Ed* White Trash AND OTHER ne=Act Dramas EVELYN GREENLEAT SUTHERLAND Book >U uTfe CopyriglitN". nop COPYRIGHT DEPOSrt ' PO' WHITE TRASH AND OTHER ONE-ACT DRAMAS PO' WHITE TRASH AND OTHER One-Act Dramas BY EVELYN GREENLEAF SUTHERLAND CERTAIN OF THE PLAYS BEING WRITTEN IN COLLABORATION WITH EMMA SHERIDAN- FRY AND PERCY WALLACE MACKAYE CHICAGO HERBERT S. STONE AND COMPANY MDCCCC Uv^^^A>^ t^v PS35 3r Ubrsirv of v:.,i. Two Copies Kk o | AUG 4 I9jG COPYRIGHT IgOO.jBY (^f / O (^ l^i^ FKSI con. ORO£RDtVlS.lv*l ! . SFP lO 1900 i HERBERT 3. STONE & CO "/ Attention is called to the fact that the following plays are strictly protected, by copyright, from public dramatic performance, professional or amateur. Peri7iission for their performance, on a moderate royalty, may be secured on application to the publishers. Q TO JOHN PRESTON SUTHERLAND "who made the happv sun- shine WHERE THESE GREW" THEY ARE DEDICATED BY HIS WIFE. CONTENTS Po' White Trash . . . . . . 1 In Far Bohemia 35 The End of the Way 57 a comedie royall 79 A Bit of Instruction 103 A Song at the Castle 125 Rohan The Silent 155 At the Barricade 187 Galatea of the Toy-Shop 213 PO' WHITE TRASH A STUDY OF A LITTLE-KNOWN PHASE OF AMERICAN LIFE Po' White Trash DEAMATIS PEESON^. SuKE DuRT (of the class known as '*po' white trash"). Dren'T Dury (her nephew). Judge Page. Dr. Calhoun" Payke. Carol Payke (his daughter). Sal Hankers. Zep Pooiq^ / ^^ MILLY \ ^«g^°^- The place is Georgia. The period is the present. The scene is the exterior of Suke Dnry's cabin, on the edge of Oloochee Swamp. The time is late after- noon of a mid-July day. The scene is a dilapidated cabin exterior. The cabin is set at an angle, B. 4- It is of logs, loith a clay chimney; a single window loith a broken shutter, half open. In front of it, a rude platform-like 3 4 Po' White Trash piazza. A rude bench on stage; m front of it^ toward R. 2. A hanjo is lying on the bench. The stage is covered with a whitish -yelloto cloth, repre- senting bare sand. The back drop a stretch of flat sand, dotted with clumps of coarse green grass; here and there, a tall, dead, fire-blackened tree. At L. 3, a mast-like, blackened tree-trunk, draped heavily with moss. Behi7id it, there is a narrow pathy apparently ending with the sioamp. From L. of stage, extending into wings, a thick matted under- growth of lush, green, siuamp-like bushes and plants, groiuing taller as they join icings. The light is hot, intense, yellow sunlight; almost fro7n rise of curtain, however, the light begins to soften toward dusk; first groiuing red, then lilac, then clear violet-purple, then dark purple, etc. In front of cabin piazza, R. 3, a small iron pot, full of red coals and with a branding iron stuck down into it. Curtain music, ''''Sivanee River.'* ^ When curtain rises, Zep Poon is soundly asleep under t^^ee, L. 3. He is a burly negro, in- tensely black; in cotton-checked shirt, open at neck; cotton overalls, brogans, above which his naked black ankles shoiu. Beside him is his broad-brimmed, tattered straw hat. In the silence the locusts are heard, intermittently shrilling. After a second or two, Zep snores heavily, once or twice, and turns on his side, tvithout waking; then snores again. Enter Sal HankerSy from road behind cabin, R. back. She Po' White Trash 5 is dressed in gaudy, cheap calico; her dress being apparently her only garment. Her face and hair are of a uniform clay-color. She carries her sun-bonnet dangling from its string on her arm. As she comes down, she glances indifferently at Zep. She seats herself leisurely on bench, R. She tahes from her pocket a snuff-box and a stick, and dips the stick into the box, afterivard rubbing it on her teeth. After a pause. Sal. Snke! Suke! {There is again silence. Sal fans herself and luipes her face upon her apron. The locusts shrill again and Zep snores.) Sal. Suke! Suke Dury! Suke! (Suke Dury opens door of cabin, and stands framed in it. She is of SaVs type, but much more vivid. Her hair is of deep red. She has a rope in her hand, whose broken ends she is knotting together.) Suke. Save yo' breath. I heard yo'. But the calf had split his rope to frazzles an' was makin' fo' the swamp, an' I had to ketch him. Swamps ain't safe pasturin' for calves. Sal. {R.) Ain't safe pasturin' for nobody, when such a sun nusses copperheads lively. Look at that fool nigger ! {Indicates Zep.) Snorin' there on the edge of Oloochee Swamp as if snakes wuz as friendly 6 Po' White Trash company as skeeters. Ah reckon if a copperhead cam' out a-visitin', that nigger wouldn't never have the trouble of wakin' up. SuKE. {Comes doion C.) Copperheads don't come a-visitin' here. Too much sense. It 'ud be a safe thing fo' all sorts o' snakes, ef they'd alwuz kep' thar distance from this cabin. Sal. Eeckon the swamp things 'lowed this cabin wuz theirn by right o' squattin'. Plumb twenty years they hed it to theirselves, while you 'una was yon, in the mountains, an' the cabin shet. SuKE. Twenty years come August. It wor sun- up, nineteen year ago, that my sister Pen an' I locked that cabin do' behin' us. It wor sun-up, when my sister Pen's boy an' I opened tliat do' a month ago. But the swamp things hev hed a chance to study on one thing sence we're back again, — an' that is, whar Suke Dury bides no kind o' snake don't find it healthy. All the snakes in Georgia ain't learnt that yit ; but they will ; — they will ; — give me time. Sal. Doctor been here yet? Suke. What cVyo^ know 'bout Doctor's comin'? Sal. Luddy! Luddy! But yo' he a wild cat! 'Twuz Miss Carol told me yo' asked her paw to drap in on Drent when he was a-passin'. Drent po'ly? Suke. (C.) I don' know. But I'm feared o' him. Gord! He's too like his maw! lie's too like his maw ! She went sudden, yo' know, my sister Pen. Po' White Trash 7 One day she said, *'Suke, I've got a mis'ry in my side!" — an her face went gray as that moss. . . . Next day, — we buried her. Sal. (E.) Drent hen a-havin' a miz'ry? SUKE. He don' say so. But las' week, one day he'd been a-singin' for Miss Carol, he come into the cabin, — an' his face hit went all gray, — gray as that moss, gray as — God-a-mighty ! I thought 'twuz my heart a-stoppin' 'stid 0' his. So I asked Miss Carol would she ask her paw to look at Drent, when he wuz a-passin'. Sal. Folks say as daddyless young 'uns is most always death-struck young. SuKE. Who's sayin' daddyless young 'uns? Yo' chitterin' fool! Who Sal. (Rises and ties on honnet very delilerately .) Thar ye be, wild-cattin' agin ! I'm moughty puzzled, yo' sister Pen's heart didn't stop fo' it did, with yo' wild-cattin' round from sun-up twell dark. Daddy- less young 'uns? D'ye spose folks has forgot when you-all Glared out, nineteen year ago, yo' sister Pen kerried a daddyless young 'un with her? (Crosses toward L.) What of it? Happens to plenty! Po' white trash hasn't no business with sech eyes as Pen Dury's were, — eyes big an' trustin' as a baby calf's ! SuKE. Ef I don' hill yo', it's because I've got somebody else to settle with first ! (Suhe turns in to cabin.) 8 Po' White Trash Sal. Quit wild-cattin' ! Suke! Suke! Tell Dr. Payne ef he be so bleegin' as to stop up on my ol' man, when he's passin' home? My ol' man he said Jim Wash was a liar, yestiddy; an' Jim Wash '11 be at the sto' to-day, when my ol' man gits thar. I reckon my ol' man'll be needin' the doctor moughty bad, after he's met up with Jim Wash! (Sal turns to exit as she came, behind caMn^ R. hack; she comes violently into contact with Milly, who is just entering. Suke turns at the collision and Milly^s noisy exclamations. Milly is a very hlach young negress, neatly dressed, and wearing a notably pretty and fashionable hat.) Milly. Name o' Jerusalem! Huccum yo' knock de bruf out'n a pusson dat-a-way! {Exit Suhe into cabin.) Sal. Yo' breath '11 last longer, ef yo' keep out'n yo' betters' way! Milly. Betters! {Exit Sal. Milly backs down stage, calling after her.) Name o' Palestine! Betters! Talkin' to a quality nigger dat po' white trash wuz her betters! Po' white trash! {As she backs, she stumbles over Zep, tvho sits up, rubbing his head bewilder edly.) Name o' glory! Jordan am Po' White Trash 9 a hard road to trabbel dis ebenin' for sho' ! Huccum dat Zep. {Strihing out viciously.) Git out o' this, yo' dog-gone ol' mule! MiLLY. (Dodging blow.) Mule! Zep. (Struggling to his feet and lowing and ducking obsequiously^ with flourishes of his hat.) 0, Miss Carol, I done ax yo' pardon. I done reckoned my oV mule wuz kickin' me to wake up, lak he do, when he done MiLLY. Fus' de mule, an' den Miss Carol! Habn't yo' no eyes, yo' fool nigger Zep Poon, or have de sun done scotched 'em out? Zep. (Dazed.) Dat ar Miss Carol's hat! I done swar dat ar Miss Carol's hat! Huccum Miss Carol she done ain't under dat hat? MiLLY. Miss Carol she'll nebber be under dat hat no mo'. Miss Carol done gib me dat hat fo' a plightin' gif ' ! Zep. Plightin' gif ' ! Yo'! Name ob Israel ! Ef yo done gone plight yo'self (Takes out razor from overalls.) MiLLY. Yo' done gone crunkled! 'Tain't me wot's plighted. But ef 'twuz me 'twouldn't be to no nigger dat don' know me from a mule! Miss Carol's done plighted Zep. It's Marsr George Payne! It's de Jedge's son! I ben a-studyin' huccome Marsr George done 10 Po' White Trash quit coon-huntin' Sundays ! He done gone huntin' 'nother kind o* coon! (OhucMes.) Well, I's done, fo' a fac' ! MiLLY. Ya'as. Miss Carol she done come to de Jedge's to-day, fo' Marse George to show her to we- all; and all de quality done be bid to the Jedge's this ebenin', and dere'll be de bigges' doin's, and de bigges' dancin', an' de bigges' singin', and de bigges' eatin' an' de bigges' drinkin' Zbp. (Mechanically echoing her ecstatic tone.) De bigges' eatin', and de bigges' drinkin', an' — 'pears like ter me de Jedge done say I wuz to go up to de place dis day. Ya'as ; de Jedge he sutney did say MiLLY. Ya'as, he sutney did say go to the place an' clean de well; an' whar's de well? An' whar wuz yo^ f Look at yo'! An' it's plumb sundown I Clean de well ! Zbp. De Jedge done know hit my day fer plowin' I MiLLY. Day fo' plowin'! Day fo' snorin'! I done hyerd de Jedge cussin' 'bout dat well, this ebenin' after dinner. He done say yo' hadn't done no wuk fo' a week, an' he done 'fraid yo' done got 'ligion ! (Suke enters from cahin and stands looking out toward the swamp ^ shading her eyes with her hand.) Zep. Got 'ligion! Name o' de Lawd! Got 'ligion befo' Christmas! 1 Po' White Trash il SuKE. Hold your tongues ! {There is a pause of a second.) SuKE. Wuzn't that my boy Drent's whistle off yon, in de swamp? {Another pause; a soft, flute-UJce tremulo whistle comes faintly from the direction of the swamp.) MiLLT. I reckon, Suke, SuKE. Dury's my name — to niggers ! {Milly tosses her head and moves toward hack L.) Zep. ( With a flourishing how.) I reckon. Miss Dury, dat wuzn't Drent. Reckon 'twuz a mockin' bird. Moughty puzzlin' fo' sho' to tell Drent f om a mockin' bird when he's whistlin' ; an' when Drent sing, it's moughty puzzlin' fo' to tell him f'om a angel ! Milly. {Turning.) Ya'as. I reckon dat's why Miss Carol she sent me fo' to fetch Drent to de Jedge's place dis ebenin' fo' to sing fo' de quality. Suke. Carol Payne sent yo' to fetch my boy to go up an' sing for quality folks, — up to the Jedge's, whar she's a-visitin'? Milly. {With a moch curtsey.) Dat's hit, Miss Dury! 12 Po' White Trash SuKE. Then tote yo'self back an' tell Miss Carol w'en she wants Drent Diiry to sing fo' her, she carn't send no niggers — she kin com herself! Tell her I said so! {^Exit into cabin.) MiLLY. De sassiness oh po' white trash (D7\ Payne enters from heliind cabin, R. bach. He is fat and jovial; he carries his saddle-bags across his arm.) Dr. p. An' the impudence o' niggers! Gloryin' round in that hat I paid fo'teen good dollars fo', down in Atlanta! {Exit Milly, bridling, L. bach. Br. P. seats himself on bench, puffing and blotoing; tosses doton his saddle-bags; fans himself with Pan- ama hat. Ze2) approaches him^ bowing and scraping. ) Dr. p. Lucky it's dusking down! Plaggon it! If that sun had stayed up much longer, I should have had to be taken home in one of my own bottles! (Noticing Zep.) Well, well, what do you want, confound you? Zep. Ya'as sah. Please Doctor, sah, ef yo' could give me a little sumpin' for a pow'ful po'ly feelin' Dr. p. What is it, eh. A miz'ry in yo' back, or a sinkin' in yo' head, or a conjure all over yo'? Speak out! Po' White Trash 13 Zep. Ef yo' please, Doctor, sah, I'se been suffer in' pow'fnl dese days, wid water on my stomach, sah! Dr. p. Water on yo' stomach, eh? — water on — {Bursts into chuckling laughter.) Well, it must be sufferin', fo' a fac', to introduce water to a stomach tanned with tanglefoot whisky! — Here! {Fumbles in pochet and tosses him a coin.) That's the prescription you're after, I reckon, eh? Zep. De Lawd bless an' fumigate yo', Marsr Doctor, sah, — de Lawd bless an' fumigate yo'! {Exit Zep behind cabin, bach R.) De. p. Well, with niggers an' po' white trash, a doctor does have a cheerful time, fo' a fac'! . . . What's that Drent Dury a-doin', keepin' me waitin'? 0! Drent Dury! Drent! {Suhe enters from cabin.) SuKE. Drent ain't hyar. Doctor Payne, sir. I'm done heart-sick that he don' come, sir, not since last night. Dr. p. Ain't here? Sends fo' a doctor, an' ain't here? Well, fo' a fac' ! {Rises in wrath and begins to pich up his saddle-bags.) SuKE. ef yo' please. Dr. Payne, sir! Drent he must be home right soon. He's 14 Po' White Trash Dr. p. He's a worthless young nubbin' — that's what Drent Dury is! Wants a doctor, does he? — What fo'? Not his lungs, I'll swear! Didn't I hear him singin' las' night, passin' out a-coon-huntin', — singin' like a low-down, dirty, no 'count little — little cherubim and seraphim? Singin' like — (DrenVs voice is heard outside singing the first verse of ''''My Old Kentucky Home.'''') — singin' like — that^ confound him! Now who'd say that a busy doctor 'd be fool enough to waste his time {Drent enters. He is dressed in ragged hr own jean trousers^ a dull blue shirty open at the throat, and a ragged hat. He carries a shot-gun. A dilapidated game-hag is slung across him. He moves listlessly aiid is pale.) Dr. p. Fool enough to waste his time huntin' up Drent. Why, I reckon anybody'd say so, that knowed yo', Doctor. {Suke goes down to meet Drent. Under pretense of taking off his game-hag to examine it for gamCy she caresses him, with awkward tenderness.') SuKE. Made up yo' mind to steer in for some vittles at last, did yo', yo' louty young vagabond? (Holds up game-hag.) Empty, I swar! Empty as Po' White Trash 15 yo' fool head! {8he carries his gun and game-hag up to the porch. He sits on step of piazza, listless and sullen.) Dr. p. That's a woman! That's a woman! Honin' her heart out for a fellow when he's off, and then givin' him the devil the minute he heaves in sight ! DREiq-T. {To SuJce.) It's yo' own fault. Yo' know I'd stay away while that iron was heatin' thar. I'm no butcher an' no calf-brander, an' I won't stay whar I'm hounded to do it. SuKE. I'll do the brandin' then. (TaJces iron from pot.) Yo've the heart of a calf yo 'self ! {Bxit iehind cabin.) Drent. Mebbe. An' mebbe the skin of a calf ; an' mebbe that's how I kin guess how a brandin' iron feels. Dr. p. Dut yo' don't know how a coon feels, eh? Drekt. Don't I? Dr. p. Well, yo' shoot 'em, all th' same. Drent. Do I? Whar's the coon, Doctor? {Shows empty game-tag.) Dr. p. Didn't see a coon, then, eh? Drekt. 0, I saw a coon, right enuf ! Dr. p. Too lazy to hunt him, then, eh? Drekt. Hunt him? Hunt?^0 ! Name o' judg- ment. {Bursts into a long, low, lazy laugh.) Hunt ! Doctor, there isn't one of the boys that went coon- i6 Po' White Trash huntin' las' night, that ken set down after he's got up, or git up after he's set down! Land! I reckon the boys '11 remember last night's hunt! 'Twuz the sort o' a hunt they wouldn't a-got out'n any coon but me! {Laughs again.) Dr. p. Any coon but You're going loony! {Sits on piazza.) Drekt. P'raps you'll say loony, Doctor, fo' a fac', when I've told yo'. It wuz this-a-way. Me an' Frazzles, — Frazzles is my dog, yo' know. Doctor, jes' an ornery no- 'count yeller dog like me, — but he kin f oiler his master; an' when he's tol' to hoi' on, dat dog he don' let go. Well, me and Frazzles wuz way ahead o' the other dogs, an' we see the moss on an old pine swing — swing — lak the wind struck it ; but there warn't no wind. An' I says to Frazzles, "Sh!" an' he sh'd. An' we crep' along — still as a copper- head creeps — crep' and crep' along to that there tree; an' Frazzles' eyes got bigger an' yallerer, an' his back jes' quivered lak as if every hair hed come alive, but Frazzles never yipped a yip. . . . An' we crep' — an' we come to the ol' pine — an' we peeked up through the moss, — and thar was the coon. Lord! Doctor, — thar was the coon, — crouchin' and scrough- lin' together, dead sick with the smell o' the dog, — a-crouchin' an' a-scroughlin' an' a-lookin' — an' a- lookin . . . An Frazzles says, — 'ithout ever yippin' a yip — ' ' Throw him down ! — tlirow him down ! ' ' — An ' Po' White Trash 17 I says, "You bet!" — And I shinned up that tree, a- grippin' my gun — an' I got on the branch fair below him, — and then De. p. Well! Well! And then Deent. An' then. Doctor, I saw that coon's eyes. — I saw that coon's eyes. Doctor, I — I never saw a coon's eyes befo'. I reckon — I reckon — thar wouldn't be so much hurtin' done in this world ef jes' befo' yo' hurted yo' saw the thing's eyes! An' I looked at him — an he looked at me, — an' his eyes said, "Be yo' goin' to kill me? Be yo' goin' to kill me?" Thar worn't no trees — no sky — no nothin' — jes' only that coon's eyes. "It's on'y cowards kill what can't fight," they says. "It's on'y devils kill fo' fun," they says. Every thin' thet hed ever been 'fraid — an' I've been 'fraid! — looked out o' that coon's eyes. Everythin' thet hed ever got beat, — an' I've got beat! — looked out of that coon's eyes. Everythin' that ever been hurt, — and God-a-mighty ! I've been hurt! — looked out of that coon's eyes. "Be ye goin' to kill me?" they sez. "Be ye goin' to kill me?" An' I flinged my gun's far's she'd flew, an' I sez, "JSTo, yo' mean, scared, hunted critter, yo'! I'll be damned if I kill yo'!" De. p. Yo' blamed little fool! {Dr. Payne wipes his eyes surreptitiously^ and hlows Ms nose ostentatiously. Drent 1 8 Po' White Trash takes up his hanjo and idly strums as he talks ^ some bars of ''^My Old Kentucky Home.'*'^ Dr. Payne sways and beats time to it, unco7i- sciously; stopping himself whenever he re- members it, with evident irritation; hut occasionally, despite himself, Mcmming a word or two of the song in a grumbling bass.) Drent. But yo' see, Doctor, the boys done hev to have their hunt; so, wal, Frazzles he done folio' me, coon or no coon; an' the other dogs, they done folio' Frazzles, scent or no scent ; and the boys they done follow the dogs ... an' they had huntin' a- plenty, Doctor, they did, fo' a fac'! Dr. p. And whar was the good of it all, you * 'possum an' de coon I possum an' decoon!" (Hum- ming words of song.) Doggone it, will yo' stop that banjo? . . . Whar was the good Drent. Good? Why, Doctor, the coon done got his life — an' the boys done got their hunt — an' I, — I done found out there was one thing on this yearth mizzibler than po' white trash! Dr. p. "By de meadow, de hill, and de " (Humming words of song.) Damn it all, will you either quit that song or sing it? (Drent sings, lightly and idly, but with searching pathos, the words: Po' White Trash 19 We^U hunt no mo* fo* de possum art* de coon^ By de medder^ de hill an' de sho"*; We^ll sing no mo"* hy the light 0' the moon On de tench iy de oV cabin do^j De days go iy^ lak a shadow on de heart, Wid sorrow whar once was delight; The time hit come w^en oV friends dey hev to part; Den my oV Kentucky home, good-night!) Dr. p. {Who has listened toith much emotion.) Listen to yoM Listen to yo'! With a voice that pulls the mockin' birds out o' the swamp, and sets an ol' fool doctor sloppin' over at both eyes! With a voice that might make yo' the foremost citizen o' Georgia, sir, — the foremost citizen o' Georgia! {Ris- ing.) An' then look at yoM Look at yo'! What are yo', sir? What are yo'? Drent. Po' white trash, I reckon, Doctor, — jes po' white trash! Dr. p. Po' white trash! When if yo' had one blink of honest ambition, there isn't a man of us wouldn't be proud to give yo' a leg up! When if yo' had one ounce of man in yo', yo'd stand, in three years, where nobody 'd remember that yo' never knew yo' daddy, — {Drent starts, laying down his banjo) and nobody 'd remember that yo' mother Drekt, {Rising to his feet.) Hold it there, ef yo' please, Doctor. What my maw was, I reckon I 20 Po' White Trash know better 'u ?