her letters, though?”

“I have never seen her signature,” he answered. “I have tried on two occasions to get at her ideas in regard to the play, and each time she has answered me through Sommers to the effect that she desires to leave everything to my judgment. Complimentary but hazardous.”

“She judges your ability by your work.”

“I suppose so, but it’s safe to wager that when she sees the piece, which is not to be until it is completely finished, she will want it altered past recognition. I’ve had some experience that way.”

“Oh, I don’t think she will,” she said, consolingly.

“Again I hope you will prove to be right,” he said.

“There is one thing you haven’t told me,” she said, presently.

“And that is?”

“Did Cicely—I mean Miriam—leave her husband or did she not?”

“That,” he replied, “is just the one thing I can’t tell you, for I don't know.”

“But you have created the characters and the situation,” she protested. “Surely you must know what it was in her heart to do, to whom the note was written.”

He shook his head slowly.

“I don’t; I know no more than you. And I'd like mighty well to know. It puzzles and worries me all the time. Perhaps when I have seen it played I shall know. Nydia Vynn may be able to solve that question, but it’s beyond me.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then the audience must solve it for themselves: It will be another case of ‘The Lady or the Tiger.’”

“It will create discussion.”

“Let us hope so; discussion never yet damaged a play.”

“And folks will write you and beg you to tell them.”

“In which case I shall politely refer them to you.”

“To me?”

“Yes, for I am pretty sure you have an opinion.”

“Well—yes, I have.”

“Ah!”

“But I shan’t tell you what it is.”