CHAPTER XVII

WITHIN THE PLAYHOUSE


Haward, sitting at the table in Marot's best room, wrote an answer to
Audrey's letter, and tore it up; wrote another, and gave it to Juba, to be
given to the messenger waiting below; recalled the negro before he could
reach the door, destroyed the second note, and wrote a third. The first
had been wise and kind, telling her that he was much engaged, lightly and
skillfully waving aside her request--the only one she made--that she might
see him that day. The second had been less wise. The last told her that he
would come at five o'clock to the summer-house in Mistress Stagg's garden.

When he was alone in the room, he sat for some time very still, with his
eyes closed and his head thrown back against the tall woodwork of his
chair. His face was stern in repose: a handsome, even a fine face, with a
look of power and reflection, but to-day somewhat worn and haggard of
aspect. When presently he roused himself and took up the letter that lay
before him, the paper shook in his hand. "Wine, Juba," he said to the
slave, who now reëntered the room. "And close the window; it is growing
cold."

There were but three lines between the "Mr. Haward" and "Audrey;" the
writing was stiff and clerkly, the words very simple,--a child's asking of
a favor. He guessed rightly that it was the first letter of her own that
she had ever written. Suddenly a wave of passionate tenderness took him;
he bowed his head and kissed the paper; for the moment many-threaded life
and his own complex nature alike straightened to a beautiful simplicity.