/o'; an' what my maw u-, I reckon neither of us '11 ever know, unless we're better men! Dr. p. {After a pause^ impetuotisly grijijniig his hand.) Dury, I ask yo' pardon! Drent. Never mind, Doctor. Of co'se there ain't nothin' po' white trash cayn't hear. Only I reckon — I reckon — thar's some things quality folks cayn't say. {He staggers dizzily for a moment^ tuith his hand to his heart.) Dr. p. {Tliroioing his arm around Drent.) What are yo' at, boy? What's wrong? Drent. {Releasing himself and laughing con- fusedly.) Aw, nothin'. Doctor, nothin'! Only fo' one fool minute every thin' seemed duskin' — an' stoppin' — but I'm all right now — all right. {Tahes up ha^ijo and tremulously tunes it.) Dr. p. Everything dusking and stopping, eh? Drop that fool thing! {Drent lays doion banjo.) Give me yo' wrist! {Counts pulse.) Eh? — Hm-m. So thafs what yo' aunt Keep still a minute! {He kneels beside Drent^ with his ear over Drenfs heart. Then he rises^ with a face of serious co7icern^ and begins to fumble in his saddle-bags.) Whar's my stethoscope? Day of wrath! Whai''s my stethoscope? Damned if I don't believe that Simmons baby got it! I gave it to him to play with, to stay his yawp, Po' White Trash 21 while {He takes a phial from Ms medicine case.) Put out yo' tongue! {Standing in front of Drent, he lets a drop or two fall from the phial on his tongue.) Now, stay whar yo' are, — d'ye hear? — till I come hack with that stethoscope. I won't be half an hour. Stay whar yo' are, I say! Stay whar yo' are, an' keep quiet. Don't let anything excite yo' Dken"T. 'Tain't a moughty excitin' neighbor- hood, Doctor! Dk. p. So much the better. I'll be back in half an hour an' go through you good! {He hustles doivn stage; and then comes hesitatingly back., lays his hand 071 Dreiifs shoulder and holds out the other hand to him.) Yo' don't bear grudge to an old fool's yawp, eh, lad? Dkekt. Lord, Doctor, ef everybody yawped your tune, this world'd play good music! Dr. p. Quiet's the word, then, yo' young rascal! If I find you've moved a foot from that gallery, I'll give yo' a dose yo'll taste fo' a month! {He hustles out., hehind cahin., R. hack. It is now soft., violet dusk. A feiv great hright stars shine., hack, ahove the sandy levels. From the siuamp there comes., eerie and minor, the long, shivering 'cry of the night owl. Drent picks upon his hanjo again, with a list- 22 Po* White Trash lesSf tired sigh. He softly hums ^^Lorena^'*^ '■^'picking'*'' a light accompaniment. After a few seconds pause^ enter Suke from cabin^ the branding iron in her hand.) Suke. By the time I ketched that fool calf, the iron wuz cold. {She looks at Drent, wistfully. ) Ain't yo' comin' in fo' a hite o' corn pone, Honey? (Puts iron into pot.) Drent. Naw, Aunt Suke. Suke. No' fo' a mug o' coffee, Honey? Hit's moughty good an' strong. Drent. Not now, Aunt Suke. Suke. Ef yo' don't eat nothin', yo' no 'count critter, huccome yo'll have a voice to go sing fo' the quality? (Carol Payne enters from the swamp-path, L. 3. Suke sees her and straightens up fiercely.) Drent. What quality folks be thar' a-honin' arter my singin'? Carol. I reckon, Drent, she means me. {Drent springs to his feet, snatching off his hat.) Drent. Name o' Gawd! Whar'd yo' come fi'om. Miss Carol? Po White Trash 23 Carol. Down the swamp path hyar. An' I wished I hadn't when I saw how fast 'twas duskin*. Drent. Fo' de Lord's sake, Miss Carol, don' do sech loony things no mo', De swamp path! {He unconsciously presses his hand against his heart. Exit Suke into caMn, after a long unfriendly stare at Carol.) Carol. (Crosses E. toward bench.) The swamp path's so much shorter, Drent! Drent. Short ain't always safe, Miss Carol. Now it's July, thet thar swamp's just rank with copperheads. Ah don' folio' thet path no mo' ! Carol. {Seating herself on bench.) Well, yon shall take me back to the Page place by just what path yo' like, Drent, if you'll promise to sing for me, when we get there. Drei^t. Sing fo' yo'? Do yo' mean that, Miss Carol? Carol. Of course I mean it. I'm going to show — to show some people at the Page place that I'm not to be laughed at when I say yo' can put mo' honey in one sung line than — some folks — can in a week's pretty speeches. Drent. Yo' said that — o' my singin' — Miss Carol? Carol. And I meant it, Drent. Ever since yo' 24 Po' White Trash sang that song fo' me and paw, that Sunday night out here in the moonlight {He catches up his 'banjo as if in a trance^ his eyes fixed passioiiately on her face^ and hursts into the song — Her brow is like the snotv drifts Her throat is like the swan. And her face is e''en the fairest That e'er the sun shone on; That e^er the sun shone on. And she^s all the luorld to me, And for bonnie Annie Laurie I tuould lay me down and die !) Carol. Yes, — like that! Like that! Dreis'T. Miss Carol, I'd sing fo' yo' like that, f om moonrise twell sun-up. Miss Carol, ef yo' asked me to sing when I was a-lyin' under the swamp-grass, I reckon my voice would pull my dead lips open! Wen yo' says, '*Sing," I feel as the mockin' birds feel, when the big, sof ' wind lifts their wings, and somethin' in it melts way down into 'em — 0, so sweet ! so sweet! — an' they know that it's the spring! {Frightened at his vehemence, Carol rises and stands facing him, as he rushes on.) But 0! Miss Carol! Yo' don' mean yo' want me to sing to yo' under no roof. I couldn't do it. Miss Carol! I couldn't do Po' White Trash 25 it no more than the mockin' bird sings when yo' cage him! Gimme jes' the moonlight an' the stars — an' yo' — yo'' {Carol crosses L. She speahs timidly and lewilderedly. ) Carol. But yo' cayn't expect all the other folks, Drent, to come outside — in the night air, Dre]S"T. The — other — ^folks? Carol. Yes, yes; the other folks! Don't yo' understand that I'm askin' yo' to come up to the Page place to sing at my pledgin' party, — my pledgin' to George Page, the Judge's son? Drent. Yo' — pledgin' — yo' an' George Page — Naw! I didnH understand! I won't sing! I wonH sing! Let him sing for yo' — ^let him sing — damn him! {He ihrows down his tanjo and luries his face m his dent arm, against the piazza-post. ) Carol. I wouldn't have you sing — now. How dare you? I was a fool to come ; George told me I shouldn't come, and that's why I came, I reckon. But it's fo' the last time, Drent Dury ! {As she moves toward the sivamp-path, Drent suddenly starts erect; and after listening a second, leaps tigerishly toward her.) 26 Po' White Trash Drent. Come back hyar ! Come back hyar, I say ! Carol. He's crazy! {She starts in terror into the swamp path. Drent leaps into it ahead of her; and flings her^ very roughly^ far toioard centre of stage. He is hidden from sight in the vnngs. Carol hursts into a passioii of terrified crying^ hold- ing her arm where Drent clutched it.) Carol. 0! He's crazy! 0! He'll kill me! He hurt me so! He hurt me so! {Tremblingly puts up sleeve to look at arm.) 0, what shall I do! What shall I {Filter Judge Page from lack R.j an erect, strikingly handsome and dignified man of forty five. Carol, toith a cry of joyful relief flings herself into his arms.) Carol. 0! I'm so thankful! Judge Page, I'm so thankful! Judge. {Soothing her.) I thought my son's little sweetheart was to remember my name was "father"! Child! Dear child! What has happened to you? Carol. Judge Page! Drent Dury's crazy! {Drent enters from swamp-path. He is ghastly pale. He limps painfully and has his hand tightly pressed against his leg., just above the knee.) Po' White Trash 2"] Carol. Drenfc Dury's crazy! Or if he isn't crazy, he's — he's worse! Judge. What do you mean? {He speaks sternly. Keeping Ms left arm around Carol, he grips his stick in his right hand and advances a step.) Carol. Judge, he — said such things — such queer things — such Judge. You damned rascal! Carol. And when I was going, he jumped and caught me and flung me and hurt me. {Soiling.) He hurt me so ! Dren"T. Fo' Gawd! I didn't go fer to hurt yo', Miss Carol' fo' Gawd, I didn't! But I had to he quick. I reckon you didn't hear that copperhead hiss — an' I did. Carol. {Springing from the Judge^s arm.) Copperhead? Drent. He was fair in the middle o' the path. Judge. And you— took his bite? Drent. I reckon. Carol. 0, no! 0, what shall I do! 0, yo' let yourself he snake-struck instead of me, — yo' po' brave fellow! Yo' poor, poor, dear, brave fellow! {She puts her hands upon his shoulders, and impulsively leans her cheek to his.) Drent. Brave — dear {He lends very lightly 28 Po' White Trash and timidly sidetvise, and brushes he?' hand with his lips.) Gawd bless that snake, Miss Carol! Judge. Carol ! George is waiting with the horses yonder down the road. Quick, child, quick! The doctor ! For his life ! For his life ! Bring him in time! Carol. He must be here in time! Drent! poor fellow! He shall be here in time! (Bushes, weeping^ out R, hack.) Judge. My lad — I Drent. (Limps painfully across to R. and takes the branding iron from the pot.) I know what's to be done, Jedge, and 1 reckon I can do it. Sh ! — I hear Aunt Suke comin'. I cayn't be bothered with a woman while I'm doin' this. D'yo' hear me? Don't let Aunt Suke know! (Limps painfully off R. back.) (Suke rushes in from cabin.) Suke. Who's that I heard a-screamin'? Yo^ here? YO'? Whar's Drent? D'yo' hear me? Marston Page, I'm axin' yo' whar's Drent? Whar's Pen Dury's boy? Whar's ?/o' son? Judge. My — son? Woman, are you mad? Suke. Mad? Yes! Mad as the copperhead that's bode his time to strike! That's why I've kept away from yo' all these months, Marston Page, — 'cos I knew ef once I set my eyes on yo' I should strike Po' White Trash 29 fo' my time! Time or not, I strike now! Yo' son! I say yo' son! Yo' SON, that Pen Dury mothered twenty year ago ! Judge. I never dreamed — I thought SuKE. That he was mine, mebbe? Not I ! Pen learned lessons fo' us both! Not mine! Hern! Hern an' yourn ! Hern an' yourn, that my sister carried with her when we locked this cabin do' behin' us that night yo' sailed fo' Europe, twenty year ago. Judge. I never dreamed, I tell you — a youthful folly (Sinks on bench.) SuKE. No woman ever yet took ''youthful folly" as excuse fo' a woman's ruin — an' I reckon you'll find Hell won't! Pen Dury stood between yo' an' me while she lived, an' kept my hands off yo' ; but she's gone now, an now yo'U reckon a reckonin', Marston Page — with her son, an' with me! (Drent comes from behind the cabin. A blood-stained bandage is bound about his knee. He stands listening.) SuKE. Yo' thought it was all over, yo' see — that "youthful folly!" Yo' thought nobody but Gor-a- mighty and some po' white trash would ever know how, when a po' girl said no to shame — though yo* wrapped it up in plenty 0' money, — though her own heart tore itself out to say yes, fo' she loved yo' so, — 30 Po' White Trash yo' stopped a man, hyar, on the road one day and yo* said: *'HyaT! If I give yo' fifty dollars, will yo' go into that cabin an' say some marriage words over me'n that gal, an' ask no questions^' An' he took the fifty dollars, an' he came! An' yo' thonght yo'd tricked my girl with a no-acconnt pedlar an' a devilish lie! . . . But he worn't no pedlar! 'Twas yo'' the devil tricked, an' not my sister Pen! That man wor a circuit rider — d'yo' hear. Mars ton Page? A travellin' parson — an' the marriage-words he spoke that day made my sister Pen yo' lawful wife! Judge. Great God! {Rising.) SuKE. God cayn't change it! {She IreaJcs into a toild latigh.) Look at him! Look at him! I reckon the devil's pet joke is watchin' a man pay for a sin he meant to do, — and slipped up on ! Judge. And you mean, woman, — ^you mean SuKE. ( Tears paper from the hosom of her goiun. ) I mean that's my sister Pen's marriage certificate, that she never let me touch while she lived, and that I took from her dead breast ! I mean yo' fine lady wife is what yo' fine lady friends called my dead sister! I mean that yo' son George an' not yo' son Drent is daddyless! I mean that here's the paper that gives what I've ached and choked fo' fo' twenty years — an' now let me see yo' git it from me! Drent. (Comes hehind her and snatches the paper from her hand.) I reckon I kin do that. Po* White Trash 31 SUKE. Drent ! {She moves lack as though to willingly resign her vengeance to hiyn.) Deejs'T. (Puts the paper into the fire-pot^ ram- ming it down with the branding -iron.) This yer fire has burnt out one snake-sting to-day ; I reckon it can burn out another ! Judge. My boy — I (Suhe springs at him, tigress-lihe: he faces her imperiously; she shrinks hefore his look.) Deent. Not that, Jedge. I don't take that word from yo' till I know whether my maw has forgiyed yo'. SuKE. Yo' maw!/ Yo' little cur! An' you burnin' the words that'd sweeten her name! Deekt. I reckon where my maw is, her name don't need no sweetenin'. . . . It's all right, Jedge. ... It takes mo'n a paper to make quality out o' po' white trash. . . . Marsr George he's well enough . . . an' he'll better . . . 'cos she loves him. . . . He wouldn't like to be no man's son. / haven't. . . . I'd rather . . I'd rather sleep. . . . Lay me down an' . . . {Sings.) Lay me down and die. . . . (Staggers to tench.) SuKE. What's got him? {Rushes to him.) Judge. He was snake-struck, woman, — I tell you, he was snake-struck in the swamp-path. . . . 32 Po' White Trash I thought the burning — . . . Let me look at his eyes ! . . . Are the pupils narrowing? Let me look ! SuKE. His eyes? . . . Snake-struck ! . . . Snake- struck! . . . Gawd! Why don't yo' get the doctor? Why — his eyes? I can't see. I'll fotch a torch. . . . The Doctor, I say! Do yo' want me to kill yo'? The doctor! (Judge Page rushes out.) SuKE. Let me see yo' eyes, Honey. . . . Let me Keep on singin', cayn't yo'. Honey? Lawd, Lawd! Keep on singin'! . . . I'll fetch a torch! I'll fetch a torch! Honey! Keep on singin' ! (Suke rushes into cabin. Drent rises stag- geringly.) Drent. I 'd have liked to have singed for her — Maw, — but ef yo' say it's time — to — git — ter sleep (^Sings very faintly — Pll hunt no mo'' fo"* de possum an^ de coon^ By de medder., de hill an'* de sho\- lUl sing no mo"* by de light ob de moon On de bench by de oV cabin do"*; De days go by^ like a shadder on de hearty Wid sorrow tvhar once was delight; De time hit come — lohen — Po' White Trash 33 {Falls lachward^ across the lench^ with his dead face uptur7ied in the moonlight. After a pause Suhe'^s voice is heard., — ^^Huccum ye stop singing Honey V 8uke rushes in., hold- ing a flaring pine-hnot above her head. 8he sweeps the torch low., and stares into his eyes. Then she sweeps the torch downward., in com- plete reversal., and its flame flickers and dies.) SUKE. Gor-a-Mighty! . . . Gor-a-Mighty ! (She flings herself in a passion of thick soi- ling down across his body.) (CURTAIK.) IN FAR BOHEMIA 3S In Far Bohemia* CHAEACTERS REPRESENTED. Alec McLaken. Kakei^ Demar. Mks. Pejs^i^tpacker. The scene is Alec McLaren's lodging room, in Mrs. Pennypacker's house. The time is midnight of a stormy November night. The scene is a large, hare room in a city lodging - house. A fire is burning on hearth^ R. C. A couch is drawn up before it with a pilloio or two covered in bright chintz, and a dilapidated buffalo robe thrown over it. A table, C, is littered with boolcs, news- papers, pipes, etc. A battered arm-chair stands beside it. Other chairs in various stages of disrepair stand about the room. There is a wall-cupboard, with doors left, bach. At the left, back, a large, low win- dow with curtain half drawn on its string. The *This play was written in collaboration with Mrs. Emma Sheridan-Fry. 37 38 In Far Bohemia toalls are oriiamented loitli rough sketches^ pictures from illustrated papers^ etc., unframed; a pair of gloves and of foils; pipe rack, etc. On a row of hooks, back, left, hang various fancy costumes, odd hats, etc. A door, L. Jf. As the curtain rises the wind is heard shrieking without; the door is pushed ope7i and Mrs. Pennypacker, a thin, gaudily-dressed Cockney, enters. She carries a candle. She is speaking to some one on the stairs without. Mrs. p. I ''ope, — I sy, I ''ope as bein' mysulf a lydy, I shouldn't never ask no lydy to do nothink that didn't fit a lydy; an' when I says to you, Miss Demar, Come into Mr. McLaren's room for a rest an' a warm, you can be thoro-wahly sure as Mr. McLaren ain't {Karen Demar staggers in on the verge of fainting. Mrs. Pennypacker catches her in her arms and half carries her to the couch, where she drops her, lying helpless, none too gently; she says as she goes.) Mrs. p. Lord love ye, what's come to ye, Miss Karen! Ye give me a turn! Me 'art's a-breakin' out my stys! What's come to ye, I sy? (Stands looking doiun at her.) I know bloomin' well what ^asn''t come to ye, — fire, nor food nor drink 'asn't come to ye, till yer 'ands is baby-bird claws an' yer eyes is at the bottom o' wells ! 'Ere ! Lucky as I In Far Bohemia 39 knows what '11 bring you to life! {She opens the door of the cuploard mid takes down a whishy lottle and glass.) I can't trust me 'and to carry a drop to the poor dear till me 'art gets quieter-like. It's a mercy Pennypacker, before ever we left Lunnon for America, an' 'e got 'is decree habsolute, taught me a thing or two about medicine! {She pours out a finger of whishy and drinks with relish. As she wipes her mouth on her apron, she sees that Karen has faintly struggled to an upright position against the cushions, and is looking at her bewilder edly.) KAREif. Mrs. Pennypacker! You! — Where am I? {Stretches out her hands to fire.) 0, how good it is to be warm ! Mrs. p. a drop 0' this, my dear, '11 warm ye from the hinside hout, — from the houtside hin ain't nowise permanent nor satisfactory ! {Karen mechan- ically takes glass, but sets it down without tasting its contents.) Providence, my dear, ever guides us to our needs, if we keeps our heyes open. Pennypacker 'e says to me many and many a time before he got his decree habsolute, — which was soon after we came to Hamerica, my dear! — *' 'Arriet," 'e says, "in some things you 'ave a hinstinct! That's hall we can call it — a hinstinct!" An' it was my hinstinct. 40 In Far Bohemia under Providence, my dear, that led me to McLaren's cupboard. Karen. Mr. McLaren's — 0, I had forgotten — this is Mr. McLaren's room. I have no right — I must not {Tries iveakly to rise.) Mrs. p. No right, indeed! Mybe ye'll be flyin' next in the face o' Providence, an' sayin' a body has no right to the sty an' support Providence sends to their needs — maybe you'll say I've no right to the stimulatin' drop I was about to take for the sinkin' in me, when you come to, an' I brought the stuff to you instead! {Drinks again.) Karen. I must go — go away from the fire! {She leans sliiveringly over it.) It is time, — it must be time for Mr. McLaren to come back from the theatre. Mrs. p. It won't be for hours yet, my dear, McLaren'll be at 'ome. There'll be the manager to hinterview, an' the boys to stand drinks for, an' — well, as if you knew the news! McLaren's made a 'it! Karen. A— 'it? Mrs. p. Ah, my dear, not bein' in our branch of hart, p'raps you don't know what 'tis to make a 'it? {Produces a stumpy hlach pipe, cleans it^ fills it from a tohacco-hox on 77iantel, and smokes, as she talks.) M'ybe you won't mind my 'avin' a whiff, my dear ; it combines wonderful with the other medicine In Far Bohemia 41 to quiet the 'art ; an' bein' McLaren's own 'baccy, 'e caiyn't grumble at the smell! . . . Yes, McLaren's made a 'it. 'Twas me 'usband's nephew, — leastways me 'usband's cousin's nephew, as stys with me an' is the comfort of me age — 'im as is right wing man down at the Globe Theayter where McLaren made' 'is 'it to-night, as come back and told me. You see McLaren 'e's been twenty years a utility hactor. Wot's that? Wy, wen you're a utility hactor, you plays comic servants in the city for fifteen a week, an' Uncle Tom on the road for twenty-five a week, and 'Amlet, for fun, whenever you gets a chance — an' comes 'ome hon yer huppers! That's wot McLaren's been a-doin', an' 'e hall the time a character hactor fit to kill ! Character ! Anybody could see it with 'arf a heye, — hanybody but a manager ! Managers ! Faugh! If managers 'adn't been a set o' bloomin' fools, wouldn't I 'a 'ad my whack at Juliet, any day these forty years? Just because McLaren's got character written all over 'im, featured in the bill — display type — character's the one thing they wouldn't let 'im at! Managers! , . . Well, to-night they put on * 'Fetters of Flesh" — big play — first night — great part, written a-puypus for Alger son, leading comedy of the Meonian Co. — great part ! — Gent '00 's struck with paralysis in the prolouge, while 'e an' another vilyun, 'is pal, is foolin' with some pypers that mix things up for heverybody — mix up love- 42 In Far Bohemia interest, money-interest, heverythink — see? 'E knows it all, an' wants to straighten it all, an' carnt — bloomin' j^aralysis — fettered by flesh, — see? Tries to make 'em understand — with one 'and — all 'e's got, — see? Eest of 'im stiff — an' one side of 'is face! See? Just in the end, wen the vilyun is 'avin everythink 'is own way, paralyzed party busts fetters o' flesh — see? Takes a big brace — speaks — moves — gives the 'ole damn thing away — gives away his pal — straightens things out — dies! — See! 0, the part's a corker! 'Ole play belongs to that part! And to-night — second call — no Algerson. Not in theayter — no- where! Manager wild — tearing! Three overtures. In comes Algerson — full as a tick — dead, howlin', tearin', fool drunk ! Braced up for the first night — overdid it — See? Manager wild — craving! *' 'Go's his d — d understudy?" says 'e? *' Understudy?" 