# Ainslee's Magazine/The Playwright and the Lady/Chapter 8

pp. 21–24.

### VIII.

During the narrative she had dropped her work and had sat motionless, her eyes, hidden by long lashes, fixed thoughtfully upon the ground. When he had finished, a little silence fell, abruptly broken at length by the frenzied barking of Gretchen. Through the trees she was visible at the base of a giant beech, dancing excitedly about on her hind legs and with her forefeet wildly begging a gray squirrel to descend and be eaten.
The violet eyes lifted to Roger’s.
“And there is a saying, is there not, that so long as the gate stands the hate shall endure between your house and—this?”
“Yes, but I had almost forgotten it. Some old woman’s yarn; there was a verse of doggerel when I was a boy—my nurse used to sing-song it with infinite relish. How did it go?”
“‘A Dead Man’s curse shall rest upon
The Hoods until their race is gone,
Save Time——’”
He paused, memory at fault.
“‘Save Time shall first destroy the Gate,
And Love shall lay a Dead Man’s hate,’”
she quoted.
“By Jove, you know it better than I do!” he exclaimed.
“Mrs. Leary told me,” she explained. “It’s rather grewsome, isn’t it?” She looked up curiously at the rusted and lichen-clad gate. He shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t think the curse panned out very well. As far as I’ve learned, the Hoods and their descendants always had moderately good fortune.”
“But what became of her—of Cicely—Breen?” she asked.
“After the old gentleman died she was married to Thurlow Hood, and died less than a year later, I think.”
“But doesn’t that look as though the curse meant something?”
“I fear you are superstitious,” he answered, smilingly. “Cicely Breen died of consumption; she had been ill with it for several years. Thurlow Hood lived some five years more, and then, strange to say, was thrown from his carriage while driving on the anniversary of his wife’s death and died almost instantly.”
“The curse,” she said, softly.
“If you like. I confess that a dash of superstition makes life more interesting.”
“There were no children?”
“No.”
“And her daughter?”
“Married happily—whom, I have forgotten—and lived to a ripe old age.”
“Who owns the Hall now?”
“Why, I’m not quite certain, but I think it is a Mrs. Ffoulke, the second Cicely’s great-great—no, hold on—her great-granddaughter. She has never lived here, I think; the place has been for rent for years and has held all sorts and kinds. I think I heard once that Mrs. Ffoulke had become a widow and was living abroad.”
“And you? Who are you, please?”
“Well, I am a direct descendant, via the distaff side, of Mary Hood, Thurlow's sister, who married a White; age, thirty-six years; profession, playwright; character, excellent; manner, mild and playful.”
“Thank you. And do you live here all the year?”
“Heaven forbid! I have some rooms in the city. In fact, this is the first time I have dwelt in my ancestral home since I was a boy. Like the Hall, The Beeches has been given over to the summer tenant for many years. But this summer it occurred to me that it would make an excellent place to which to retire and work. So I took it off the market, to the great distress of the real estate agent, who has been making a very good thing out of it, and something over a week ago I moved up here, bag and Alfred. Alfred is an English gentleman of strong Tory persuasion, who kindly condescends to ‘do for me.’ There is also a gardener, one Denis, and a cook—more by courtesy than fact—who goes by the not uncommon name of Smith—Miss Smith, if you please; first name unrevealed.”
“Thank you some more,” she said, laughingly. “It is very plain to be seen that you have nothing to hide, no dark secret of the past.”
“No, I fear I am very commonplace and uninteresting,” he sighed.
“Never mind; at least, you are communicative.”
“Now, that’s not fair, you know; you asked me; otherwise I wouldn’t have thought of boring you with——”
“Of course I did,” she said, soothingly, her eyes agleam with laughter. “And in return——”
“You'll tell me something about yourself?” he asked, eagerly. She shook her head and took up her work again.
“No.”
“But——”
“Remember our agreement, please!”
He sighed. “Well, I won’t ask a single question.”
“Thank you.”
The dachshund trotted down the avenue with her tongue lolling and cast herself at her mistress’ feet, stretching out to an abnormal length and viewing Roger with an expression of languid toleration. Then:
“I’ve been wondering,” said Roger, “what the first name of a lady named Huggins might be.”
“Have you?” she asked, without looking up.
“Yes; of course one may wonder and speculate without really asking.”
“Of course.”
“Er—what should you think?”
She put her head on one side and viewed a completed blossom critically. At last:
“Well, I’d think Harriet,” she said.
“Honest?”
“Honest.”
In fancy he could hear Alfred pronouncing the lady’s name, “Mrs. ’Arriet ’Uggins, sir;” and he shuddered in spite of himself and looked up to find her gazing quizzically at him.
