# Ainslee's Magazine/The Playwright and the Lady/Chapter 2

pp. 3–6.

### II.

Unheeding, he had reached the northern limits of the grounds, and now when he raised his gaze from the moss-tinged path he found himself in front of two great iron gates, which barred his way, and beyond which the avenue led straight on again, for all the world as though the gates were a mirror, and the vista ahead was but the reflection of that behind. But the form which stood some ten yards beyond the gate was no reflection of the figure which, motionless, with startled, enraptured eyes, gazed fixedly upon it.
In the center of the graveled way she stood, a tall, graceful woman in a white morning gown, guiltless of color save where the skirts, held up from the ground, exposed a gray and silken-clad ankle emerging from a foam of creamy lace, and ending at a small, high-arched shoe. In the hand not engaged with her skirts was a closed, white parasol. But Roger saw nothing of this, save as one may see dimly, unknowingly, the frame surrounding the picture upon which the gaze is fixed. His eyes were on the oval, delicately hued face, and his heart was beating tumultuously, exultantly; he had found his heroine! Before him stood in the flesh the image of his brain!
In age she might have been anywhere from twenty to twenty-five. The face was almost perfectly oval in contour, with a broad, high forehead, from which a mass of golden-brown hair waved backward. The eyes—at the moment more than ordinarily wide open—were far apart, large, of a color neither gray nor blue, but which in certain lights was almost a true violet. Above them dark brows arched delicately, like finely penciled lines. The nose was straight and long, starting well up between the shadowed eyes, and the nostrils were clear-cut and sensitive. The space beneath was short, and the cleft from nose to rosy lip was deep, and a little shadow dwelt within it.
The mouth was the fairest feature of all. A rosebud would have proved a poor simile for it, since it would have suggested something tiny and inadequate. The mouth was not small, nor was it large. The gently parted lips were at once generous and delicate. The upper was caught up into the truest of Cupid’s bows, and at each corner it ended in a little droop, that gave a touch of gravity to the face. The rounded chin was firm and strong, and a little hollow that held no likeness to a dimple lent a saving grace of gentleness. The head was poised with dignity above a full, rounded throat, and the whole carriage of the body suggested a gracious regality, just as the countenance bespoke a strong capacity for emotion.
Her complexion was fair, with a soft creaminess like that of a rose petal. The faint color that had sprung into her cheeks was rather a soft, warm glow than a blush, like a rosy light seen through ivory.
Above her head, clear against the background of distant verdure, the overhung branches were less closely woven, and the sunlight, screened and filtered, fell upon her in a flood of tender, pale green radiance, toning the white gown to hues of chrysoprasus and of beryl, tinging the fair face, in light and shadow, with its glamour, and bathing the whole figure in its strange and soft effulgence. It was a Whistler “Symphony in Green.”
Some of this Roger saw in the brief moment she allowed; much of it escaped him at the time, only to come to him later, when his senses, benumbed by the loveliness of the vision, recovered their powers. It is probable that she had become aware of his presence no whit earlier than he had discovered hers, for his rubber-soled shoes had made no sound on the smooth walk. During the moment that she stood there in a charming attitude of startled surprise, her eyes looking widely into his, her lips just parted for the exclamation that never came, the cheeks faintly glowing under his gaze, Roger stared silently, devouringly, reprehensibly, into her face, never asking himself whether what he saw was vision or reality, only joyed that he had found what he had so long sought. And then——
Then there came a deep challenging bark as a slim-bodied, ridiculously important black-and-tan dachshund wiggled out from beneath a bush and faced Roger with belligerent brown eyes. And at the sound the woman’s startled attitude relaxed, her gaze broke from Roger’s, and, with the merest inclination of the head, she turned slowly and as slowly passed up the green-roofed avenue, the dachshund, after having emitted a final resentful woof in Roger’s direction, trotting importantly at her heels like a guard of honor.
Roger awoke slowly from his mental torpor. At the further end of the Beech Walk the woman turned toward the house, and so passed from his sight. And Roger, swinging impetuously on his heel, raced back to the front veranda, the table and his neglected work. For Miriam Tregatha had come to life, and all else was forgotten.
At one o’clock Alfred, apologetically insistent, placed lunch at his side, withdrew to a position a few feet distant, and coughed behind his hand at two-minute intervals, until Roger, driven to desperation by the disturbing sounds, thrust aside his manuscript at the end of a scene and attacked the luncheon, surprised to find himself at once very warm and very hungry. Iced tea, liberally dosed with lemon, is eminently refreshing to mental as well as physical man, and after his third tall glass of it—for Roger was as confirmed a tea toper as any old woman—he drew a long breath and surveyed the scene with peaceful eyes.
The sun was above the house, and the narrow shadow of the caladium bed had crept around to the east. The river was a broad, blue ribbon shot with silver. From the branches, near and far, came the rasping chorus of the locusts, rising, falling, incessant, emphasizing the languor and heat of the day. Roger slowly lighted a cigarette, blew a long stream of smoke at an inquiring mosquito and spoke.