'owls the author. ** Understudy go on in the biggest character part written for twenty years — smash my play? Smash me? Not if I" {Imitates violent rage of swearing.) Manager says, *'Send audience 'ome and advertise the Grlobe shut up on a big first night? Smash meF Not if I" {Imitates worse rage of swearing.) McLaren, pretty white around the gills — his chance just jumping down his throat: *'I've understudied Algerson, sir, an' I think I can play the part." Humble apology to 'ouse — sudden and painful illness of Mr. Algerson — hindulgence In Far Bohemia 43 hasked for Mr. McLaren — ting-a-ling-a-ling ! Curtain hup! Hit went through the bloomin' lot! Fish in water — man where he belonged — McLaren in character work! Three calls hafter the prologue! Five calls hafter the second hact ! All 'ell hafter the third hact ! Author — McLaren — speech — 'owls — 'andkerchiefs — a 'it! — McLaren's made! ThaVs hall! {Karen has raised herself on her cushions as Mrs. P. proceeds; and as she finishes^ falls lach against them in hysterical laughter and crying.) Kaeek. 0, I'm so glad for him! I'm so glad! I'm so glad! It's so good that there's luck anywhere in the world — for anybody ! Mrs. p. There ain't much luck traveled your way lately — eh, my dear? The little pictures don't sell— eh? Karek. It must have been father's name on the pictures that sold them. You know I painted them all — all they bought, for months before he Mrs. p. Before 'e was * 'released," as they say. {Aside.) D. T. ! An' they won't buy 'em now 'e can't sign 'em? Dear, dear! Times is 'ard with you, isn't they, dearie? I've known they was 'ard, an' that was 'ow I 'adn't as much as mentioned that trifle of rent. Karen". {Rises staggeringly.) 0, I know, 44 In Far Bohemia Mrs. Pennypacker, I know! To-morrow, — perhaps — to-morrow! {She crosses totteringly to chair and falls into it.) 0, how stupid I am! — I can't {Mrs. Pemiypacker offers her the lohishy glass; she faintly puts it aside.) Not that! But if there were anything else, — just a crumb — just a swallow Mrs. p. {Hastens to luindoio sill and takes tin cany bringing it to Karen.) 'Ere you are, my dear — the very thing ! Milk ! Though why an unmarried — moral — man should 'ave milk Karen^. {Pours out a little tremulously in glass.) I think — he buys it — for the cat. Mrs. p. {Pulling up her skirts.) Cat? There ain't no cat! KARE]sr. She lives on the roof. I don't think she ever comes in. I hear him coaxing her to, some- times. He puts out the milk for her. Mrs. p. That's McLaren ! Character ! Karen. {Drinks the milk at first daintily , theii with a sudden passionate greediness.) 0, how good milk is ! How {She reaches out half -unconsciously for the can Mrs. P. extends to her. Before she touches it a voice is heard singing stento- rianly, hut evidently very far below stairs, ^^ Glory, Glory, Hallelujah!'''' Karen lays down the glass and moves more steadily, though still feebly, toiuard the door.) In Far Bohemia 45 Kaeen". 0, Mrs. Pennypacker ! You'll explain to Mr. McLaren? You'll tell him that I,— that to-morrow, {Slie goes out, catching at the door-post as she passes. McLaren'' s voice sounds more and more loudly in ^^ Glory, Glory, Hallelujah!'''' as he approaches the landing.) Mes. p. Hexplain! Hexplain! That's heasy said, — but with so much gone from the milk, — an' a trifle from the whisky, — an' McLaren maybe that 'otty from 'avin made 'is 'it {She agitatedly puts whisky -hottle to her lips as McLaren enters. He wears an ancient theatrical cloah and slouch hat. His arms are full of cans, hottles, hundles and the like. He is still jovially singing. He pauses at sight of Mrs. P.) McL. Your very good health. Mother P. ! {She endeavors confusedly to put the hottle hack in the cupboard, hut canH find the door.) 0, don't hurry! Don't hurry! Glenlivat of that quality is its own excuse for consumption ! {He puts down hundles, takes off cloak and hat, ivarms himself at fire, etc., as the scene proceeds.) 46 In Far Bohemia Mrs. p. 0, Mr. McLaren! I 'ope as 'ow you won't think it strynge McL. I give you my word, Madam, I never thought anything strynge in my life — my vowels are not constructed on that principle ! Moreover an exposi- tion of sociability hath come upon me, — and I sup- pose I might as well take it out with you as with the — other — cat! Especially as you haven't her unkind way of rejecting my hospitality; you even accept it — unsolicited — ^you know ! {He goes to man- tel^ takes pipe and opens tobacco-box to fill it.) Have a pipe-full, Mrs. P.? — Eh? {Looks into jar.) I should say, have — another — pipe-full? {Smokes.) Mrs. p. 0, Mr. McLaren, I'm that upset! What with your hamazin' 'it McL. Oh! The news of my 'it 'as reached 'ome already, 'as it? This is fyme! {Sits smoking.) Mrs. p. {Slightly 7naudlin.) What with your 'it, and the queer goin's-on of Miss Demar, across the 'all, there McL. {Drops his pipe on table.) Miss Demar? Wliat goings-on? Mrs. p. Such a hamazin', hunexpected 'it! McL. Hit be damned ! What's been happening to Karen Demar? {Rises.) Woman! Woman! Gather up the fragments of yourself and talk sense ! English you can't talk — I don't ask it of you, knowing you came from England! — but sense you In Far Bohemia 47 can talk, now and then, with an effort! Brace np! Make your effort! What's happened to that little girl across the hall? Mks. p. Starvation's 'appened to 'er — that's wot ! An' faintin' away dead as a corpse on that there sofy ! MoL. God bless that sofa! Mes. p. When I 'eard 'er a-goin' out at ten o'clock of such a tempestrious night as this — — McL. Out at ten o'clock? That child? What for? Alone? Mes. p. I says to myself, when a pretty girl who's got no friends nor clothes — nor food — nor fire — nor money — starts out alone at ten o'clock of a tempestrious night, it means, one of two things. Now, she bein' wot she is, one thing it don't mean with Karen Demar — ^ though there's many a gentle- man, single and married McL. I don't want to figure in the papers to-morrow morning other than in my professional capacity — but there are moments when assault and battery {He eyes Mrs. P. vengefully and slowly turns up Ms cuffs.) Mes. p. And the other thing was — the river ! McL. The river ! Good God ! {Snatches up his hat.) But you said she came back again — didn't you? {He catches Mrs. P. hy the shoulders and slightly shakes her.) You practical exemplification of all the vices ! You said so ! — didn't you? 48 In Far Bohemia Mrs. p. Certain sure I said so ! {Releases her- self gasping.) Didn't I tell you I brought her to, with your whisky, in this very room? An' a relief it was, I do sy, an' me a-settin' up wytin' for the police to come and tyke me away to identify her drowned body. McL. You — a-wytin' — not following the child, — not, — just — a-wytin' (He cleliheratehj opens door.) Mrs. Pennypacker, I think your husband's cousin's nephew must be wytin' for you at your domestic hearth ! Mrs. p. {Goes heioilderedly toioarddoor.) Well — upon — my {Looks toiuard bottle on tahle.) McL. Take it, Mrs. Pennypacker. {Carries bottle to her.) Take it with my love and the com- pliments of the season — take it and depart — 0, depart! Mrs. p. {At threshold.) Well, I cayn't see what you^ve done for that starvin' girl any more'n me. 'Aven't?/ow just set a-wytin'? Just a-wytin' ! {Goes sloivh/j muttering and shaking her head.) McL. {Goes back to table^ absently takes up pipe; crosses to fire; leans on mantel.) Right you are, Pennypacker ! We're pennies of a pattern ! Wytin' ! Yes, that's what I've been doing,— waiting — and that little girl wearing away like a snow-wreath before my eyes, day after day — her dear, blue eyes getting bigger and bigger, and her poor little wrists In Far Bohemia 49 getting smaller and smaller — starving — and I wallow- ing in luxury — and having luxury left over for Penny- packer to wallow in! Damn it all ! What can I do? What could I ever do? Proud as — as a decent little girl should be ; no more take a cent from me than that confounded cat — by the way, that reminds me. {Opens garret window and loohs for cat.) Puss! Pass! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty! 0, there you are, are you? Won't you come in? Do come in! Per- haps you don't know I've made a hit? Oysters every day after this! Oysters noio! {Comes hach and opens can; holds up oyster.) Come in and have one? No ! Confound you, perhaps you won't come in till I'm a star? Take it then — take several! {He throws oysters out one after another; comes hach and ivipes his hands.) It's no use! Not even a cat to jubilate with! {Takes up pipe again.) And my hit's made! Who was the man who said he didn't get his Eden Eose till he'd lost his sense of smell? That's me! {Smolces gloomily.) And that Little 'Un freezing to death and starving to death — and I {There is a faint cry and a light fall without.) Good Lord! What's that?— I thought— if it should be— I suppose I've no business to — Damn propriety! {He rushes out. After a pause he trings Karen i7i^ in his arms, very tenderly. Her hair is loose. She is deathly white. He lays 50 In Far Bohemia her on the sofa, covers her loith the buffalo roie, chafes her hands, etc.) McL. I say, Little 'Un — Just open your eyes a minute, can't you? Just a minute? There's a pulse at her wrist! She isn't dead! She can't be dead! She shanH be dead! Little 'Un! {He rushes to ciiphoard, and then remembers the whisky is gone; takes flask from pocket.) So much saved from the Pennypacker ! (He puts it to her lips.) Just a drop or two, Little 'Un! There! That's better, isn't it? Karen". {Opening her eyes; faintly.) Mrs. Pennypacker ! McL. Odor of whisky ! Force of association ! Karen. Mrs. Pennypacker, I — why, I'm in Mr. McLaren's room, still! I thought I went back! — I thought Mr. McLaren! {She struggles to rise.) McL. Stay where you are! {She sinks back.) Come, now, Little 'Un, don't you see you've got to stay where you are? You can't get up alone, and I'm blamed if I help you. I've helped you to do enough in the suicide line, lately — helped you by looking on and wytin' — I mean waiting. Karen. (Bewildered.) Mr. McLaren! McL. 0, well, I'm rattled, that's a fact; but there's nothing worse the matter with me. I only want you to stay where you are. It's warm; that In Far Bohemia 51 room I took you from is a refrigerator ! Child, you were lying {He stops, cliohmg with emotion.) Kaeen". {Faintly.) Yes — I know. McL. And there's something to eat here. There's a great deal to eat. I had some idea of celebrating — with the cat. {Fumbles among pach- ages.) But the cat didn't see it. There's some wine jelly in that bowl. {Hands it to her.) Eat every last drop of that wine jelly, Little 'Un! Do you hear? Eat that jelly ! {She mechanically obeys: and presently eats with mad eagerness. He watches her with growing emotion: and at last turns his bach., unable to bear her hunger.) Kaeek. {She sets down the boivl with a long sigh, and speaks wistfully, after a little pause.) 0, I wish you hadn't done it, Mr. McLaren! Now it's only to do over again — all over again ! McL. {Coming forward^ What's to do over again? Karek. The starving. The freezing. The dying. It was almost done. If you'd left me where I fell, it would have been done, before morning. I knew that, — that's why I didn't go to the river to-night. I started to go to the river; and then I said: *'It will come before morning anyway ; and it had better come at home." 52 In Far Bohemia McL. (With a soh.) At home! 0, Little 'Un! Karen". There's no place in this world for a girl who wants to keep good, and hasn't any one to take care of her — and isn't clever enougli to do any work the world wants. I was almost through; why didn't you let me go the rest of the way? {Crying softly.) McL. Because there was somebody to take care of you. Because it isn't going to begin again — Lie still, Little 'Un. I'm going to talk straight talk. If I say anything I oughtn't or do anything I oughtn't you can go away, you know — after you've killed me. Did you know you were engaged to be married? Well, you are; and after you've had a good nap {Tucks the buffalo role around her.) and some breakfast, I'm coming back. {Begins to put on cloak arid take up hat.) And I'm going to bring a parson and a license, and you're going to sign your checks Karen McLaren before to-day noon. {As she tries to rise and speak.) Hold on! Lie still! I'm not through yet. I'd like to adopt you — I'd rather adopt you — but I can't. The world is full of people — mostly Pennypackers — and it wouldn't go down. But if I marry you, it'll be nobody's business, will it? I've made a hit — ^you didn't know that, maybe? Wait till the morning papers come out! I've made a hit; and I go with the company to New York to-morrow, to play the biggest character- part the American stage has seen in twenty years, at In Far Bohemia 53 a salary of several figures. That's settled. Well, then! What's the matter with your going to school? There isn't a Kindergarten department in the country wouldn't be proud of you ! What's the matter with your studying Art, — Paris — you know — anywhere? I'll insure my life to-day, — you may be a widow before you've grown up! You needn't be afraid of my bothering you, you know. I made my hit in a character -part — I won't tackle Eomeo just yet! You shall be as free as if I'd adopted you; and if you ever, after you're grown up, run across Komeo — ■ why — I'll see you get a decree absolute with alimony! Come now. Little 'Un? It's a bargain? Ah? Do it for charity ! Think what a mercy it'll be to a man who hasn't anything in this world but a damned unsocial cat ! Karen". {Tremllingly begins to put up her loosened hair.) Mr. McLaren, I thought, — I thought you thought I was — a good — ^woman ! McL. Little 'Un! For God's sake! {Be- wildered.) Kareh. {Rises, steadying herself tremulously against the sofa.) Could a good woman — could any woman with an honest heart — take home, and shelter, and comfort, and all a woman wants in this world — from a man who only pities her — who does not want her ever to be near him McL. Pities her? Doesn't want her near him? 54 In Far Bohemia Little 'Un, I love the ground under your poor blessed worn-out little shoes! Don't want her near me? Little 'Un, I've stood half the night with my face against your door ! But — I've no business to tell you such things! I never meant to tell you such things! You're a child! You were born a lady! You'll grow up — a lady! And I — I — Child! I've been a strolling player for twenty years ! Kareist. {Begins to heat up the pillotvs.) Do you think the clergyman will mind so many stairs? McL. Little 'Un! Karen^. You can tell me the rest, you know, now I know the principal thing — You can tell me the rest, bye and bye, — in a year or two, when I've graduated from the Kindergarten. {McL. sits, dropping his face on his arms, Karen goes to the window, and raises the shade.) Karen. Why, it's dawn — and I do believe there's the cat! {Comes down to him.) Do you know, so many times when I've heard you calling that cat, I've wanted to crawl over the roof and say: '*0, please call me home, instead!" McL. {Starts up; opening arms.) Little 'Un, if you say that sort of thing — I — Not now ! (He takes her hands and hisses them very tenderly, then he leads her to the couch and tucks her in.) You'll In Far Bohemia 55 sleep till I come with the parson? {8pent and ex- hausted^ she sleeps. Looks toivardwindotu.) Dawn! — and our wedding-day! 0, Little 'Un! Little 'Un! God bless you! [Goes to door.) {He buries his face in his bent arm, leaning against the door and sobbing.) (CURTAIN^.) THE END OF THE WAY The End of the Way^ DRAMATIS PERSONS. Will Scarlett (of Robin Hood's Sherwood Out- laws.) Lady Jacqueli:n^e Werewood. The period is the close of the twelfth century. The place is the castle hall of Sir John Werewood. The time is half past twelve of an October night. The scene is the hall of the castle of Sir John Were- wood. It is an ancient hall of stone, after the manner of the Saxon castles of the twelfth century. There is a great fireplace; the logs are smouldering low, as if the fire had been hanked with ashes. A few pieces of massive furniture. As the curtain rises, Lady Jacqueline pushes aside the arras that hangs over one of the doors, and comes in, speaking as she does so, backward, to some one in the corridor with- out. She wears the dress of a boy of the period. * This play was written for and is the property of Mr. Robert Ederson. 59 6o The End of the Way Lady J. Come your ways in, Will Scai'lett. Nay, man, in with thee; what dost thou fear? {Will Scarlett enters, with much caution. He carries his long how: a sheaf of arrows is slung over his back.) Will. *'What fear I?" quoth he. Ay, marry, what should any he who hunts with Kobin Hood, fear in the stronghold of a righteous magistrate? A naught, a whifflet. Merely a stout cord around the arms for first ''God speed thee," — and presently a stouter cord around the neck. Lady J. Nay, Will. Here's my word that that stout throat of thine shall know naught more com- fortless than a draught of the soundest Ehenish. Will. *' Ehenish!" As he were lord o' the castle! Lady J. Lord of the castle am I not ; yet I can guess me shrewdly where good Rhenish grows therein ; ay, and a crusty loaf, to test those excellent teeth of thine; and a cheese so rich with age, that e'en the mice race from the smell of it. Warm thee. Will, and take my word that presently we'll feast as fair as good comrades should, when they are come to the farewell, and to the end of the way. Will. The end of the way. Ay, and had I not been fool, e'en to the marrow of me, I had met the end of the way, a good rood or two nearer to where lies mine own safety. The End of the Way 6i Lady J. But thou wert loath to cry me farewell. Nay, say it, churl; 'twas for that thou didst cry "Down!" to thy good caution. Will. Nay, I'll speak truth and no smoothness. I came with thee unsafely beyond the forest, for that I mistrusted thy hot head would ne'er get thy fool's feet in surety to the end of thy race. Lady J. Yet my fool's feet have led thee to the losing of thy wager, eh, Will Scarlett? Will. Ay, that through fools' luck have they. I wagered thee thou ne'er wouldst get uncaught into the strong castle o' Sir John Werewood, worshipful magistrate; and it seemeth thou art here; and for my sins, I also — and the more fools be we all. Lady J. {At fireplace.) The more fool this green wood, for that it smokes like half-caught love, and warms a wayfarer as little. Burn warmlier, thou varlet. (Pokes fire.) Will. A murrain on thy clamor ! Wouldst wake the castle? What say I? Is't mayhap thy will to wake the castle? For this was thy wager? God's death ! Has my thick wit led me into the snare the honest are aye laying for us greenwood thieves? {He fits an arrow to Ms bow.) Lady J, {Faces him squarely.) And with this word, Will Scarlett, thou facest a leal comrade, at the end o' the way? Will. {Slowly dropp>ing low.) I wronged thee? 62 The End of the Way Nay, I cannot read thine eyes and not know I have wronged thee. Traitor's a vile word. Reckon with me as thou wilt, lad — thy fist or a throw at wrestling. Lady J. Nay, and I said ay to either, where were I in the next breath taken? I am in no haste to see Pai'adise. Will. Paradise would be a strange lodging for thee, thou fly-afield. 'Tis from the other road I guess thy journey's wended. {Points significantly doivmuard.) Lady J. Mayhap; and mayhap 'tis why I find this world too cold a spot for comfort. {Pokes fire again.) Will. Quiet, I say. Wouldst have theri ghteous magistrate afoot? Lady J. The righteous magistrate's at a far calling. Sir John's in Palestine. Will. At the Crusades? I thought him home ere this. But we lads of the greenwood follow scantily the doings o' court folk. Lady J. Sir John doeth in Palestine, Will, what thou and thy greenwood lads make shift at here; namely, relieve the heathen of goods which Heaven meant for true Christians ! AViLL. With this good difference, lad: The robbers in the Holy Land come back with praise and The End of the Way 63 pelf; and the robbers o' the greenwood are fair game for every sheriff's arrow. Lady J. All good sheriffs' arrows sleep i' their quivers. 'Tis hours since curfew-time. Best thee by the fire, good Will; I'll e'en go a-hunting for that Ehenish I have vowed to thee. Will. Nay, I'll rest not. 'Tis not so many hours to dawn ; 'tis a shrewd mile to Sherwood, lad, 'tis the way's end; and so God speed thee. 'Twas a good journey, though the strangest e'er I wended; but the journey's done. Lady J. Nay, the way's not ended, Will, till we've pledged its good end in good Ehenish. I'll fetch it thee, ere thou hast said, "Where goest thou?" Will. {Laying Ms hand heavily on her shoulder.) Nay, that's already said; and more's said. Not only "Where goest thou?" but '*Thou goest not"— till I know where thou goest. Lady J. 'Tis not the hunter of hares, 'tis the hare that fears hunting that holds' me here. I ne'er thought to see Will Scarlett 0' this complexion. Will. Thou 'It see more in Will Scarlett than thou e'er hast seen, and thou'lt feel that from Will Scarlett that thou ne'er hast felt, if thou curb not thy fool's tongue. *'Hunted hare"? What else is every right-born Englishman that stands for his right- born king? Is't for mine own skin I fear? Thou'st 64 The End of the Way fared with me a seven-days' journey. Answer thou that thyself! Lady J. Nay, Will— deai* Will, thy life hath guarded mine when no need was, at the call of thy good heai't; and in my heart thy courage is writ sure. 'Tis but that I do not know thee in thy new humor. Will. 