“Horrible, isn’t it?” she asked, smilingly.
“I hope you don’t think I have any such idea,” he said, hurriedly. “I—I have always liked Harriet as a name.”
“And Huggins?” she asked, softly.
“It—it is a name I have never heard before,” he said, cautiously. “At first, I acknowledge, it seems a bit—er—strange, but——”
“There, there,” she laughed, “that is a brave attempt, but—let’s be honest. It’s a beast of a name, and you know it; and I know you know it.”
“And I know you know I know it,” he elaborated, echoing her laugh. “But—you know, you can change it.”
Here, he thought craftily, was a chance to discover whether she was a widow.
“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, after a moment; “yes, I have often considered that.”
The deuce! What did she mean? Had she often contemplated matrimony? Should he consider the admission an encouragement? His conjectures were interrupted.
“It can be done by act of legislature, I fancy,” she said.
“Oh!”
She was not, then, necessarily a widow. His craft had failed. Well, he would be bold and risk offending her; the uncertainty was maddening. He lighted a fresh cigarette.
“There—is another way,” he said, carelessly.
She looked up inquiringly while her white teeth nibbled through a strand of silk. “Another way?” she echoed. “You mean——”
“Well”—in spite of his efforts at nonchalance, his voice was a trifle strained—“there is marriage.”
For an instant he preferred to observe the tip of his cigarette rather than her. When he looked she was bending over her embroidery again, and the shadow of the broad hat made mystery of her face. He waited. A moment passed. Gretchen yawned loudly and rolled over on her back, presenting four huge feet and a long length of fawn-colored stomach to view. At last—
“Isn’t that a big price to pay for a mere change of name?” she asked. Her voice did not suggest resentment; merely quiet amusement, at the worst. He took courage.
“Yes, if that were all you were to gain. But, you see, I had in mind a marriage——”
Suddenly she dropped her embroidery and leaned toward him, her hands clasped in her lap and an expression of intense seriousness on her face. But deep down in her eyes the little imps of mischief danced like sunbeams flickering among violets.
“Mr. Gale!”
“Mrs. Huggins?”
“Are you proposing to me?”
He resisted the impulse to be wholly idiotic. “Not yet,” he replied.
She observed him amusedly for an instant and then smilingly went back to her work. Roger returned her smile with one quite as unembarrassed, although his heart was making all sorts of efforts to choke him.
“You see, I make no promises for the future,” he added, lightly.
She shook her head doubtfully. “I fear you have missed your opportunity,” she said, with pretended regret. “A moment ago—I think—I might have accepted you, but—already the temptation has passed.”
“Temptations may be depended upon to recur.”
“I don’t know whether you are vain or only hopeful.”
“For the sake of my vanity, let us call it hopeful.”
“I fear your hopes are doomed to disappointment.”
“I shall try to think otherwise. Should the—er—temptation return you will, of course, inform me?”
“I think I may promise that,” she laughed.
“Thank you. Temptations are too precious to be neglected.”
“Do you think so, really? Then, if I were ever tempted to marry, you would advise me to—to yield?”
“I think you had best consult me when that time arrives,” he answered, gravely. “General advice applied to specific cases is apt to prove—er—inadequate.”
She folded her work and returned it to the little vivid green bag.
“What a lot of nonsense we’ve been talking!” she said.
“Yes,” he assented. She arose and he followed suit, tossing aside his cigarette. Gretchen ran a few yards up the path and stood looking back, wagging her tail invitingly.
“And all this time you might have been at work on your play,” she said. “I fear I am to blame for many wasted moments.”
“‘Wasted’ is not just the word I'd have chosen,” he replied. “As for my work, I am convinced that ideas flow better in the afternoon.”
“And nonsense in the morning?”
“Oh, it hasn’t been all nonsense, you know. We have really said some weighty things. Must you go?”
“Please observe where the sun is,” she answered, glancing upward through the closely woven tapestry of leaves. The light falling on her upturned face set Roger’s heart to beating tumultuously again. Perhaps she read in his expression somewhat of his thoughts at the moment, for she turned almost abruptly toward the Hall.
“Good-morning,” she said, somewhat distantly.
“Good-morning,” he answered. “May I hope for an opportunity to utter more nonsense to-morrow?”
“I make no promises,” she said, lightly.
But when she had left him, sauntering slowly and gracefully up the shaded avenue, he took heart, for the chair she had occupied remained by the gate. And when one is in love the tiniest things serve as sponsors for mighty hopes or gigantic despairs. To-day despair was far from Roger’s thoughts, for had she not virtually acknowledged herself a widow?