Ainslee's Magazine/The Playwright and the Lady/Chapter 11
XI.
In the morning when she came to the gate three great ragged dahlias, purple-pink, nodded from her belt. As she greeted him she raised the blossoms with her hand and let them fall again against her white waist.
“Thank you,” she said.
“And you are not offended?” he asked.
“No.” She shook her head slowly. “Gifts from my friends do not offend me.”
The color rushed into his face as he stepped impetuously to the gate.
“Will you shake hands on that?” he asked, eagerly.
For answer she placed her own firm, slender hand in his and smiled gravely back at him with those wonderful deep eyes. But in the next instant she felt the color creeping into her own cheeks, and the lids fluttered down and the hand in his slowly drew away. She was glad of the refuge of her chair. After a moment, having opened the very green bag and drawn forth its contents, she asked:
“Did you get lots done yesterday?”
He paused in the act of scratching a match and looked at her vaguely.
“Lots done? But, yes.”
“I don’t quite believe it. You don’t sound sincere.”
He strove to look pained.
“Listen. After luncheon I had Alfred arrange the table on the front porch—the manuscript here, the blank paper there, the cigarettes on this corner, the matches alongside, the ash tray at my elbow, my pen here. Then I was ready for work. I lighted a cigarette, I tilted back in my chair, I poised my pen in air and—I thought. Presently—’twas but a moment, I assure you—Alfred appeared again with the announcement that it was five o’clock. I begged to be allowed to proceed with my work—”
A sigh of despair came from beyond the gate, perhaps from Gretchen.
“I railed against the fate which was cutting me short, as it were, at the very zenith of my—my
“Idleness,” she interpolated, with marked severity.
“Inspiration,” he continued, looking aggrieved. “But all to no purpose. Alfred was adamant; he was a monster of tyranny. The spell was broken; the—er—the thread of my thoughts snapped in twain; my poised pen dropped from my nerveless hand; my work—”
“But what will you do when it becomes the middle of the month?” she asked, despairingly. He flicked the burnt match into the air, smiled gayly and blew a cloud of smoke up against the green canopy above.
“I shall work. It is all here,” he said, tapping his sun-browned forehead significantly. “Remains but to put it upon paper.”
“You are like a bad little boy who won't do his lessons,” she said. “Do you know what happens to bad little boys?”
“Yes’m; they gets spanked an’ put to bed.”
“They are made to do them,” she said, threateningly. “Doesn’t the manager want to know when he is to see the play?”
“Bless me, yes! He is most impatient. I had a letter from him four days ago, a telegram the day before yesterday and another this morning. I think I have it here. Yes, here it is. ‘Did you get letter and wire? Have heard nothing from you. When will play be finished?’ Why don’t you answer? Must have it fifteenth. Sommers.’ Now, isn’t that a miserable message? Did you ever hear such a lamentable lack of patience? Why, the beggars curiosity is positively degrading!”
“But didn’t you answer him?”
“Well, no, I didn’t. You see, I have been rather busy of late, and”
“You’re incorrigible! You simply won’t work, and you must be made to. I’m not going to allow the success of your play to be endangered by lack of time for preparation.”
He strove to look properly penitent, but only succeeded in appearing lazily contented, which possibly increased her exasperation.
“It won't do, you know,” she said, decisively. “Before I came you got on beautifully; yes, you did, too! And since that you’ve just frittered away your time. And I’m not going to interfere with your work any longer. I am going away.”
“Going away!” He leaped to his feet and the chair went over backward. “Going away? My dear Mrs. Huggins, please don’t take my—my delinquencies so seriously. I assure you your presence has nothing to do”
“I am going away,” she interrupted, calmly. “To-morrow.”
“Nonsense! I beg your pardon, but really it is nonsense. I shall feel that I have driven you away, and rather than do that I will toil ceaselessly night and day. I will do marvels! I will move mountains! I”
“I am going away.”
He argued and implored, and all to no purpose. At last:
“For how long?” he asked, dolefully.
“I’m not sure. Perhaps for a week; perhaps I shall not come back; after all, I meant only to stay for a fortnight more.”
“If you don’t instantly promise to return at the end of one week or earlier, I shan’t touch that play again,” he said, vehemently.
“But Mr. Sommers and Miss Vynn?” she gasped.
“Can go hang!”
“Oh!” She viewed him incredulously. His face told her, however, that he was quite as much in earnest as she was. “Well,” she said, finally, “I will return just as soon as I have word from you that the play is finished right down to the last word.”
“Done! What is your address?”
“You may write to me at the Hall and it will be forwarded.”
“Oh! And I shan’t see you again?”
“Not until the play is finished,” she answered, firmly.
“I think you are using rather harsh methods,” he said, sorrowfully.
“They are necessary for little boys who won't do their lessons.”
“I thought they usually tried kindness first?”
“Not with incorrigibles.”
“Oh, am I one of those?”
“I fear so.”
“Well—but see here, please, it’s a bargain, isn’t it, that you will return as soon as the old thing is done?”
“I don’t think I ought to make a bargain with you, but—yes, that is agreed. Good-by.”
“Oh, I say, you’re not going yet?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s—it’s only a little after eleven.”
“I have some packing to do. Good-by.”
“Good-by,” he answered, cheerlessly. “I think you'll be sorry for your cruelty.”
“‘We must be cruel only to be kind,’” she quoted. “Good-by, Mr. Gale.”
They shook hands through the bars of the old gate, he gloomily, she with a smile for his dejection.
“I hope you will get back to your work and finish it quickly.”
“Do you?” he asked, eagerly, relinquishing her hand grudgingly. “Do you want me to finish it quickly?”
“Yes, for I want you to read it to me when it’s done, and I am impatient to hear it.”
“Well, I’ll do my best, and the knowledge that you are waiting to hear it will be the biggest sort of incentive,” he said, more cheerfully. “Good-by. Shall you go to New York?”
“Maybe,” she answered. She turned at a little distance and smiled back. Roger took off his hat. Already the world was growing strangely empty, and he sighed as, having watched woman and dog until they had passed from sight, he turned and walked slowly back to the house.