'Tis the humor of him who fears for a comrade ; and that's the fearsomest fear of all. Hark ye, Jackbrain! Seest thou not 'tis not alone Will Scarlett's life I bring here to-night on this fool's wager? If I'm taken? If they lay me on the rack, and my pluck cracks with my bones . . . and when they say, hand on screw, "Where bides Robin Hood, and what's his password? . . . God's my life! Better men than I have said the word that's sped a comrade to the rope, and themselves to the hell of traitors. I'll take no chance. It is farewell, indeed, I say; and so thy hand and it's ended. Lady J. A man foresworn art thou. *'If thou enterest the Werewood hall uncaught," — this thy word under last night's white stars — "I'll tarry there with thee and drink thy pluck in Sir John's borrowed wine." We're here, the wine is within easy stealing. I claim thy pledge, man. Will, let me to the cellar. AViLL. 'Twas a fool's pledge. I'll not keep it to a right man's risking. Thy hand. Nay? Then farewell and no clasping ! The End of the Way 65 {He starts for the door.) Lady J. Farewell ; and good riddance to a liar. Will. {Starting hack in hot anger.) Nay, now I go not, tide what betide, till the hand thou wouldst not clasp hath taught thee the lesson thou art aching for. Lady J. {Greatly startled.) What meanest thou, Will,— good Will? Will. Good will I do thee, — I and my stout belt. Nay, many a time in this our week of wandering have I raid, "A murrain on the lad's sharp nettle- tongue. Sure the fool that begot him hath never learned what sound medicine for Jackanapes hides in a hickory rod ! ' ' {He takes off Ms belt and swings it. ) Lady J. That's — ^that's no hickory rod. Will. Thy shoulders will guess no mighty difference. Lady J. Thou'dst beat me. Will? Will. Ay will I, with good heart ; and so do thee a charity. Lady J. A — a charity, Will? Will. A charity. For did I not teach thee that a man is not called a liar and a coward by every wandering Jackanapes he journeys with, some other will e'en teach thee, not with a belt, but with an arrow, drawn to the head. 66 The End of the Way Lady J. Will, thou wilt not. Will. Who now is hunted hare? Off \vith thy doublet ! Lady J. Will, thou canst not! Will. Thy shoulders shall guess that. Off with thy doublet! Lady J. [Strips off her doublet and stands in the soft, white shirt beneath. ) To it then. Pm ready (Will lifts his arm for a swingi^ig bloio with the belt: she looks at him fearlessly. After a pause his arm sloiuly drops, he puts on his belt with unsteady hands; he passes his hand across his forehead.) Will. Beshrew thine eyes! There's magic in them! Nay, I swear it on the rood; there's magic in them. How else when I would have given thee the sound trouncing thou dost so soundly need, doth my arm drop strengthless? Boy, is't true? Hast meddled with the magic? Nay, I'll ne'er betray it to the priests. Speak true. Hast meddled with the magic? Lady J. (Puts on her doublet again.) With white magic, mayhap, Will ; but ne'er with black magic, on my man's word. Will. White magic? What doth white magic do? Lady J. Why, many things, my Will, and all of The End of the Way ^ij them good. As this, Will. Harkye! Thoii wouldst not let me go to seek the Ehenish we drink farewell in, therefore, by my white magic, go I to this arras, and say to my white spirit, *'What ho! Wine for ua of the best. Ay, and crusty loaf, and cheese to men's liking." (A table is pushed between the cur- tains, having on it the things demanded. ) And lo ! my kind spirit waits not, but serves us on the word. {She pulls the table into the room and wheels it forward.) Will. {In mortal terror.) Saint George I A million devils ! Saint Peter and Saint Patrick ! Bid it away! I have no silver arrow, and witches care naught for good English arrow wood. Bid it away ! Nay, then, I'll e'en do what an archer may. ( With trembling hands he begins to fit an arrow to the string.) Lady J. {Wlio has been in uncontrollable fits of laughter.) Down with thy bow! Thou very Prince of thick wits ! Down with thy bow. Art thou gone dream-struck? Dost not see? Will naught but very magic lighten thy blind eyes? Peer out through yonder curtains, then, and tell me what thou seest! Will. ( With the most elaborate caution, he peers through the drapery, through which the table has been pushed.) Let me sniff shrewdly, first. Is there brimstone in the air? What see I? An old dame — or so she seemeth; but, alack-a-day! She may be 68 The End of the Way the devil, for aught my wildered sense can swear. She hasteth away — and laugheth as she goes. Lady J. Well may she laugh. 'Tis a rare sight to see the doughtiest archer in all green Sherwood, fleeing in terror from — from what? A well-laid table ! Will. Nay, if 'tvvas laid in Tophet, I'll ne'er sup at it. Read me the riddle . . . I'll guess no more. And the riddle I'll read, or I bide here till the sun wakes the sheriff. Lady J. Ay' now that's right bravely said. Will Scarlett. Sit ye down. I'll read whatever page of my poor riddle thou 'It turn me to. Sit ye down. Eat, man, eat. Will. {Cautiously a'piyroaching the table.) I'll but si}) the flagon. E'en the Devil can but half spoil good Ehenish. {He drmks.) And in such Rhenish — good lack — I'd all but pledge the Devil ! Lady J. {Perching on the edge of the table and nibbling a bit of bread.) Thy catechism, AVill ! My faith's pledged to its answering. Will. Whence come these? {Indicates things on table.) Lady J. From the larder of the worshipful Sir John Werewood — now in . . . Palestine. ( With an effect of having been about to say, "m Paradise.'''*) Will. Who stole them hence? Lady J. Nay, ** steal" is no pretty word, amongst thieves! No steal: a good gift from Sir John's good- The End of the Way 6g heart housekeeper, she who hath cared me through many a care of my calf -time. Will. And 'twas even she who opened to thee, but now, and let thee pass, uncaught? Lady J. Even she. Will. My wool-wits clear. And this was thy magic ! Lady J. (Laughing.) Nay, I told thee 'twas white magic. Will. One more, and my catechism's sped: How earnest thou in the wood? Lady J. The wood? Will. Ay, Jackanapes. The wood where a se'n- night since I found thee in the nightfall, nursing thy twisted foot and wailing as 'twere a deer in a springe : *'Alack-a-day! it darkens; I've lost my road and lamed my tired foot. I pray o' thee, good archer, wherea way lies Werewood?" Lady J. And thou didst answer, Greatheart, *'A many leagues from here lies Werewood. Lame duck that thou art, come, lean on a comrade's shoulder — we'll fare together." Will. Ay, an' we've fared it, over rough ways and smooth, all the way through ; and now the way's ended. But thou dost not fairly meet my catechism : How came thou in that wood? Lady J. They sent me to a place I liked not Will. Too free gift o' the hickory, eh? Lady J. Too many prayers. 70 The End of the Way Will. Ay, praying's clear not in thy talent Lady J. Nor in thine, eh. Master Scai'lett — eh? Will. Nay, hut an outlaw may say a prayer — so 'tis an outlaw's prayer. Lady J. Be outlaws churchmen, then? Will. Nay, 'tis not in a church my prayers come — the priests are in the way. 'Tis when I stand i' the greenwood — and the trees talk i' the night wind, and the stars are big, and at my foot is a comrade's grave, that died in a good fight — 'tis then the heart cries up to find what's i' the wind's voice and the star's silence; and to find where live the men who died for men. Lady J. May such a prayer be said for me in such a heart. Amen. Will. Sayest thou so, lad? Ay, and 'twas said with good heart. Lady J. With all my heart, such as my heart is, 'twas said. Will. Thou sayest it? {He rises eagerly.) Nay then, lad, why shouldst not make it sooth? To die i' the greenwood, must a man live i' the green- wood. Wilt cast thy life there? Think, . . . there's no life freer — no life in the which a man's so true a man. Lady J. I trust that, for I have known an out- law. But, Will, dear Will, the life of a true man i' the greenwood is not for me. The End of the Way 71 Will. And wherefore not, lad? I' the name o' the saints, wherefore not? My faith upon it, thou'rt fatherless. Lady J. Ay, unfathered and unmothered. Will. And no one rules thee with right, who rules thee into the uncomfort thou didst flee from. 'Twas a brave flight, that flight. The lad who flees from slavery fights for liberty, when the man's beard comes. Thou fleest from no duty who fleest to the greenwood with me. Lad, my heart is moved as 'twere by magic indeed. I knew not till thou spakest that word, how ill it were for me to leave thee. Lad, I have had no full-heart comrade since I was myself a very lad. I know not by what strong moving I am moved to plead thee. Come to the free life — to the wood's life, to the man's life. I have been thy field -mate but a star's hour, yet art thou heart-mate to me, as none has been since my brother died a lad, here on my breast. Lad, be my very brother. I'll make thee man. I'll guard thee as guards a man. Lad, the stars set, I must begone. . . . Wilt come? Lady J. I may not. Will, . . . brave heart, I may not. Will. And wherefore **may not"? Dost hope for preferment, in turning hearth-dog here? What means preferment? To wait upon a great man's nod ; to pay thy manhood, that thou mayest eat rich 72 The End of the Way and lie soft ; to live a lackey, and fare, up yonder, as they fare who have sold soul's right for body's safety. Nay, in the greenwood there's naught between a man's soul and the stars of God. And, therefore, man stands — at man's whole height. . . . Lad: Come! Lady J. I may not, Will. Nay, despise me not — an' thou knewest all, thou wouldst say, "Stay: 'tis honor." . . . Will! Look not at me, as one who scorns a coward. . . . Will! Thou shalt not go in scorning. At the way's end, Will — the good way we have fared together — thou shalt not go in scorning! Bide here but one small moment. Will: In one small moment I will show thee without words why 'tis I may not fare with thee. Glad would I fare with thee, staunch heart; but for Nay, wait but for this one small moment, Will. Thou thyself shalt say — shalt bid me (She holds out her hands to him^ in a piteous appeal^ as she goes from the room.) Will. {Looking after him, in heioilderment.) What means the lad? **I may not, in honor," — "thou'lt say I may not, an' thou seest," See what? What next of magic? All things fade in mine eyes to a dancing dream. What is't to me. Will Scarlett, archer and outlaw, so a lad cometh wi' mo or no? ... A lad I ne'er set eyes on, till a The End of the Way 73 se'nnight gone? Met eyes of? Ay, there is't; there Ues his magic. His eyes are as the deer a man tames to his hand. They're as the stars a man lifts prayer to. They're Nay — I'm fay-struck. I'll away. He will not fare with me, what matters why? I'll away! {Starts toiuard door, hesitates^ returns.) Nay, but I pledged to him a stirrup-cup, at the way's end. I'll drink it wi' him; he shall not say again, *' Hunted hare!" and ^'Liar!" Ay, *'Liar,'* said he, and walks afoot with a whole head ! Tell it not in Sherwood forest, lest all true men forswear my company! How low burns the fire! It feels the dawn chill. . . . Nay, for my comrades' sake I must be afoot. I'll wait no longer. {As he turns to go out, Lady J. enters, in her woman^s attire.) Will. {Starting at sight of her.) I'm trapped! A fool must e'en woo his destiny! I've no one word to offer — the cord's about my throat. Madam, I pray you take no fear of me. Lady J. Nay, Will Scarlett, why should thy field-mate have fear of thee? Will. My field-mate?— Thou?— Nay, ... By our Lady 0' grace! . . . Lad! 'Tis thou? 'Tis truly thou? Lady J. In verity, Will Scarlett, it is I. But no lad. Will. 74 The End of the Way Will. God's death ! — a maid? Lady J. Canst thou forgive me, Will, that I'm no lad? That I took lad's good help of thee, who am no lad? Will. No lad? A maid? Nay, then the magic's clear. . . . White magic — aye, indeed, white magic — the magic of a white maid's eyes. Lady J. I meant to tell thee, Will; but thou saidst, who thought me lad, **I'll company thee to the way's end." And, Will, I was so lone, so lame, so frighted, . . . and thy strong shoulder was so good to lean on . . . Will, Will. Nay, 'twas best — 'twas a good way. I had not companied thee, this good way, had I known thee maid. Is the way ended, — is't in yery truth ended, — this way we fare together? Lady J. {Startled.) How else. Will? Great- heart, how else? Will. Nay, thus else: If I bade thee, a lad, bear me long company, — be field-mate, and wood- mate, and heart -mate — a million times do I so cry thee now! Mine as no lad could e'er be mine! Mine by the right of man's love, born the hour thou criedst upon me in thy need; nourished by every hour we companied together under God's free stars; revealed to this my wildered soul, when but now I would have done thee pain in my just anger, and thine eyes struck mine arm strengthless. In that The End of the Way 75 loye's name, come forth! What are they to thee, from whom thou didst flee? I will be all to thee — thou shalt lack naught. Comrade for life and death and love that's deathless, come forth with me, and learn what like is life and love when man lives and loves with naught but the starset sky between him and his God! Lady J. {Breaks into a passion of sobbing.) I may not, Will, I may not. . . . Will, I am nor lad nor yet free maid. Will, I am Lady Werewood! Will. A wife ! — My life's love — and a wife ! Lady J. A wife who ne'er knew love, ... a wife who ne'er knew wifehood. By my father's death-couch, — Will, by my father's dying command, I gave my hand into the hand of Sir John Werewood, my father's oldest, closest of comrades. . . . *< 'Twill be safety for thee, maid!" — my father gasped, and died. ... A priest had stood beside the couch ; they told me when they lifted me from my dead father's breast, the word of that priest had sealed me wife. Will. And thy husband? Lady J. He stood in war-dress by my father's death-couch. Within the hour he sought ship for Palestine. Will. God ! How is he then thy husband? A word spoke unknowing, by a maid-child, who knew not what word she spoke — a maid they penned after, y6 The End of the Way by her lord's command, in a convent prison, until that he cometh to teach her how life may be prison indeed? Cold? Old? Thrice wedded? How shall he call thee wife, who ne'er shall call thy heart? . . . Nay, thou art mine — mine, who can teach thee true love-lessoning, and wait in reverence till thou learnest that lesson! Come with me, now — now, mine own — mine heart's heart, . . . Come! Lady J. Sayest thou so, in very truth? Thou, who art man and large, and true and wise? ... Is it sooth that I who love thee — for even in this hour I do know I do love thee. Will, dear heart! — that I who love thee may fare forth with thee without blame, and God's stars give us welcome? ... I know not — my lore is but what priests teach — be thou my beadsman, Greatheart comrade. Say yet once more of free heart, *'Come!" — and I who love thee, follow thee over the rim of the world ! Will. God sees . . . and I dare not say it! — God! — 'Tis the end o' the way! Lady J. I may not go? Will. For that thou art wife, who knowest not what wife may be, thou mayest not go. . . . Farewell ! Lady J. Wilt leave me. Will! . . . Nay, my heart faints — how is it strangely with me? Will. Would God I might teach thee that sweet why. I may not. Sweet — Sweet! — This I do tell The End of the Way 77 thee: Thou calledst in the dark wood, and God sent me to thy side. In any peril, any pain, let but thy soul call mine, and Hell's fetter cannot keep me from thee! To my heart once — once — that thou mayest know forever what love is ! {He catches her passionately to his breast^ and hisses her long.) Farewell ! {He rushes out.) Lady J. {She watches him go; a great and piteous tremhling seizes her; she sinks into a chair with one thicJc sob.) The end o' the way! . . . The end o' the way! (CUETAIIS'.) A COMEDIE ROYALL BEING A FORGOTTEN EPISODE OF Elizabeth's day. A Comedie Royall DEAMATIS PEESON^. Elizabeth (Queen of England). Sir John Haetwykd. EoYALL Haetwykd (his son). Sir Edward Avis. Lord Mortimer Farthori^j^e. Phyllida Erekch (Lady in waiting to Elizabetli). The period is 1580. The place is England. The scene is an andience-chamber of the palace. The time is noon of an April day. The scene is an audience- cliamler ^ with carved fire- 'place ^ L. 3. Mullioned windows hach^L, andR. Large entrance-door^ lach^ centre covered with tapestried hangings. A throne-lihe chair., on a dais., R. 3, A carved table^ L. C. with chairs on either side. Curtain-music^ any Elizabethan air. As the cur- 81 82 A Comedie Royall tain riseSy Elizaheth stands upon the dais^ having apparently arisen from the throne in haste and anger. PhyUida stands a little to L. of dais with face hidden in her hands. Royall Hartiuynd stands tack in shadoiu of curtains of window L. hack. Avis^ Far- thorne and John Hartioynd stand grouped hy door hacky centre^ as if about to leave the chamber. Elizabeth. Nay, Lords, not yet! Quit not our chamber here, Till that there buzz into the ears o' ye A somewhat, that may sting ye into grace Of fair and seemlier manners! 'Od's my life! Is this our audience-chamber where ye stand, Or is't our apery? Avis. Your Majesty — Your Gracious Majesty, — we meant not, — we Elizabeth. You meant not! 'S' Death! You meant not. Harkye now ! Hell's aristocracy, my Lord, is built Of men that *' meant not!" Here, with leave, my Lords, Here in our audience-chamber, you beguile An hour or twain, in royal company ; Claims such a privilege no dignity? What dignity show ye? 'Fore Heaven I swear Ye show your Queen the dignity of apes That scent a jest to feed a grin, withal, A Comedie Royall 83 In every wind that blows ! Maid Malapert — (PhylUda^ whom the Queen indicates^ takes her hands from lefore her tear-stained face, and mahes a gesture of timid and supplicating deference toward the Queen.) A baby sheep, from country sheep-fold new, Bleats out, responding to an idle word, A sheep's own answer; — and to every lip Straight leaps an apish grin ! — To all save one ! Where passed the lad? Where's Koyall Hartwynd? Sir Johk. Ah ! Your Majesty, my son but drew apart, Fearing the scathe of that celestial wrath That in your eyes doth wither up men's souls. Elizabeth. Celestial wrath? Celestial fire o' tow! The Tudor wrath ne'er drew its heat, my Lord, From any fire of Heaven ! — Heard you not? I bade call Koyall Hartwynd ! {Sir John crosses to window L. lach^ and summons Royall from its curtained recess.) Sir Johk. Please your Grace, I plead that this my son did stand apart Elizabeth. Did "stand apart!" 'Od's blood! 'Twould seem, my Lord, The royal hangman late had quartered him 84 A Comedie Royall So in your speech your son doth **stand apart!" Young lioyall Hartwynd, {Royall advances to C. and makes profound oleisance.) stand forth in our sight, An only man, encompassed round with apes ! Alone you smiled not, when this lambling here, This saltless Qgg of country innocence (Phyllida gives a cliohing^ hysterical sol.) Brought booby blundering of country phrase To woo the grins of her Queen's apery ! KoYALL. Your Majesty, I saw no food for jest In the poor phrase of this poor maiden here, Nor saw I jest in — aught that followed it! Elizabeth. (Descending from dais.) Young sir, when churchly service claims your powers, (For this, your father hath acquainted me Your life to churchly use is dedicate) Our word for 't, in your loyal gravity The church will be the gainer. {She extends her hand, luhich Royall, kneel- ing, kisses. She then passes totvards doors, back, centre. Turning, she addresses Phyl- lida.) Elizabeth. Harkye, wench! Since presently we have a word for you A Comedie Royall 85 Bide here till 'tis our pleasure to return. The country sheep-fold calls its country sheep ; To-morrow's dawn shall speed you back to it! {To the men.) My lords, the keeper of our apery Keeps ever room behind its gilded bars For any ape unhousen ! {Exit EUzabetJi^ through door lack centre^ all malcmg profound reverences. As the doors close after ElizaMh^ PhylUda hursts mto low hysterical sobbing, and rushes across room to window L. bach, where she throws herself on her knees by its cushions, with face hidden. As the men come forward. Boy all goes quietly back and draws the curtains before her.) Fakthori^e. Hell's flame! That a man must take such words from a woman ! The sting of her cuts sharp to the heart ! Ayis. Good Cousin, let your wits whisper there's that in the Tower yonder cuts sharper than a woman's speech. A lucky sharpness, i' faith, whose sting falls not here {Indicates neck.) but here! {Hand on heart with mock sigh.) Sir John. By'r Lady, ay! Our royal mistress hath drawn from bluff King Hal, with much else, the trick to make a jest not of the royal jesting — a bird of price to him that jests that jest ! 86 A Comedie Royall Avis. Yet was tlie jest worth all it cost — ^od's body was it! E'en the apes she aped us mnst have grinned, when — **Red, your Majesty!" quoth Maid Innocence, — {Chokes with laughter. Royall at window L. draios curtains closer.) — and she — the Queen {Laughs again.) Farthorne. So thought not our young Master Parson yonder! Zounds! Wisely choose you, old Sir John, to shear those love-locks 'neath a churchly hat! **No food for jest!" cants he! {Royall conies down to C.) Avis. Young Master Parson! Young Master Saint ! Harkye, Gentlemen ! {Indicates Royall luith profound salutation.) Here struts Saint Royall, newly sainted by her sainted Majesty, of not too saintly speech ! {Avis and Farthorne laugh.) Royall. My lords, 'tis not with royalty alone a jest may be driven past the road of safety. Faith, 'tis no psalm book swings here at my side ; ( Touches sword.) and the sole church that yet holds vow of mine, is the church militant ! {Avis and Farthorne clap their hands to their swords.) Sir John^. I pray you, gentlemen — son Royall, A Comedie Royall Sy hold your peace! The Queen's Majesty may not yet have passed so far but that Fakthorke. Nay, no farther — swear me on the rood!