“Was there anything in the papers, Alfred?”
“Not to speak of, sir. Lord Roseberry——
“How many times must I tell you, Alfred,” he interrupted, plaintively, “that I don’t want to hear anything about your tiresome British politics, which I don’t understand and never should? What about the weather? That, at least, possesses contemporary interest.”
“Continued warm, sir, was the prediction.”
“Warm! Great Scott! do they call this ‘warm’?” muttered Roger.
“There’s a deal of suffering in the cities, sir; ’orses dropping dead in their tracks, sir, and dozens of deaths among the lower class, sir.”
“Poor devils! Remind me this evening to send a check to the relief fund, Alfred.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Has the afternoon mail come?”
“Yes, sir, but there was nothing but some circulars and such, sir, which Hi placed upon your desk, sir.”
“What’s the matter with that idiot of a Sommers?” Roger muttered. “Theatrical managers, Alfred, are a criminally negligent tribe, damn ’em.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m glad you agree with me. Clear this stuff away and see that there is plenty of soda on the ice. And fetch me some more cigarettes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And come and tell me when it’s four o’clock. You might have the tub ready about that time; fill her up to the brim.” He drew the manuscript to him and poised his pen. “And—er——”
Alfred waited patiently with the tray in his hands. After a moment, during which Roger’s pen began to travel across the sheet:
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said.
“Eh? What is it, Alfred?”
“You were going to say something, sir?
“Say something? N-no, I guess not—I don’t think—of anything——”
Alfred disappeared noiselessly with the remains of the luncheon, and presently reappeared noiselessly with a handful of cigarettes and a fresh box of matches. He placed the former in the empty case, put the opened box of matches beside it, raised a bamboo screen at the worker’s back, glanced critically about him and again withdrew.
Page followed page, cigarette followed cigarette. The sun dropped toward the west and the shadows lengthened across the smooth lawn. Up the river came a white steamboat, dotted with passengers, and the strains from the band on the afterdeck floated up to the porch in a little burst of pleasantly subdued melody. Roger’s eyes left the sheet and for an instant he gazed unseeingly at the passing craft. Then they dropped again, and once more his pen went slowly across the white surface, leaving behind it a trail of small, neat characters. Through an open window floated the slow, silvery chiming of a clock, and, like a sober, shaven cuckoo, Alfred appeared at the door as the last stroke died away.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he announced; “four o’clock, sir.”
There was no reply.
Alfred emerged and took up a position at his master’s elbow. His countenance held the determination of an Alexander.
“Four o’clock, sir,” he reiterated.
Roger started, glanced up, frowned, nodded and went on.
“Four o'clock, sir,” said Alfred again, very firmly.
“Eh? Well, all right. Just a minute or two more.”
“Beg pardon, Mr. Gale, but——”
“Oh, go to the devil!” said Mr. Gale, crossly.
“Your hown horders, sir.”
“Nonsense! I’m positive I said five.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, four o’clock was your words, sir.”
Roger, throwing down his pen, sighed impatiently.
“Confound you, Alfred, you're a regular tyrant!”
“Yes, sir.”
Roger grinned.
“How about the bath?”
“Hall ready, sir.”
“Well”—Roger arose, stretched his arms overhead, lighted a fresh cigarette and nodded at the table—“take that inside, and don’t move the papers, on your life. By Jove, I believe it’s hotter than ever!”
“Yes, sir; very likely, sir.”
An hour after dark found Roger pacing slowly to and fro, cigar in mouth, along the brick walk beside the porch. There was a half moon in the sky and the river reflected it in great splashes of light. A slight breeze had come with the setting of the sun and there was a pleasant, cool murmur in the treetops. Roger felt at peace with himself and the world. The work had gone swimmingly; the first cast of the first act was finished, and the balance of the play lay complete in his brain awaiting transference to paper. And it promised well; the character of Miriam Tregatha was proving to be even stronger than he had dared hope. That morning he had faced defeat; to-night victory beckoned. Yes, the world was going very well with him.
Suddenly, as he turned to retrace his steps, a glimmer of light twinkled between the trees to the northward and disappeared. For the first time since the encounter at the gate he recollected the existence of the woman in the white gown. All day she had stood before his mind’s eye as Miriam Tregatha, but now it came to him with something like a shock that over there, where the light shone, beyond the high wall, beyond the dark beeches, there really existed in corporeal form the woman whose beauty and charm had ravished the artist in him.
At the thought his heart beat a faster measure; he was by no means all artist. Closing his eyes, he conjured before him a mental picture of the graceful, gracious figure with the oval, creamy face and wide, questioning eyes. Who was she? he wondered. He allowed speculation to run riot for several minutes. Then he paused in front of the door and called Alfred; and when a fleck of white showed in the opening against the dimness of the hall, announcing the presence of Alfred’s shirt bosom and, presumably, Alfred, he said:
“I just saw a light over at the Hall, Alfred. Do you know whether the place has been taken?”
“No, sir,” was the reply.
“Well, see if you can’t find out to-morrow. And—er—Alfred!”
“Yes, sir.”
“You might—er—find out who they are, you know.”