— than to her tiring glass, there to fling loose the locks that gentle Spenser glorifies. Avis. And — "What poor color give you then to these my locks?" saith she, and those her 'tiring maids, less innocent than our poor Maid Innocence, cry, "Color? By'r lady; as the minted gold they shine!" (Avis and Farthorne take up their plumed hats and move lacTcward toward doors.) Farthorke. As sunbeams, making light a shady world! {Laughs.) Avis. As flashing wings of golden butterflies! {Laughs.) Faethorne. As sunrise shimmer on a saffron sea! {Laughs.) Avis. As the new aureole of our fighting saint! {Indicates Royall.) Farthorke. Say rather coxscomb of Saint Peter's cock, that clarions a denial of saintliness! {Flings open the doors.) KoYALL. I' faith the Queen's menagerie's afoot — St. Peter's cock, saluting the Queen's apes! {Bows profoundly.) FarthorijI'e. S'death, young sir! {Hand on sword). 88 A Comedie Royall Avis. Peace, Cousin! Open doors be open ears to drink in words. Dame Caution bids — best speak not! Give ye god-den, Sir John and young Sir Parson ! (Fartliorne and Avis exeunt. Doors close heliind them.) KoYALL. Young Sir Parson! Zounds, father, that word must hound me down no more ! No par- son I, nor ever will be parson ! Sir John. "Never!" saith the yearling calf i' the stall! Heaven's wrath, boy! I Royall. That ever I should live to hear the doughty Sir John Hartwynd dubbed begetter of calves ! Sir John". Your tongue behind your teeth, sir ! With preferment clear before you as ne'er till this day dawned — he'll be no parson, saith he! A beg- garly sixth son of a father so crippled in estate, that scarce he goes fit doubleted to court. Royall. Nay, father, when a single doublet wastes, as yours, the whole fruit of a loom {Indicates Sir John'* s portly paunch.) Sir John". Hold peace, I say! Or, by the Lord I'll birch your parsonship! All my six sons save you, afoot and afloat to the world's end, chasing that fleet-foot jade. Dame Fortune, — and you, for- sooth, would make calf -run after them, and leave A Comedie Royall 89 mine age a sunless day indeed, for that I have no son! KoYALL. Nay, father, an' I could serve you here, save under churchly colors Sir John". How else? A simple knight, I have scant word at court ! Parson or naught, when seek- ing for preferment ! KoYALL. Father, never Hartwynd yet swore fealty to a sovereign's banner, when in his heart of hearts he waited but his foeman's trumpet-call to be his foeman's slave. Sir John". What driveling is this? Royall. So would it be if I swore service to the church while my young blood beat this world's battle- call! I tell you, father, this the blood you poured into my veins stalks not to music of a priestly psalm, but dances to an April roundelay ! I say you nay ! Not for preferment, not for place or gold, a Hart- wynd e'er pledged caitiff service to a king ; and ask me not — for God's life ! I say nay ! to pledge such service to the King of Kings ! Sir John". {Gasping with rage.) A Bedlam! A Bedlam ! Bring the cords and whip ! And she, your Queen, so praised within the hour your church- manship to be, my old heart biggened with the dream I'd see you yet Her Majesty's privy chaplain! Royall. Privy chaplain ! I ! Good my father, wear I not yet some poor rags of innocence, that you 90 A Comedie Royall should scruple not to bid me list confessions of our Virgin Queen! Sir JoHif . A jackanapes ! A malapert ! A murrain on your insolence ! EoYALL. Nay, father — no churchman I ! Nay, I say! No churchman's prayer goes up from these my lips, save one — and that, the holy monk's who sup- plicated thus: ** Heaven send me virtue! But, — not yet!" Sir John. {Moving toivard door.) Nowharkye, Sirrah, and mark well my words ! — If from your Bedlam mood you turn you not. To godly ways and meek obedience. If my sixth son follow the other five, I'll — ^ring a country wench within a month, {Indicates putting a ring on wedding finger.) And within ten, I'll have a seventh son! {Exit, in haste and wrath.) EoYALL. {Laughing.) A son of his — Heaven's grace! — his son a parson! They're gone at last! And now for the one parson's trick of which I'm master-«-comfort of the afflicted, by'r Lady! — when affliction looks through dew-wet violet eyes, afflic- tion's comfort is sweet ministry ! {He crosses to the closed curtains of luindow, L. hack.) A Comedie Royall 91 RoYALL. Fair Mistress French! {There is no answer.) Sweet Mistress Phyllida! {The curtains faintly stir.) Nay, then, my little sweetheart! I pray you come you forth ! {Phyllida comes forth from curtains, arrang- ing her hair and coif which are in some dis- order; she draws long sighing breaths as she speahSy and from time to time dries her eyes.) Phyllida. She hath gone, Master Hartwynd? 'Tis safe and sure, she hath gone? Royall. Master me no master, dear and fair my maid! From thy lips *' Parson" were scarce hate- fuller! Phyllida. 'Tis sure she's gone. Royall. Ay, hath she ! There's no other queen bides here than this, the little queen of my poor heart ! {He hisses her hand.) Phyllida. Queen? Nay, 'twas not queen, that name the queen did name me ! 'Twas * 'sheep" quoth she! 'Twas *' malapert" quoth she! 'Twas **saltless 6gg)" qiioth she! {Weeps again.) You heard? Ay! All the world heard, so rang her voice through all the world ! Royall. I heard. Od's body! And I saw! And when her swinging hand laid buffet on that rose- 92 A Comedie Royall leaf cheek of thine, — Heaven's grace! — 'twas then, as saith Sir John, I * 'stood apart," lest I should speak to England's Queen what Englishman speaks not to any woman ! Phyllida. {RuhM7ig her cheek.) Her swinging hand! I' faith, 'tis marvel any woman's hand hath such a swing ! Methought our old cow Cloversides had lifted her hoof against me ! Royall. When I had buffets as a lad — an' faith Sir John ne'er spared them! — 'twas my mother's gentle wont to medicine them by a simple magic — shall I show thee? — Thy mother is not here to com- fort thee (for which mercy I give thanks) so sure 'tis but my duty {Gently kisses her cheek.) Phyllida. {Nestling to him.) Sure, 'tis quaint medicine ! Royall. 'Tis medicine that as the parson saith 'Tis blesseder to give than to receive ! {Lifts her face and kisses her lingeringly on the lips.) Phyllida. {Releasing herself.) Nay, sir, the hurt reached not my lips ! Royall. 'Tis well the healing should outrun the hurt! But heart o ' me ! Here is a hurt indeed That doth outrun all healing ! Phyllida. Nay, it puzzles me sore why all this A Comedie Royall 93 evil should be. Here sat the Queen a- jesting with the lords, — I heard them not, I did but gaze at thee! — and of a sudden saith Her Majesty, — **Out of the mouths of babes! The maid shall speak! What color, child, be these poor locks of mine?" Then said I EoYALL. *'Eed!" Heaven's footstool ! "Eed," said you ! — When of all colors on Heaven's footstool, red is the hue she'd least her locks should be! Phtllida. But red God made them, — and 'tis red they are! Royall. The reason of all reasons, dear my maid, why thou shouldst not say red ! Phyllida. (Sobs.) me! me! When I was but a little maid at home, they beat me sore for e'en a little lie; and now I'm maid-in-waiting at the court, they cuff me that I tell not monstrous ones! Eoyall. See you, love, God rules the country, — or measurably He rules it ; but the court a goddess rules; a goddess none too godly! But the mischief's done — what comes? 'Od'slife! What comes? Phyllida. Naught comes — all goes! I go! Heard you not so? "Sheep to her country sheep- fold!" quoth the Queen! — "We speed you thence, ere yet to-morrow dawns!" I pack me home to Devon ! Eoyall. Thou lovest Devon? Phyllida. Love Devon! That do I! Ah! but 94 A Comedie Royall its fields axe green ! But what I love not is the man who waits mo there, — the man they'll wed me to. EoYALL. By Peter's death! They'll wed thee? Phyllida. So swore my step-dame. "An' thou win not grace at court," quoth she, "the hour that sees thee back, will speed thee on thy way to church, there to be sealed fourth bride of old Squire Hunbers, who hath bid for thee!" Ah, Heaven 'fend me! He hath eyebrows like a pent-house, and his hands are rough and big, with hairs that curl and creep — ugh! {Shudders.) And his kiss KoYALL. {Takes her in his arms.) His kiss? Phyllida. Were not — like thine! {Hides her face against his breast.) Royall. They shall not send thee back ! Sooner we'll take the road, a wandering gypsy pair, with love for food and stars to warm us by ! But how win back the favor of the Queen? Phyllida. If she but loved thee as I love thee, thy sole pleading would suffice. Royall. She loves me not . . . and yet! A thought, my maid! The Virgin Queen loves no man; yet they say that virgins, queens or no, do love men's love; the more when years have shut the gates that bar the virgin from men's love ... I know not, I ! My father bred me for a parson ! Phyllida. But thou dost not love her? {Her lips quiver.) A Comedie Royall 95 ROYALL. Nay, Maid Innocence ! I love as every loyal English heart must love the mighty Queen whose reign hath rained down peace and glory on our isle; but man to woman . . . Sweet, thou knowest the color of her hair, — as thou saidst but now of thine old suitor's kiss, — 'tis not like thine! Phtllida. How then? EoYALL. Leave all to me! Love, we'll play comedy, with love as prize, and love as prompter too. Nay — thou needst do naught ! Ope not those hedge- rose lips, lest country truth pop out again, and straight undo us both ! Say * *yes ! ' ' — if I say " Is 't ! " Say **]SFay" when I say, 'Twas not so!" Naught else ! Hist ! Methinks the Queen is here ! Phyllida. Yet see I not Royall. Seek not to see ! 'Tis yea or nay from thee ! Naught else ! Guard thee ! Naught else ! {He leads her to fireplace, and moves several paces away from Tier. She runs toward Mm.) Phyllida. Love! Have I vexed thee ! Royall. Zounds! Back to place. Maid Inno- cence ! {She hesitatingly and apparently much be- wildered and woe-legone, moves hack to the opposite side of the fireplace. He gives a quich leap across and snatches a Mss, leaping back.) Royall. Thou vex me. Rose o' Spring! Nay — 96 A Comedie Royall caus't thou understand? 'Tis comedy! We play an hour at comedy ! {Tlie doors are flung open^ and EUzaheth enters. She does 7iot for the moment see Royall and PhylUda at the fireplace.) Elizabeth. Now, by my halidom ! 'Tis rare we've tasted such a cup of sack! Our humor's warm with it! (Sees Royall and PhylUda.) "What have we here? Our maid disgraced, in gossip with our parson? They note me not. (Passes, moving quietly to seat on dais.) Royall. Alack, kind Mistress French, That ever my rash word should draw you down Our sovereign's high displeasure ! (Weep ! 'Tis safe !) (PhylUda tueeps.) Elizabeth. His word, quoth he! There is a riddle here ! Royall. When she demanded of thee, unaware, The color of those glorious locks of hers, What wonder if there swam up in thy thought The color thou had'st heard mo name so oft, As of all hues, most royal ! Elizabeth. Well said I A Comedie Royall 97 The lad hath parts. The church shall give him up. 'Twere waste to make him parson ! EoYALL. Red! God's rood! It is the color of the sunset skies When that they flame most glorious ; 'tis the hue Of all things rich and vital, — nay, the blood That feeds the heart, — what is that blood but red? It is the color of the flag that floats Above the noblest land God's red sun sees ; Then fitly lends its color to the locks Of God, His mightiest woman ! Elizabeth. Parson, he! He hath a tongue would grace an Emperor ! Phtllii3a. Yet saidst thou not when late we stood alone EoYALL. (Zounds! Wilt not weep?) {She iveeps.) Such words as these, mine heart Hath oft poured forth into thine innocent ears, To ease that secret of tormenting love To none save thee confided. Elizabeth. Love, said he? Royall. The poor, mad fool who dares to lift his eyes Unto the shrine of her who is his Heaven Must look to meet the fate of Phaeton Death-scorched by too near splendor ; — ay, the fate Of moth, that circling inward to the flame 98 A Comedie Royall Dies, by that flame consumed. E'en so am I, I die of love for her I may not love, — The Queen who may love no man ! {Dashes his hand across his eyes, as though to stanch tears.) Phyllida. When you weep Must I weep still? Royall. (Stanch not your tears an instant !) Elizabeth. {Rising.) Young Royall Hartwynd, thou hast yet to learn That every Queen's a woman! Royall. {Turning and falling on his knee.) Fire of Heaven ! The Queen ! My shame consumes me ! Phyllida. Didst not know The Queen was here? Why I {He turns over his shoulder at her a glare of desperate appeal. She falls to weeping again.) Elizabeth. Again I say The Queen's a woman. Such a love as thine Makes woman thrice a Queen. Rise, sir, and stand Fearless before me. Ay ! Beside me, sir ! {Royall rises from his Jcnee. Phyllida ceases to weep and stares at them in terrified aston- ishment.) God's body! Am I slave, or England's Queen? A Comedie Royall 99 And if a Queen, then Queen o'er mine own love To give it where I will. If 'twere our whim, Nay, 'twere our royal purpose, to command A commoner be King Consort — by the rood Were, by that grace, the commoner not a king? Sir, of all loves that e'er have cried on me. Yours, crying as you thought, unheard of me, Out of a man's heart, most hath kindled me. Fear not to stand before me. EoYALL. {Approaching nearer^ again kneels.)' Nay, your grace, my place is here. (Moreover, presently, If right I read signs of yon April face My place will be before the headsman's block!) Phyllida. Love, forgive me ! (Rushes madly to RoyalL He rises and with manly dignity stands hefore her^ as if to protect her from the Queen"* s wrath. She falls on her knees, catching and weeping over his hand.) my poor, poor love, What bitter end to our poor comedy ! She'll marry thee! The Queen will marry thee! EoYALL. Wits serve me now ! Or else farewell the head My whirling wits inhabit ! Elizabeth. Comedy! lOO A Comedie Royall What bleats this lamb o' Bedlam? Comedy? 'Od's saints and devils, sir Royall. Your Majesty, The comedy is over. Naught remains But for the Player -queen, — a queen indeed Of players, as she is a queen of queens — To speak our fate, speaking its epilogue. Elizabeth. A queen — of players? Royall. Aye, as queen in all. Your Grace's queenly eyes that naught can film Read the poor subterfuge, whereby young love Sought 'scape from cruel parting — punished it By stooping from the throne to act a part Brought our parts to confusion! (Will she take? Would I'd turned parson ere that I turned player!) Elizabeth. (After a pause ^ in luhicli she has studied his immovable face; faintly and sar- donically smiling . ) Your queen, young sir, is player, e'en in this, — She sometimes takes a cue . . . You say the truth — The comedy is done. The Player-queen Must get her to her throne, to yawn away {Mounts dais.) The queenly days, which, when love visiteth 'Tis but as mummer, mumming comedy! Get you to church ! Nay, not as parson, sir ! A Comedie Royall lOi Too many parsons now go mumming it. We'll have no- more. Get you to churcli, I say, To kneel, with her, yon Devon lamb o' grace This side the altar -rails. God guard you then! 'Tis like, were sovereign less soft than we, Her bridegroom's head would bride-bed pillow find Upon the headsman's block. EoYALL. Your Majesty, A man must e'en rejoice to lay his head Beside so fair a little head as this, Whate'er that fair head's pillow. Elizabeth. Get you hence! The sack that warms the humor of our blood Lends not its warmth forever. Get you hence! But first — your sword ! {Comes down from dais, holding out her hand imperatively.) EoYALL. My sword ! Your Majesty ! God knoweth sword and life your forfeit be. But — let my father's name and service plead Against this black disgrace ! — My life, Queen ! But not my sword! God's breath! Break not my sword ! Elizabeth. Your sword! 'Od's body! To your knee again. Lest we do say — your life ! Phtllida. Ah! Mercy, Madam! 102 A Comedie Royall {Royall hands her his swoi'd, first kissing its blade. She motions him to kneel. He obeys. She strikes him lightly on the shoulder with the sicord.) Elizabeth. Rise up, Sir Royall Hartwynd, belted knight ! (He springs tip with a gesture of ecstasy.) Take back thy sword: there's land shall mate with it. And guard thy lands, and guard thy mate and young: And guard thine England, and thine England's Queen, So long as hand and sword have strength to meet ! Royall. Once more I say . . . and hear me King of Kings ! . . . My shamed soul speaks ! . . . I kneel your knight and slave . . . God's mightiest of women . . . and my Queen! {Elizabeth permits him to kiss her hand, looking down upon him tuith a wistful smile. Then she motions Phyllida to approach. She gives Phyllida to RoyaWs arms. Elizabeth 7noves sloiuly down the room toward the doors, looking back, she says, luith a light sigh.) Elizabeth. Nay ! When the man, and not the courtier speaks, My Lord, another claims that name from you! (CURTIAK.) A BIT OF INSTRUCTION A LITTLE COMEDY A Bit of Instruction DRAMATIS PERSONS. Jack Despard, of the Thalia Company. MERTOUivr Newbury, of the Best Society. The time is the present. The scene is the bachelor apartment of Jack Despard. The time is half -past twelve, of a mid-winter night. The scene is the lachelor sitting-room^ of Jack Des- pard^s lodgings. It is comfortably^ even luxuriously furnished., in the manner of a 'bachelor'' s "tZe^." There is a large divan, with cushions: a fireplace, R., with a bright fire: — low bookcases, well filled: loung- ing-chairs: — a table strewn with magazines, etc. The walls are hung with water-color sketches, pipe racks, etc. As the curtain rises, Newbury is discovered, asleep in a large arm-chair, before the fire. The chair is partly concealed from any one entering, by a screen. After a second'^s pause. Jack enters. He comes in, somewhat wearily. He wears a handsome, fur -lined coat. He does not see Newbury: his atten- 105 io6 A Bit of Instruction Hon leing concentrated on the fact tliat^ in addition to the lamp J three gas-jets are in full flame. Jack. Well, upon my soul! My landlady will land me in the insolvency court, if I don't get a raise of salary, presently. Does the woman think I'm running a torchlight parade? (Neiuhury has awaked at the first sound of Jaclc^s voice ^ and is sitting sleepily up. Jack sees him.) Jack. Why, I beg your pardon, Mr. — Newbury, is it? New. Yes; Newbury — Mertoun Newbury, you know. Jack. With a hyphen? New. I beg your pardon? {During this scene^ Jack is taking off his topcoat., ivarming his hands, changing his coat for a smoking -jacket., etc.) Jack. When there isn't a hyphen, one name goes, you know. When there is, the two names are compulsory. New. (Stiffly.) Mertoun is my Christian name. There is no hyphen. Jack. Thanks. (There is an awkward pause.) A Bit of Instruction 107 New. You remember seeing me at tlie Club? We've met there several times, you know — ^the St. Dives Club. Jack. Have we? 0, 1 dare say; I didn't remem- ber your face, for a moment, but one sees such a kaleidoscope of faces, you know, in a season. (Another awkward pause.) New. {Rather explosively .) Late to-night, aren't you? Jack. Yes; rather. Why? New. 0, I've been waiting an hour or so, I fancy. That's how I dropped off — the room was so warm. Jack. If I had known of your visit New. 0, that's all right. I didn't know myself that I was coming. Just decided to, on the jump, you know. Jack. Yes? New. Yes. Thought I'd find you in about half- past eleven, perhaps. Jack. So you would, if the business -manager hadn't brought around an infernal pile of photo- graphs for me to sign, for the souvenir matinee. Strange what asses some business managers are. New. Autographed photographs, eh? Great idea, that. Pull in matinee-girls by the hundred, I dare say. Jack. I dare say {Yawns.) I beg your io8 A Bit of Instruction pai'don, but I'm rather done up. It is late, as you say — and matinee day. New. I always supposed you play-actor chaps must rather revel in matinee days. Jack. Do you know any fellows who like working double time? If you do, I'll bet a tenner they're not in our line of work. New. Well, but aren't the matinees the really interesting days? Fancy playing to an audience of adorers. Jack. If they're adorers, they conceal it skillfully. I'd about as soon stai't out with Nansen, in search of a chill, as play to a matinee audience. New. The matinee maids must keep their warmth for their letters, then, eh? Jack. Bosh! When the papers get out of sea-serpent specials they write up matinee letters. They're a myth, mostly; though now and then New. (Eatlier eagerly.^ Yes? Now and then? Jack. Well, now and then a fellow gets a letter that he'd like to enclose to a girl's mother, with a manual on **The Duties of Parents." New. Bless you ! Most of the mothers have let- ters of their own. The duties of parents are obso- lete, except in manuals. Jack. That view of it hadn't struck me. I don't do the society act enough to keep my morals up to date. A Bit of Instruction 109 New. And the girls in your business, — I wager they're always getting letters you'd like to send to the chaps' fathers? Jack. IST-no. I think I should prefer to talk that sort of letters over with the chaps themselves. {He takes a riding-ivMp from the talle, as if absent-mindedly ^ and nervously plays with it.) New. {Indicating whip.) With — accessories? Jack. As you say — with accessories. New. Wouldn't you have rather a chore, some- times, you know? Eafts of the fellows who write 'em are working in the Gym. right along. Jack. Yes. I've put on the gloves with them there, now and then. New. There? Jack. Of course. I learned my A B C's at Har- vard, once on a time. New. Harvard? Why, I didn't know Jack. No. I've managed to conceal the fact from our press -agent, up to date. Yes, I've put on the gloves in the old Gym. more times than a few. Great sport ! I say, wouldn't you like to try a bout, now? New. Now? Good Lord! No. What for? Jack. 0, nothing. I — I just thought you might feel like it. I felt like it. You don't mind my changing my shoes? iio A Bit of Instruction {He leisurely exchanges hoots for slippers.) You see, I've been doing a society part to-day; and 1 never did find tight boots compatible with repose of mind. New. 0, that's all right, Despard. By the way, — that reminds me to ask you something. We had a bet on, down at the Club to-night. Jack. (With polite lor edom.) Yes? New. Yes. We were betting about your real name. Do you mind telling me what your real name is? Jack. {His exasperation is evidently growing te7ise. He ope7is his card-case, and hands Newhury his card. ) My card. New. {Reads.) John Randolph Despard. 0, but I didn't mean your stage name, you know. Jack. Neither did I. My name's on that card. Is it necessary, to settle your Club bet, that I send to Virginia for my birth-certificate? New. Great Scott! Y^'ou're not one of the Despards of Jack. My people rode with Light-Horse Harry. Did you think all actors were raised from bulbs, in window-glasses? New. Well, it's no wonder the matinee girls Jack. 0, da bless the matinee girls. I say, Newbury, you didn't come here at this ungodly hour to talk about matinee girls, did you? A Bit of Instruction 1 1 1 New. Well, yes — perhaps — in a way. You see, the fellows at the Club were saying that — that it would be a good joke to see one of the real — what one of those matinee letters really was like, don't you know. Jack. {Rising.) And they thought I might give them the chance of finding out? I say, what paper are you reporting for, Newbury? New. I? Reporting? Jack. If you're not doing the sneak reporter act, what the devil are you doing? {They face each other, in self-contained anger,) New. Do you mind telling me what you mean by treating me as if I were an intrusive ass? Jack. Do you mind telling me how else it would be appropriate for me to treat you? New. Will you explain yourself? Jack. How else would you treat a man who, on the strength of a Club introduction, wheels himself, uninvited, into your rooms, at midnight, — asks you whether your name is not an alias, — suggests that you can't make your hands keep your head, — winds up by inviting you to turn over to a parcel of Club loungers the confidence a silly girl or two have put in your decency? New. Why, — I thought — ^being an actor, — Bohemia, you know, and all that 112 A Bit of Instruction Jack. You thought because actors sometimes have to sell their talents in a damned poor market, that we put up our private honor for sale at the same shop? That's a mistake; and you may find it a costly one. New. {After a short pause he peels off his right- hand glove, a7id offers his hand.) Shake? Jack. {Amazed.) Eh? New. Shake — won't you? You have such a jolly, convincing way of putting things, I thought I'd like to shake hands with you, don't you know. 0, I'm an ass, all right, Despard, and I'm a near-sighted ass; but when I do see a gentleman, I know the breed. I beg your pardon, Despard. Shake — will vou^ •^ * {They shake hands, heartily.) Jack. Have a cigar? New. Thanks. {They light cigars.) Jack. Sit down, won't you? {They sit.) Jack. {Reaching across table.) I say — Shake again, won't you? You see, Newbury, I've an infernal temper, and that's a fact. New. 0, that's all right. From your own stand- point, it was uncommonly kind of you not to pitch me down stairs. I say, one of the things I came in for, you know, was this : I want you to give me a bit of instruction. A Bit of Instruction 113 Jack. Instruction isn't much in my line; but fire aliead. 'N'EW. I want to know if you'll teach me to act, you know. Jack. To act? 0, well, a little thing like that, you know! {Looks at luatcli.) Quarter to one. Do you think you could give me till half -past four? With a college education as a foundation, you know, you really ought, New. Don't chaff. I'm in a beastly hole. You see, my cousin Ethel Marlborough — well, she really isn't my cousin, you know, but her mother married my uncle Jim. Jack. If you could skip the Creation, old fellow, and come to the Deluge New. 0, well, all right. You see, my cousin Ethel is getting up a fair. Jack. I sympathize with her relations. New. And she's determined to have one night of theatricals; and, hang it, you know, I've got to act. Jack. I transfer my sympathy to your relations. New. Yes ; I've got to act, because there's only one Ferdinand costume, and I'm the only fellow it will fit. Jack. ''Ferdinand?" Great Shak;espeare ! You don't mean that you are going to tackle "The Tem- pest"? New. 0, but we are, then. You see, Ethel has 114 A Bit of Instruction written a play, and we were going to give that ; but she thought we didn't have time to do it justice, and we'd better do something from Shakespeare. Jack. Well, perhaps he could bear it better. He's been dead a long time. New. We're just going to do a scene or two, you know. Ethel has been wild to have a go at Miranda, ever since she saw Ada Eehan do her, you know. Jack. Yes — naturally. And you're Ferdinand? New. Yes. Damned hard luck, isn't it? Jack. 0, I don't know. As I said, the author has been dead a long time. New. 0, hang it! I say, don't chaff. I mean bad luck for me. But I can't quit. The costume is such a dizzy fit; and then, you know, Ethel's to do Miranda; and there are speeches that — well, you know, the family wouldn't like any one not a rela- tion, .... Jack. Such as a cousin by marriage. New. 0, it's just the same. She came into the family when she was in pinafores. And now, you see, I'm in for it; and I don't want to look a bigger fool than I can help. Jack. You naturally wouldn't. — No. New. And I thought you might be able to give me a leg up, in the log-rolling scene. Jack. Log-rolling scene is good — sounds polit- ical. A Bit of Instruction 1 1 5 New. Hang it. Don't chaff. Will yon, or won't you? Jack. 0, I will — I will. If there is anything on earth I find soothing and refreshing, it is teaching an amateur. Want to start in now? New. Might as well, eh? Jack. Come — business, business. {Pushes centre-table lach, leaving clear space.) Where's Shakespeare? {Rummages among hoohs on shelf.) New. Yes; you'd best have him handy. Ethel copied my part in her best Wellesley slant, and I've made out about one word in ten. {Produces a much- crumpled manuscript.) Jack. Here we are — **Enter Ferdinand, with a logon his shoulder." Props — props; where's your log? {Hands him Indian Cluh: — business of getting it poised on his shoulder.) Come, now, Ferdinand, your lines — your lines. New. ** There be some spots are painful " {ITe rubs shoulder.) Jack. Good Lord ! What? Say that again. New. "There be some spots are painful- That means his shoulder, doesn't it, where he's carrying logs? I supposed so; that's why I rubbed it. Jack. The line happens to be, "There are some sports are painful- >> Ii6 A Bit of Instruction New. ''Sports"— "Spots"? Hang Ethel's ^^Tit- ing! I've learned that "spots"; and it's the only thing in the whole confounded speech I understood. I thought the beggar had lamed himself, piling up logs, don't you know? Hang it, Despard! He says he's lame. Doesn't he say he's piling up logs "upon a sore injunction"? Jack. {In ecstasies of laughter.) 0, read it that way — read it that way. A new reading is a precious thing, you know; and it's not much queerer than some of the new Juliets. New. I say — Let's skip that speech, anyhow. What I really want to coach up on is that rigmarole he has to reel off to Miranda. They've run it all together for me, you know, because they say that if Miranda once stopped me I'd never get up steam again. Ethel won't have me in it at any price; she says I make love like a cigar -store Indian. Jack. Apparently she has critical gifts. Fire away. New. "0, my father. I've broke your head " Jack. Hold up! In the name of Stratford, what's the matter with your text? New. {Aggrievedly sliotving MS.) Confound it, man, see for yourself. "0, my father, I've broke your head to " Jack. Man alive, that's the cue — that's Miran- da^ s speech. A Bit of Instruction 117 New. Well, why in Heligoland don't slie say "cue"? And, besides, Miranda didn't break her father's head, did she? Jack. Not according to Shakespeare. She says she "broke her father's hest" — her father's "hest" — Zfehest — command, you know. New. I wish she'd talk English, then. I don't care what it is, as long as I don't have to break it. (Reads speech ivitli queer effects of punctuation, and absolute uncomprehe7ision of sense, as — ) "Admired Miranda — Indeed the top of admiration worth — What's dearest in the worldfuU many a lady I have I have eyed with best regard and many a time. The harmony of their tongues. — Hath into bondage Brought my too — too " something- or -other "ears for several virtues." (Out of hreatJi.) Whew! How does the thing go on? I say, Despard, what gestures go with that kind of speech — eh? Jack. On my soul, Newbury, I don't know. New. Well, no matter; we can pick them out afterward. Let's see — — "I have liked several women? Never ! with so full soul But some defect in her did quarrel ; But, you ! you ! — Ii8 A Bit of Instruction Jack. Man — man! — stop it, can't you? New. (Bewildered and aggrieved.) Stop what? Jack. Stop the execution. New. What execution? Jack. I wonder if you have the least idea how that fellow felt? New. What fellow? Jack. Ferdinand. New. Felt? Why, the chap wasn't a real chap, you know. Jack. Man, he was realer than you or I; and he'll last a blamed sight longer. Put yourself in the fellow's place, can't you? That's what you've got to do — not stand up there like a graven image, reeling off lines out of a book. Can't you see them there, — him and the girl? It's morning, you know, — the sea's out there — [New. turns hewilderedly to see where.) — the sea, all shining in the sun; — and she's standing there, — just a girl, you know — just a girl — • with a girl's eyes; — just a slip of a thing, all in white, her eyes as blue as the sea, and the white stuff falling back from her soft, pure little throat, and her yellow hair all blowing about in the sea- wind, . . . New. {In a daze.) I say, will she look like that? Jack. She did look like that, — she will look like that — thank God and Shakespeare — as long as youth is youth. And you stand there, worshiping her, and A Bit of Instruction 119 aching for her ; — and one minute you want to crush her — here — (With a motion of straini7ig a woman to his breast.) — and the next, you want to grovel there at her little feet, and cry your heart out; and her big eyes are pitying you, — and something else — and she herself doesn't know what else — and it's going to be yours to teach her — ^yours, and no other man's on God's earth — and your heart just tears itself to your lips — and you say to her : Admired Miranda — Indeed the top of admiration, — worth What's dearest in the world. — Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard ; and many a time The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my boo diligent ear : for several virtues Have I liked several women ; never any With so full soul, but some defect on her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owned, And put it to the foil : but you, — you, — So perfect and so peerless, art created Of every creature's best. — Hear my soul speak. The very instant that I saw you did my heart Fly to your service: — there " New. 0, for God's sake — stop it, can't you? Jack. [In his turn bewildered.) Stop what? New. I can't stand it! 0, I see now, — I under- stand it — she couldn't help it. Poor little Ethel — I20 A Bit of Instruction she couldn't help it! And it — it may not be so bad. You're a gentleman — if you are an actor, you're a gentleman, — but if you don't — if you're not good to her, — by God — I Jack. {In cold anger and amazement.) Do you mind telling me, Newbury, what you are talking about? New. Talking about? — I'm talking about my cousin Ethel. Jack. Your cousin Ethel? New. My cousin Ethel — the poor little girl who's been looking at you, — and you know it — ^who's been looking at you for weeks, with just such eyes as — as you said — my cousin Ethel — the girl who wrote you that letter that I Jack. On my honor, I don't know what you are talking about. New. You don't know — my cousin Ethel? Jack. I never saw nor heard of her in my life. New. Why, man, you must have seen her. She's at every last matinee you play. She's the little girl with the yellow hair and the big blue eyes : — she's only eighteen; — she always has a bunch of violets pinned to her seal-skin muff; — she's always eating sugared things, out of a silver filigree box. Why, do you mean to say Jack. I mean to say, my dear fellow, that I sup- pose at a hundred or so matinees a year there are a A Bit of Instruction I2i hundred or so such girls ; and I never saw one of them. New. But you said you never had heard of her; and she signed her full name to that letter she sent you ; she told Kit so. Jack. What letter? New. She told my sister Kit about it. Kit told me. She's no sneak, Kit; she's an awfully good sort; but she's older than Ethel; and she was scared blue when Ethel told her she'd sent that letter. You know, old chap, there are actors — that Jack. 0, yes, — I know. They're the kind that get into the newspapers. New. And she thought — Ethel did — she told Kit she knew — that you were all the time playing just to her — like Garrick did, you know, to Ada Ingot; — and she wrote to you and said that she — that if you Jack. Poor little girl! She wrote that? Poor little girl! Where's her mother? New. She died two years ago. Jack. Poor little girl ! I say, do you know when she sent that letter, Newbury? New. Yesterday morning. She told Kit, last night. Jack. Yesterday? I remember. {Opens table draiver.) I remember. I brought home a pocketful of things ; and I was so fagged, I fired them all in 122 A Bit of Instruction here, and then cold forgot them. {He gathers up a number of letters^ from drawer^ and holds them all otct, to Neiuhury.) Do you mind seeing — if {Newhury^ after a momenVs search^ selects one, and holds it out to him.) Jack. There's the fire. {JSfewlicry slotvly goes to fireplace, and thrusts the letter into the coals. Both men stand silently watchi^ig it burn.) New. {Gripping Jade's hand hard.) Thanks, old chap. You — I — 0, damn it, you know what I mean. Thanks, old chap. You see, IVe known her ever since she was in pinafores, and — I — {Dashes his hand across his eyes, and finishes, chokingly.) — I Thanks, old chap. Jack. 0, that's all right, Newbury. And — look here, — it'll be all right, — you'll see. All girls dream dreams. It'll be all right. New. {He puts on his coat, and prepares to go out, as he speaks.) I — I'd like to — but I can't; — you know, don't you, Despard? {He crosses to Jack, hesitatingly .) I'm an ass to ask you, I know — but you don't suppose, — if you ever did meet her — hang it — she's such a dear little thing. Jack. {Opens a locket that hangs at his watch- chain, and holds it up.) See that? Well, that is the little girl I'm going to marry, if ever the Lord fs^ A Bit of Instruction 123 and the managers let us stay in the same town long enough. Satisfied? New. Why, I know that face, don't I? Yes. By Jove, that's Maisie Marston, of the Jack. Yes, that is Miss Marston. New. (Musingly.) Maisie Marston — Why, she's the one, when I was in Yale, two years ago Jack. (With a dryness of voice.) Yes; she's the one. She showed me that letter you wrote her. New. (Aghast.) She — showed you — that letter? Jack. Yes. She's a way of showing me — all her letters of that sort. New. (After a pause, strips off both his coats.) It's all I can do, old chap, — ^you know, — but if you like, I'll stand up to you, without the gloves. Jack. Put on your coat. Two years are two years. And, as you say, you were only an ass. New. (Fervently.) Thanks, old chap! (Re puts on his coat and starts to go. In doorway.) Good-night, Despard. Jack. Good-night. 0, I say, Newbury! If you're hereabout to-morrow night, look in, won't you, and we'll have another go at Ferdinand. New. Why, — if I may, — ^why, thanks, old chap! (Newhury goes out. Despard follows him to door: calls '•''Find your toay, all rightV Newbury'' s voice answers from below, "0, yes. 124 A Bit of Instruction thanks.'''' The loiuer door closes. Despard closes his own door. He hloius out the lamp, leaving only the red glow of the firelight. He crosses sloioly to the mantel, and stands looking dotvn into the fire. After a momenVs pause, he opens the locket, and stands looking dow7i, musingly, on the pictured face. (Curtain.) A SONG AT THE CASTLE A ROMANTIC COMEDY IN ONE ACT A Song at the Castle"" CHAEACTEES. CoENWALLis, Viceroy of Ireland, and Commander- in-Chief of the British forces in Ireland. Desmokd O'Moiene, a young Irish singer. Col. Humphrey Morton, of the British army. Sir Eichard Wilde, Member of the English Par- liament. Marquis Eaoul de la Valiere, an exiled noble- man of France. A Servant. Lady Wyndham, a widow, sister to Lord Cornwallis. Eileen Fitzgerald, the ward of Lord Cornwallis. Time: Early evening of a night in July, 1798. Place : Dublin Castle ; the state drawing-room. The curtain, rising, discovers Lady Wyndham, in a stately reception -gown ; and a servant, at the door, announcing — *,This play was written in collaboration with Percy Wallace Mackaye. 127 128 A Song at the Castle **The Mai-quis de la Yaliere." Valiere. {Entering and hotuing.) Madame, your ladyship's most humbly obedient. Your lady- ship, it fears me, I am arrived — Je vous prie milles pardons — early, un peu. But one has informed me that this was the hour Lady W. You are most welcome and waited for, Marquis. This is the time. Valiere. Merci, Madame, and your — your lady- ship's daughter Lady W. Not my daughter, nor my anything, thank Heaven! That wilful girl, who is my brother's ward! Lady Eileen will be with us in a moment. And this is for her? Valiere. ( Wlio has heen olsequioicsly proffering a small, silver -hound box.) For Mademoiselle Eileen, Madame, with birthday gratulations. They are mere nothings, mere diamonds ; they cannot speak my admirations ; but if your ladyship shall add one look to brighten them! — Ah, speak well for me to the young lady un seul mot, I — Pai'dieu! Madame, I die in English, but I will live most gratefully in French ! Lady W. I should be too glad to speak in your behalf, if it were possible. But Lud! Marquis, such a girl ! Like a firefly on the breeze, now a sparkle, then whiff! and away again. She's just a fancy caught in the flesh. And fancy that nothing would A Song at the Castle 129 do, but Blie must settle this most serious, most momentous question of the giving of her hand, on her birthday ; and she must give out that fate may decide it, according to the gifts her suitors bring — the romantic minx — and of those suitors you are but one. Marquis. Valieee. But the worth of the giver — Mademoi- selle, sans doute, you think — she will possibly con- sider that? Lady W. Perhaps, yes; but only as indicated by the worth of the gift. And her standards of worth — I warn you her standards are fantastic standards of her own foolish making ! Valieke. {Sighing with relief.) Ah! for a moment let my hopes be bright as my diamonds! And this decision ? Lady W. Will be made within the hour ; the chit promises it! And as it still lacks the hour before dinner, Marquis, may I show you to my brother's library, where the presents are to be laid for the judging? Valiere. I attend your Ladyship. Lord Corn- wallis is most hospitable — most hospitable! {Exit Lady W.) But — she is an Irish barbarian, this girl! Down what roads must a gentleman travel — Pardieu! — when he seeks a fortune! {Exit.) {Enter ^ from door lacTc, or right, the foot- man, who opens his motUh to mahe announce- 130 A Song at the Castle ment^ hut is shoved aside hy Sir Richard Wilde f who enters talking with Col. Morton.) Wilde. You met her at London, eh? Morton. Yes, when she was at school there, before this damnable rebellion broke out. I've been here now two months under Cornwallis, since his Majesty appointed him Commander-in-Chief and Viceroy of Ireland; it seems two centuries that I've heard nothing but the brogue of *' Blood!" in my ears, yelled by these starveling, lank-dog Irishmen. I believe they're as mad as the French jackals that bark about the guillotine at Paris. But she — ah, Dick! She Wilde. Has been a Venus in thy midnight, a Beatrice in thy Inferno, an angel in thy Job's tor- ments, eh, man? — eh? Egad, Humphrey, thou art strong with the Eomeo aroma. Great stuff, boy, but stuff to keep corked for the ladies. It's more precious to them than attar of roses, I can tell you! Morton. Look you, Dick Wilde. Gad's life ! and it seems only yesterday we were at fisticuffs at Eton, you and I, about the grocer's daughter; and now to think we are at sword's points in an Irish castle, about the heiress of a hundred thousand. Morton. Damn the heiress, it's the girl! I tell you, she's perfection. A Song at the Castle 131 Wilde. Capital! Why, then, let's split the difference. You want the girl, I want the heiress. Well, let each have his desire. Brief and plain, Hump, my card bill has run high, and my seat in Parliament is likely to become a bench in jail, with a bailiff for a valet. So in this little contest for the hand of Mistress Fitzgerald, I'll bet two to one on you — and call it five thousand pounds. Then if you win, you'll have the girl and the lion's share of the coin; if I win, why, you'll have some of the spoil, and, for a consideration, I think we could arrange about the girl. Morton. Damnation, Man ! Do you take me for a rake-hell like yourself? (Crosses in anger. Wilde lightly laughs, and talces snuff. After a slight pause — ) Well, and what chance have you, anyway, Dick? Wilde. The girl is just eighteen, mind you. Now, bluff and a baronetcy are my cards, and they trump credulity and romance. Why, what do you think this is? (Shows a small box.) Morto:n". Your bid, in this wooing bout? Wilde. Ay! and what, think you, is in it? Eubies and ivory? Folly! I am playing Bassanio to my little Lady Portia. So in this casket, lo ! for sixpence, I bring — forget-me-nots, 'fore Gad, forget- me-nots ! (The doors are thrown open.) MoETOK. Hist ! Here comes his lordship. 132 A Song at the Castle Wilde. Cornwallis? Morton. Cornwallis. {Enter Cornwallis and Valiere.) CoR]srwALLis. I hear they keep it so hot in Paris, Marquis, that all the town has the rabies. By the way, is it catching, that madness? Valiere. Indeed, I have not been bit, my lord. All the gentlemen have left town. Ma foi, it is not safe except for bourgeoisie. Cornwallis. What! does not Monsieur le Eaoul de la Valiere find his name his fortress? Ah, Colonel, welcome to you! So you are in these lists? Morton. Entering them, my lord, in hope to be a guardian to your ward. Permit me to present you to an old friend and new rival of mine. Your lordship — Sir Richard Wilde. Cornwallis. You are very welcome, sir. I had the good fortune to know your father at the misfor- tune in America. He helped me jump rope with Washington in New Jersey. He was well-named and daring. Wilde. Egad, sir, his son is more so, to take a tilt in this tourney for Mistress Fitzgerald. {Look- ing at Valiere.) But I fear the odds are against us, Dick. The barber's should have been our armoury! Cornwallis. Your pardon, Marquis; Sir Rich- ard Wilde — the Marquis de la Valiere. A Song at the Castle 133 Wilde. Devilish glad to know you, Sir. Valiere. Your most obedient, monsieur. Ah, Monsieur le Colonel. {Dick and Valiere talk aside. Morton offers CornwalUs snuff.) MoRTOi^. {Stiffly.) We have met. {To Corn- tuallis.) Does your lordship consider the rebellion at an end? CoRNWALLis. If hoping were believing, yes. The majority of the state prisoners have already offered to acknowledge their offences ; but the Irish parliament cries for Irish heads. Yet I think they blink, after all, the real mischief: — the deep-laid conspiracy to revolutionize Ireland on the principles of France. MoRTOK. The very point, my lord. Even now report says that the French are preparing two secret expeditions for the invasion of this country. CoRNWALLis. And that's a secret bugled by the winds. Valiere. Ah, mais, Messieurs, those be French footmen, not French gentlemen. CoRN^WALLis. True, Sir; but footmen mounted on their masters, who foot it across the seas ! But, my friends, I pray you have done with politics ; this is a time to settle gentler affairs, and at this moment there is more at stake than empty empires. Wilde. {Aside to Morton.) Now the old boy talks. 134 A Song at the Castle CoRNWALLis. The question pends — what gentle- man in this room shall sway the heart of a lady; and gentlemen, nothing — not even swords' points — may avail in this contest ; only the decision of my dear ward's lips. Wilde. {To Morton.) Gad, one would think his lordship included himself under **gentlemen." {Here Eileen starts to run in, but catching sight of the suitors, scurries back and peeps in from the edge of scene.) CoRNWALLis. So we must have patience until the lady arrives. It cannot be long ; for this is the appointed time. And Mistress Eileen is not one to coquet with a promise. Valiere. Probablement she is still dressing, my lord. The ladies are more careful of their beauties; they are always different from the men. CoRNWALLis. God save us then. Marquis; what Amazons your French ladies must be! But, gentle- men, while we wait, permit that I show you where to lay your gifts. By this way is to the gallery. After you. Sir. Wilde. Amazingly fine lodgings, these, your lordship. {Just as the last has passed through the door, and Corniuallis is about to folloio, Eileen trips stealthily across the room, trying to call Cornwallis^ attention by whispering loudly — A Song at the Castle 135 "Jf?/ lord! — My lordf'' Failing^ she runs and pulls him hy the sleeve^ just as he is slowly passing through the doorway.) EiLEEiq-. My lord ! My lord ! CoRNWALLis. You, Eileen! Eileen. What a shocking narrow escape! Ah, tell me, my lord, whether to laugh or cry. A French muff, a London walking stick, and a big British army-gun — all in pursuit of one poor maid ! Dear, my lord, what shall I do? CoEKWALLis. I will return at once, and we will talk of this and much else ! But first I must usher these articles you mention where they may leave your gifts. EiLEEiq". The gifts — ay, to be sure ! Have they brought many? Are they vastly fine? Ah, my lord, is it permitted to me to take the gifts, and leave the gentlemen? {Enter Rights Lady Wyndha^n^ hurriedly.) Lady W. Eileen! And so I've tracked you at last. Maid Eunaway! CoRKWALLis. I will return within the moment. You will wait for me? EiLEEK. In this room, my lord ; and wholly on your pleasure. (Exit Cornwallis — Ladies curtsy.) Lady W. {Eyeing Eileen with a look of reproba- tion.) Well! 136 A Song at the Castle Eileen. {Innocently.) Well? Lady W. And where have you been, Mistress Dalliance? Eileen. Up in the tower. Lady W. (Throwing up lierliands.) The tower! I'll warrant me thoii ai't a miracle of dust! Lud, child! Do you forget this is your birthday? Do you forget that this very hour you have to decide the question of all your life — the question of your hus- band? Eileen. Well, for what was I up in the tower but to catch the earliest glimpse of them? Lady W. Of whom? Eileen. Of my husbands, to be sure. Lady W. Madcap ! Eileen. I've been watching hours for their arrival. {Laughing merrily.) Such wooers! For all the world, they came like the procession in the fairy tale, that dangled after the golden goose. But they shall find me of another feather. There, dear soul, do I shock thee? Indeed, then, I won't tell them I'm no goose! How many are there? Lady W. Why, there's Monsieur de la Valiere, a gentleman of the highest manners Eileen. De la Valiere! He's a fortune for a lady's wig-maker, not a lady's self! But how many other guests are there for the dinner? Is — I pray you — is Mr. O'Moirne arrived yet? A Song at the Castle 137 Lady W. Is who arrived? Eileen. I said Desmond O'Moirne. Lady W. And what man is he? EiLEE]sr. The manliest in Ireland. Lady W. Desmond O'Moirne — Preserve iis! Eileen, you never mean that singer in the opera — that hothead lad — that Irish rebel, whose father was hanged — ay, hanged in this very city — for high treason. Girl ! You have never been so mad as to bid such a guest to Dublin Castle? EiLEEi^. Ay, have I — and I stand to it ! And there will sit at my birthday dinner no nobler guest than the lad with the voice in his heart and the heart in his voice — his sole leaving of a ruined for- tune — and who with his voice brought Dublin to his feet, till the English murdered — ay, murdered his father, I say, and sent him over sea. But I have Desmond O'Moirne 's promise for my birthday night; and Ireland knows what an O'Moirne means hy a promise ! He Lady W. Promised you? Lud ! Lud ! EiLEEK. We spoke of my birthday ; that birthday that was to bring my birthright. And he pledged me for that birthday the gift of a song ; and he will be here to sing it ! Lady W. Are you daft, child? Why, the man's an exile ; he's in England. EiLEEif. But he will come. 138 A Song at the Castle Lady W. Travel a hundred miles and risk his neck for a song ! Eileen". But he will come. Lady W. Heavenly goodness ! but he must not ! You hear ! He must not ! What ! He sing for your birthday dinner? — He, — a beggar, an Irish beggar, his estates confiscated, he — you're mad, child! You're mad! Eileen". But he shall come. Lady W. Heaven's patience ! But he is not come ! and I believe you are frightening me to exas- peration only for your wicked sport ! May God be thanked I am not a man with a hankering to be your husband! He has not come! — And I'll make his welcome sure, should he come! {Exit.) Eileen. But he will come! And the gift he brings shall be my gift, though my heart is the price that buys it ! {Enter Cornimllis.) CoRNWALLis. My thanks that you waited me — and alone ! I have been impatient to speak with you all day. Eileen. I am at your service, my lord ! OoRNWALLis. "My lord?" Why must to the heavy burden of my state be added that word from your lips, Eileen? Will you not call me — something else? A thousand to whose ears I give commands have tongues that lisp "your lordship." Where I A Song at the Castle 139 would take commands, it is for me to say *'my lady." Then, my little Lady Eileen, will you not be she to fill an empty title? Eileen". {Evidently a tit startled at his manner.) Ah, my — Sir, I'll wager you could tutor those younger gentlemen in pretty speech. Ah, would you could! Their compliments but woo to drowsiness! CoRNWALLis. I would that all my white hairs were but in my wig, as theirs are. Think you, you could like me better then, Eileen? Eileen. Faith, not I, my lord — I mean, I mean, dear guardian ! I would not have you other than you are! CoRNWALLis. My girl, there's something in a soldier's life that never lets youth's fire go out. Powder and the flash of swords, the jostle of life and death, the fording of streams and ocean wanderings, and all that makes the rough romance of war — these things blow off the settling ashes from the living ember, and leave still a heart-leap at three-score. Eileen". I am sure of it. There's no calling so glorious as a soldier's, unless — unless Cornwallis. Unless? Eileen. Unless — maybe — a singer's! Cornwallis. a singer's, child? Eileen. Ay, Sir, a singer's ! For a singer may wake the fiery call to battle in a thousand hearts, and make a thousand soldiers ! I40 A Song at the Castle CoRNWALLis. When was a singer ever a soldier? But, child, I did not ask this hour to talk of soldiers ; Eileen, have you any memory of my wife, who died while yet you were a child? EiLEEK. Aye, indeed, dear guardian, I remem- ber her ; a lovely lady. CoRN^WALLis. A lovely lady ! I met her at your age ; she was much as you are ; you are like her : so like her that {Eileen turns aiuay.) Nay, child, do I weary you? EiLEEK. Believe me, no, my lord; I but remem- bered how swift the hour was passing. CoRisrwALLis. Before it passes, Eileen, will you not ask me what I bring you as a birthday gift? EiLEEN^. Ah, Sir! I cannot fancy what there is left in your generosity for you to give me. CoRNWALLis. Yet without the gift I bring, how incomplete were any woman's joy ! Eileen". Kiddles, my lord! What is this gift? CoRisrvi^ALLis. What every woman desires most in this world. Eileen. And what is that? CoRNWALLis. What but her own will! I give you for your birthday gift, Eileen, the promise of a soldier to grant to you this day, whatever you may ask of my power ; and this day it is my good fortune to command all temporal things in Ireland. Eileen. {Kisses Ms hand.) Ah! Thanks, my A Song at the Castle 141 lord — a thousand, thousand thanks! You have brought a far more splendid gift to my birthday than any of the three who call themselves my suitors. CoEi^wALLis. Three suitors? Eileen, what if there were four? EiLEEiiT. Four ! Has another, — is any new guest come? CoEKWALLis. A new suitor, so I am told. And he has already presented his gift, Eileen. Eileen. You have seen him? Ah, who is he, dear my lord? CoENWALLis. One whom you know nearly, and he hopes dearly. EiLEEK. And you say he is here now? — here? Is he — is he from England? CoRiq'WALLis. He is, from England. Eileen". Ah, where is he? My lord, where is he? CoENWALLis. He has fears. He is not as your other suitors, in aspect or in nature. Eileen. Ah! that he is not, indeed! A thou- sand times more noble ! CoENWALLis. Great Heaven! You say that, child? Dear child — Eileen — then you have guessed — his name? Eileen. Ah, Sir, it is — it is CoENWALLis. Your loving servant — Charles Cornwallis. Eileen. My lord ! 142 A Song at the Castle CoRNWALLis. A time-scarred soldier, Eileen — Charles Cornwallis. Eileen. my lord! My lord! {Covers her face with her ha^ids.) Cornwallis. She did not guess his name — 'Sdeath ! I'm old — I'm old — and foolisher than old! Poor child! Poor little girl! Eileen, that word's unsaid, that your tear -filled silence answered — whis- tle it down the wind ! Eileen. my lord — I never dreamed — I never dreamed — I who have ever honored and loved you as your child! Cornvtallis. Child of my heart forever ! It was I who dreamed! Ah, child, the sweet spring fire of youth is in your eyes ; and there must have been just a bit of rubbish in my old breast that caught and burned one foolish instant. But it has blazed away and it has gone out forever! There, there, lass! That very old fool, your guardian, is a soldier again ! Eileen. Ah, my dear, dear lord, you will have from me all the heart of a daughter now and always. That is better — ah, is it not better? Cornwallis. Much better, child — for you! Yes — go, child, go ! In a moment they will summon us to dinner. (Kisses her forehead.) And that is the seal of my birthday gift — your will, to my power's limit! A Song at the Castle 143 EiLEEi^. My whole heart's gratitude to you, my lord— for all ! For all ! {Exit.) CoRNWALLis. That I should have yearned for her — impossible ! But to have hoped — worse ; worse ! But to have spoken — that was most utter madness of it all! Ah, when, when will December learn that the width of the year stands betwixt him and May ! When will he learn that December must pass to give May room ! {Exit Cornwallis.) {Enter the servant, showing in O^Moir7ie, tuho is travel-stai7ied and tired. He comes in looking about Mm wistfully.) Seryai^t. You said — you were expected, Sir? Desmojs^d. Ay ! I think I am expected ! Servai^t. I will announce you. Sir ! {Exit.) Desmoid. And this is the Queen's palace — at last! Eileen, is it near me that you are, sweet? Eileen! I shall see you, speak with you — sing to you? 'Tis to your own castle I come, to say in one song — what God ! Will they let me sing — me in Dublin castle? Here, where the echoes of smoth- ered liberty's last cry are scarcely still! Ah, Mary Virgin, for my love's sake, teach me how to keep my love's promise! {Enter Eileen hurriedly; she starts on seeing Desmond.) 144 A Song at the Castle Eileen. Desmond? DESMOi^D. Eileen ! EiLEEiS". You — you took me unaware, Mr. O'Moirne. I had not heard that you were come, but you are welcome; believe me, you are very welcome! {She extends her hand which he takes and kisses.) Desmond. You had not heard, Mistress Fitz- gerald? But sure you had not forgot that I stood pledged to come? Eileen. I had not forgot ; though indeed there has been time for forgetting since we met! Desmond. Just half a summer and a century of winters. Eileen. Have thoughts of me had such a cold reception, then? Desmond. No, for they were ever doing as the birds do — migrating to a sunnier clime, over the Irish sea. Eileen. Mr. O'Moirne, I am disappointed; I flattered myself the first place you would come to in Ireland would be this castle. Desmond. Why, but so it was — the first and only! You don't believe me? Eileen. Yes, if you'll give me word you've not been climbing for a kiss at the stone of Blarney Caatle. A Song at the Castle 145 Desmoid. {Smiling.) Mistress Eileen is still herself, I see — still setting traps for runaway slaves. EiLEEi^. Alack! I'd liefer my word should attract only freemen that come of their own brave will. Desmon^d. "What can one do? Since you speak sceptres, my lady, I must reply with vassalage. EiLEEi^. Your words are clever courtiers, Sir. Desmoid. Then would I could dismiss them, that so my heart might stand without retinue and speak in feeling. Ah, Mistress Eileen, then you might hear how deeply I wish you joy of this day — your birthday. EiLEEi^. And are you not pledged to tell me that in a song? Desmokd. Then you still care that I should tell it so? EiLEEK. I think I never cared so much till to-night. Desmon'D. And I may tell of my Joy in coming, and you will listen? EiLEEis". If it be not selfish for me to ask so much joy, as would be mine in listening. Desmoid. {Walking back and forth.) 1 must! My heart is full — my throat aches — my thoughts they are prisoned eagles. Ah, but no! If I sang, it would be strange joy, my lady, I have to utter ; for the core of it is pain. For who am I to sing at your 146 A Song at the Castle fine feasting, with British ears of stone to listen? What can I bring out of my country's dungeon to grace an English holiday? What flowers out of her trampled fields? What gift as a tribute to you, my lady, — I, that come beggared, wi-apt in a tattered title? What indeed am I? — An Irishman, alas! An Irishman, thank God! Eileen. Amen to that "thank God." Desmond. And you say that? 0, then you will for one mad minute listen to an Irish heart that can- not keep its head. My lady, you are here; I am here; we have been apart and it was long. I came but to say God prosper you and good-bye ; but now — now — now — I am come to say I love you, and — I love you — and I love you. No, no, do not speak. A power like the wind has borne me here; 'tis a power like the whirlwind that could carry me away before all's said! Eileen, far across the seas, your eyes called me — called me back through grief and shame and blood here to your feet, and here I lay the life of me. My being is no longer mine; it is Love's — and yours, Eileen! — Eileen! {She moves slowly toward Mm. He gazes at her with passionate tender- ness. She is about to speak, lohen Lady Wyndham enters.) Lady W. Heavenly powers! Eileen, child — what Desmond. (Rising.) Madame, — I — Madame — A Song at the Castle 147 Mistress Fitzgerald has been detained at my fault. You are in good time. I — I have much wronged her leisure. Lady W. Mistress Fitzgerald, his lordship, your guardian, desires your attendance directly. Eileen. {Haughtily. ) Have the goodness to tell his lordship Lady W. No, child, have the goodness yourself. I take no nays to Lord Cornwallis. Desmond. Madame, may I be permitted to see Lord Cornwallis and explain my presence here? Lady W. Lud, Sir, no; I don't think it; his lordship is very busy. It is his dinner hour. Come, Eileen. Eileen. And this gentleman is Lord Cornwallis' dinner-guest — and mine! {To Desmond.) Forgive me. Sir, for the moment I must attend my guardian's summons ; but it is but for the moment. You will wait my return — Desmond? You will wait? Desmond. I will wait. {Exit Eileen and Lady W.) My God! How can I stay? But I have prom- ised — and my song is still unsung ! I'll wait ; — and waiting, dream a thousand different ways how she did call me Desmond. {Enter Morton^ Wilde and Valiere.) Valiere. Pardieu! The Irish singing fellow who set Paris in a flame ! Why is he here? 148 A Song at the Castle Wilde. "Why are we all here? Morton". A suitor? — He? — At any price we must be rid of him. The girl's a dreamer ; and his voice wakes dreams. "Wilde. Leave me to deal with him. He came a suitor; he shall go as a traitor. Play up to me. Do you bite? MoRTOiq^. A hot-head Irishman — You're right. 'Tis easy! "Wilde. Marquis, it is gi-owing late. Is that fateful dinner never to come off? Valiere. I am no better informed than yourself, Monsieur le Colonel. "Wilde. "Well, I for one am tired of this and need refreshment. (To Desmond.) Fellow ; a glass of wine ! Desmond. Sir? MoRTOi^. Or three glasses, rather, and quickly. "What ! I said quickly. Desmon^d. You will now say quickly. Sir, that you can see your mistake. MoRTOj;r. I neither see it, nor solicit news of it from footmen. More wine and less words. You may go. "Wilde. 'Pon honor, Humphrey, have patience; give the fellow a shilling, can't you? Here, Robin- son, Johnson, what's your name? {Offers liim a coin.) Desmond. {Disdainfully to Wilde.) Sir, I A Song at the Castle 149 speak to the one man I see ! ( With repressed anger, to Morton.) You, Colonel Morton, have either lately grown short of sight, or have yet to learn that foot- men do not carry swords; either of which misfor- tunes I am your servant to alleviate. MoRTOK. O'Moirne! Upon my soul, and so it is ! Your pardon, Mr. O'Moirne, but really you have much altered — and here was the last place I looked to meet you. Wilde. O'Moirne— O'Moirne. Why, didn't I hear we were to have a song from one O'Moirne with the fiddling to-night? Egad, singing can't be the most profitable trade in the world ! Valiere. The same, Monsieur, sans doute. He has the air of the stage — ah? Desmond. If Colonel Morton finds me altered in estate since we last met, it is surely thanks in part to Colonel Morton and those who have brought altera- tion to my country. MoRTOi^. Say rather those whose paternal care would not suffer your country to be maltreated by her children. Desmois'D. Ireland's sons have been taught to keep good guard of her. And when a meddling neighbor knocks at her door, they have but barred it fast, and died upon its sill to keep him out. MoRTOi!^. It is perhaps well for your neck, Sir, that your mouth speaks in parables. ISO A Song at the Castle Desmond." For the caution, thanks; I will eat patience. Wilde. That's food that gives an Irishman dys- pepsia. Valiere. Ah, Monsieur O'Moirne, it is a happi- ness you are to sing to us. You sing in opera, yes? But it seems you play no more the hero since — since your little rebellion here. DESMo:srD. I have heard the same of you, Mar- quis; I believe you no longer play the hero in France, since your little rebellion there. Wilde. Zounds ! There's a clip for the French poodle. Valiere. But there is one difference. Monsieur. In France, the gentlemen are obliged to flee; in Ireland, it seems otherwise; for here all gentlefolk are English. Desmoid. Sir, you have an Irish hostess. Valiere. {With a taunting smile.) 0, but has Monsieur heard never of the legend of the chamber- maid with a fortune, to whom lords came a-wooing? Desmond. {Strihing Mm in the face tuith his glove.) You damned scoundrel! Now, by Heaven! Patience spells cowardice here! Bullies! Because I am an Irishman, you think to risk your taunts and see me swallow them with smiles. You are three to one ; you think yourselves secure in the presence of the Viceroy and this roof's hospitality. The very A Song at the Castle 151 color on your backs is the red badge of conquering crime, the stained symbol of Irish hearts that bleed even now upon the withered shamrock. Take that truth, gentlemen, from an Irish heart, and disprove it on an Irish sword ! {All draw their swords; Desmond Jceeps Morton and Wilde at hay^ while Valiere runs to the door. The chief tout is letween Des- mond and Morton^ Desmond getting the upper hand, ivhile Wilde aids Morton on the out- shirts.) MoRTOi^^. This is treason. Keep him close. Call the guard. Valiere. Treason! Guard — guard, ho ! Treason and swords ! Wilde. Guard yourself, Humphrey; or we shall not only call "treason" but * 'murder. " Treason ho! {Enter Cornwallis^ folloived ly Eileen.) CoRKV^ALLis. Gentlemen, put up your swords. Take shame! What is this, gentlemen? Morton". Treason, my lord. Here stands a rebel who has slandered the king. Valiere. Guard ho! Bring here the guard ! CoRNvy^ALLis. {With acerlity.) And bid them hold all those who have drawn a sword! Gentle- men, may we have quiet? {To Desmond.) Sir, you 152 A Song at the Castle stand here as my guest. You are accused of treason. Have you any defense to offer? DesmO]s"D. None, my lord; I have spoken my heart — and it is the heart of an Irish rebel. CoRNWALLis. And was that well done, beneath an English roof? Desmond. Your lordship, this castle was built by Ii'ish hands, for the home of Irish gentlemen! CoRNWALLis. Go, while you are still my guest. (Desmond sheathes his sword ^ mid luith a deep sahctatio7i, turns to go.) Eileen". My lord, he is my guest also, bid for my birthday pleasure. Valiere. Bid to give Mademoiselle a birthday song. Pardieu! Doubtless an air from the Beggar's Opera. CoRNWALLis. Gentlemen — I pray you merit your designation! Mr. O'Moirne, your hostess begs you to remain her guest, and for the pleasure of your promise. Desmond. Your lordship, it is true that I came over sea but to bring this lady the gift she honored me to ask — the gift of one poor song. But the song I brought here in my breast has already said itself to her, in words past her forgiving; and now the only song that tears my heart for singing is not a song it A Song at the Castle 153 would pleasure you^ my lord and gentlemen, to hear. I take my leave. EiLEEK. Whatever the song — I claim your prom- ise — Desmond ! MoKTOK. {Aside.) *'Desmond!" The devil! Valieee. Apparently the gentleman is bankrupt even in promise. Desmond. But not yet, thank God, bankrupt in song! Gentlemen, you shall for once lend English ears to the word of Ireland ! {He sings ^^The Wearing of the Green.'''* Ending tvith a durst of high feeling, Desmond hands Cornwallis his sword. Cornwallis loohs at it coldly.) CoKNVTALLis. This time, young Sir, I cannot bid you go ; your liberty is forfeit. Nay, not to me your sword. That is for another custodian. Valiere. Ho, guard! Why does not come the guard? EiLEEK. My lord ! This day you gave me prom- ise ! My will, my lord — my will to be once granted to the utmost of your power. My will is Desmond O'Moirne's life and liberty. He has brought me the gift of a life forfeit for love and honor. Let him go, my lord — and where he goes, I go with him! Desmond. Eileen! My God! Eileen! Eileen. My lord? 154 A Song at the Castle CoRNWALLis. I cannot bestow as your birthday gift this gentleman's life or liberty. Morton. I thought there were some bounds to chivalry ! Eileen. You can not? Say rather, my lord, you will not! Where is your pledged word, my lord? Yours is the power CoRNWALLis. Child, my power here stands powerless. I cannot grant you his life and liberty as your holiday boon, I say, for I had granted them already; the free gift of a soldier to a soldier's deed! Your boon is still your own to ask. Eileen. {Kneels. ) Then — my lord ! my dear, dear lord ! Let it be your blessing and your pardon ! Desmond. My lord, I never thought to say, an Englishman has conquered me! {KneelSy offering sword.) (Curtain.) ROHAN THE SILENT A ROMANTIC DRAMA IN ONE ACT Rohan The Silent* OAST OF OHAEAOTEES. BoHAK (called the Silent, son of Sir Robert Fulford). SiE Philip Eochemont. SlE EOBEET FULFORD. Godwin, Beowulf, GOBYK, John, Godfrey, a Priest. IsoBEL, Sir Eobert's Ward. NuESE Elfrida. y His Liegemen. The time is 1200 A. D. The scene is the court- yard of Sir Eobert Fiilford's castle on a morning of early spring. NOTE ON THE PLAY. Eohan, son of Sir Eobert Fulford, has been stricken dumb in early childhood, at the sight of his mother killed at his feet in the courtyard. Sir Eob- *This play was written in collaboration with Emma Sheridan Fry. 157 158 Rohan The Silent ert Fnlford has pledged his word that if at the expiration of fifteen years liis son remains dumb, his nephew, Sir Philip Rochemont, shall be received at Castle Fnlford as his acknowledged heir. Sir Philip has vainly sought in marriage Isobel, Sir Robert Ful- ford's ward. Hearing that she purposes to leave the castle *'to betake her to other living" before he comes into possession as the heir-to-be, Philip comes some time before the hour agreed upon, demanding that maid and castle be yielded up to him. What follows upon his demand, the hour portrayed in the play sets forth. SCENE. Castle in the twelfth centicry. Castle walls run- ning from R. 1st, to tipper L. Castle to the R. Entrance to castle R. 2. Steps to wall L. 2. Gates in wall L. 3, A spinning wheel jnst heloiu steps leading to castle. An entrance hetween castle and wall up R. Baching of hills and sky seen over wall. Skins thrown about court. Bench for spin- dling tvheel, other benches, etc. At rise of curtain Gobyn is seated on bench R. Godtvin is pacing stage, centre to bach. Beoiuulf is entering from cas- tle. John is seated on edge of table X, polishing sword. Two liegemen are seated at same table, L. John. {Crossing to Gobyn and showing sivord.) There's a rare polish, eh, Gobyn? Rohan The Silent 159 GoBTi^. {Pushing Mm laughingly hacTc.) Sit thee down and stare at thy face in it ! {John crosses hack to L.) Godwin. {Coming doivn.) Nay, let him save it for fighting; mayhap Philip's face will show in it. JoHK. Ay, fight! Fight! GoBTK. Hear the hoy ! Beowulf may have other telling. John". Fight, I say! Kill Philip and his archers ! Ah, hut fighting is rare play ! Will Philip and his archers soon be here, think you? Fight ! I say ! Godwin. Put thy strength in thine arm, boy! Warriors fight not out of brawling throats. Beowulf. I wot thou 'It not need thy toy, for all thy shouting, good boy John. Godwin. Says our lord so, Beowulf? Now, by my soul ! Shall Philip stuff our throat with insult, and shall we stomach at his pleasure? John. Thou'lt ever answer for a man. Quoth Beowulf, John — I have a tongue. GoBYN. 'Twere better for our ears that thou wert dumb like Rohan. Beowulf. {Crossing to L. C.) No insult, God- win, for all ye breathe so hard. Our lord, Sir Robert Fulford, has made an oath ; the day has come, and Philip holds him to it. That's no insult. Godwin. Yea, insult, say I ! Why comes Philip i6o Rohan The Silent a sun*s space before his right? Is there no insult? Why comes he in war's wise and to demand, and not as kinsman, to accept? Is there no insult? And when all's said, the oath is fifteen years grown dry. Beowulf. An oath's an oath. GoBTi^. A good oath, too. We cannot have a dumb dolt set up over us for lord. GoDvriN. Nor can we have a proud-mouthed Norman crying us to bend, before that we are ready. The oath was made in a mind-heat. GoBYK. Not so! Eohan had been dumb and dolt a year. Do you mind you, Beowulf, how we counselled our Lord Robert to wait not, but to take this Philip then for a son, and for young lord, and put the daft boy Rohan by? John. This same Philip knocking at our gates? GoDwiis". Ay. I've heard; but the mother's eyes looked out of Rohan's face; and our lord would not. GoBYJ^. Our lord would not then; but now the cause is Philip's. JoHK. Shall we not fight? Beowulf. Sir Philip Rochemont hath six hun- dred archers in his wages ; — e'en though his cause were not so good, we durst not come within his danger. Godwin. Durst not? S'body! Durst not? GoBYN. Mark him for a fighter ! Godwin. Ay, sword-stroke is my sln-ift. Not leech-death or straw-death dies my blood. Rohan The Silent i6i JoHiS". We're a poor few at six hundred ; but a big many to sit and do no fight. Godwin. Sooner than see these gray walls give without some war -play, to Philip, I'll swear fealty to our lord's stall-fed son, Rohan! {All laugh.) Beowulf. Rohan, the shuttle-thrower? Our castle needs a lord. Why should we break our hau- berks barring up the gates when we must needs invite this Philip, will or nill? GoDWiif. A lord, mayhap, but why this sneak- eyed Philip? Beowulf. See how the name frets him ! Sooth Godwin hath not forgotten how Philip wooed fair Isobel. {All laugh.) GoDWiK. Peace ! GoBYN. Ay there's the core o' the thing! Says Godwin, — An Philip take the castle to-day, the maid's within the castle ; — ^let him bide till the mor- row, and she may be otherwhere ! Beowulf. 'Twere a good thought to send the girl out to him. {Crosses to L. near Golyn.) GoDWiK. No, by Saint Jude, not so ! {All laugh.) Beowulf. He's a brave tilt for a lady's eyes! Godwin. Enough! Shall the dove mate the hawk? If Philip must be lord, let him abide till he's bidden; and that's not till the morrow's morn! GoBYN. Well said ! And let us send the girl for hostage. (Mark him ! Mark him !) i62 Rohan The Silent Godwin. Peace! Thy tongue wags as thou wert lord. John. "Where's Rohan while his castle slips his hold? Beowulf. Where is he always? In the woods at talk with the heasts. {All langh.) Godwin. "What answer sent our lord, when Philip's messenger came in at sun-up, demanding open gates? We are not in our lord's good council- ing, though ours the fighting. GoBYN. Nay, no fight. Thou hast forgot the maid for hostage. (Mark him, how his brow knots !) Godwin. Peace ! {Enter Isohel L from castle. All rise to salute her. Godwin crosses, and bends above her hand.) IsoBEL. I am come to bid you to a consult with our lord, Sir Robert Fulford; of such matters, thus his word, as concerneth greatly to the weal of all. Godwin. Fair lady, thy news doth all but match thyself for fairness. Beowulf. [Aside to men.) Mark him! IsoBEL. Nay, Godwin, heavy news; our lord looked felly on me. Methinks the business hath much weight. Beowulf. And bo it should have. Have with you. {The men., following Beowulf, exeunt lei- surely into castle, by upper R. entrance. As Rohan The Silent 163 they go^ they indicate to each other^ laugh- ingly, in duml) shoiu, Godwin bending above IsoleVs hand. Godwin folloios them, after a salute to Isohel, of marked respect.) IsoBEL. {To nurse who enters R. from castle behind her.) Nay, nurse, thou shalt not chide. (Isobel runs up steps in wall.) I've more heart to wink at the sunshine than at the gloom within. I'll lift me nearer by the height of a wall. NuESE. Nay, madcap, down! Isobel. That I'll not — I can see NuKSE. Sir Philip's archers, mayhap. Down! Isobel. Nay, I care not. 'Twere a goodly sight, some archers ! Here we have no fighting ! Yet why Sir Philip's? I would rather see the archers of some other lord than he. NuKSE. Come down, I say! Isobel. Yet any archers were a pretty sight to look at. Here we do nothing. Here no one ever lifts a sword, save NuESE. Wilt thou down! Isobel. All are old and feeble here, all save NuESE. Thou 'It leave me here midway the step- ping stones? Thou'lt see thy old nurse fall? Oh! Oh! Isobel. {Running down, and to her.) Nurse, dear nurse, thou shouldst bear a staff ! 164 Rohan The Silent Nurse. To trounce thee with ! {Business.) No one lifts a sword here save who, mammet? IsoBEL. {Seats herself on lench.) Save — save {Aside.) Now would my tongue were bitten off! Save — I know not. Nurse. Save — you know not! And we with three good leaders for the fight within our walls ! IsoBEL. Three? Three? Oh, nurse! Three? Nurse. Ay, three! Beowulf, Gobyn and God- win, — think how Godwin lifts a sword! IsoBEL. Ay, but nurse, I've seen a sword lifted more well — I've seen it cleave the air like a swift loop of light. I've seen it poise so still you'd think man and sword were stone — ay — and the man Nurse. Where hast thou seen this? Ah, thou puss! 'Tis Philip, 'tis Sir Philip Rochemont! IsoBEL. Nay, I said it not! Nurse. A brave, gentle knight who has no fear. Why did thee flout him? IsoBEL. I liked him not. Nurse. Yet he can lift a sword, eh? And all are old and feeble here, save — save who, mammet, sweet bird? IsoBEL. Save Eohan. {Kneels at nurse'' s side.) Nurse. Oh! eh! Hee, hee! Rohan, the churl! He who hath no tongue — my side aches! Thou 'It be sly and say Rohan, to keep thy tongue from Philip — and to thy old nurse! Pretty bird! Pretty bird! Rohan The Silent 165 IsOBEL. Save Eohan ! And if tliou wilt say Philip once again, I'll cry the name down. I'd rather twenty times say Kohan than once Philip. {Rises,) NuKSE. Sit thee down. IsoBEL. Thou 'It not chide? {Seats herself heside nurse.) NuKSE. Ay, I'll chide! Sir Philip hath a great castle and six hundred archers. He will be master here. IsoBEL. {Rises to feet.) Nurse! Speak ye treason ! Sir Eobert Fulford's master here. Nurse. Ay, but Sir Eobert waxeth old and in such time another master comes, Sir Philip, our lord's cousin. Isobel. Eohan is Lord Fulford's eon; in such time comes Eohan. Nurse. Ay, so he should were he not a fool, so he should but by an oath. Isobel. An oath? What oath? Nurse. Sir Eobert made an oath that, fifteen years gone by he would give up the ruling of the place. This is the day, and Isobel. And Eohan 's master! Nurse. Put thy teeth down against thy tongue and hold them so till that I give thee leave to speak. Eohan was a dolt. My lord's retainers urged that this same Philip should be taken by my lord for son and to be heir. Isobel. My lord would not ! i66 Rohan The Silent Nurse. Thy tongue ! My lord would not then^ but swore that if fifteen years should pass, and Rohan's curse of dumbness be not lifted, he should be set aside. IsoBEL. And then! Nurse. And then the place should go to next of kin ; and that is Philip. IsoBEL. When shall this be? Nurse. To-day! Shall we all die waiting for the fool to speak? (Rises and crosses to centre.) A dame brat! A whimperer that clung at his mam's kirtle and never smiled when that she smiled not first ; and had more mouth for kisses from her than for food ; a dame brat ! Isobel. Oh, nurse! Loved he his mother so, and hath not spoken since the day she died? Nurse. Hath not ! When his mother's soul went out the boy's voice went out after! He's water in him; not his father's blood. No, nor his mother's neither — a rare dame! Killed, poor lady. — Ay, we had fighting in those days. — God rest her! My lady needs must see the arrows hurtle, she comes out — there! (Pointing to toiuer.) A goodly spirit ! And steps her in the breach to see the fight go on — an arrow — ay! — she fell — there where Rohan stood in the court, at his feet, down dropped she stark. Isobel. Oh, nurse, nurse! And Rohan hath never spoken since. Rohan The Silent 167 NuKSE. A proper comfort to our good lord, he ! Struck daft and tongueless ! Then my lord took the oath, that fifteen years gone by, and no change come, Kohan should be set aside and IsoBEL. But, nurse! Change hath come ! Kohan is great and strong, and Nurse. Strong like a dumb, dull ox, but can he lift a sword — knows he to fight? IsoBEL. Ay, nurse, ay! Nukse. Where hath he learnt? The meanest varlet in the place holds himself too high to wrestle with dolt Eohan. Hath he learnt in the woods, mayhap? IsoBEL. In the woods, mayhap. NuESE. I've a crick in my side with laughing. And he fights so well, 'twere well he came to-day to fight Sir Philip out. IsoBEL. Nurse! Comes Sir Philip? Nurse. Ay! To keep our good lord to his oath : to claim his own. IsoBEL. Oh, where is Eohan? Nurse. Ay, where? IsoBEL. Nurse, mind thee that song, that song the gleeman sang so long ago, the old gleeman who loved Rohan while Rohan was a child like any other? Nurse. A daft man! IsoBEL. It saith, i68 Rohan The Silent *'When scath is near and hope is flown, The Fulford's voice shall claim its own!" If 'twere a prophecy ! Nurse. If 'twere! If 'twere! I've not patience with thee! 'Tis my prophecy that thou wed with Philip, and Philip rule us here! (Crosses to castle steps.) IsoBEL. Nay, nurse ! They will not give me up ! Oh, shall we not fight? Nurse. Fight ! Thou and I? Thou flouted him and now he's like to pull the walls about our ears to teach thee better manners ! IsoBEL. Why should he hurt the walls? If the oath's true and he's the next of kin, he can come in in peace — ^while for my own poor part, I can betake myself to some other living, and Nurse. Belike he hath made that guess, and so he comes with sword to take the place while thou art safe within! IsoBEL. Eohan would not see me held against my will! Nurse. Eohan! Eohan! Thou hast sun-motes in thy head ! Get thee within ! {Pushes her toiuard the steps.) Nay, do first thy task! (Exit 7iurse. Isohel comes hack to the wheel and there stands mus- ing.) IsoBEL. (Alone.) And when the mother's soul went forth, the boy's voice went forth after! He Rohan The Silent 169 hath no need to speak. His great eyes are so soft and full of speech, and he is so strong — so strong! He hath swung me down the rocks full many times, and all day in the woods he hews at trees and plays at swords, and, ah! — my heart aches, — my heart aches! {Sits at wheel, croons softly the song) — **When scath is near and hope is flown. The Pulford's voice shall claim his own." {Enter Rohan up L. He is stoop-shoul- dered and sullen-loohing , walks heavily and slouching. He hears in his arms a mass of flowers and trailing vines. He pauses and notes the words of the song, then com.es down behind and to the L. of Isobel, and drops the flowers at her feet.) IsoBEL. {Looking up.) Eohan! EoHAiT. {By gesture.) Lady! IsoBEL. For me? All for me? BoHAN". {By gesture.) For you! IsoBEL. Ah, Eohan! Eohan! EoHAN". {By gesture.^) Thou art pleased? There are more in the woods, I'll bring more. I'll bring them all. {Starts up stage.) * Though the phrase "by gesture" is not hereafter given as direction, it is understood that Rohan expresses himself by gesture alone. 170 Rohan The Silent IsoBEL. Nay, these are full plenteous store. Rohan. I can do nothing, then. {Turns to go.) IsoBEL. Nay! Rohan, I — I must have help here. (Rohan flings himself at her feet.) Thou shalt pass the flowers and I'll weave — nay, not that one, the stem is sundered. {Drops it, Rohan hands another with his left hand^ reaching for the dro'pped flower with his rights puts it in his bosom.) Rohan, thou hast heen long away. Methinks thou shouldst not leave thy castle so. RoHAN". 3£y castle ! IsoBEL. Ay! Thy castle. Thou art come to masterhood this day. Rohan. Nay, I cannot speak. To-day I am set aside. I came but for this, that you — you might crave flowers — for no other cause. I'm better in the woods away; here I am dolt, fool, shuttle-thrower, here all deride me ; there I may lift my head. I — I will go again. {Starts to rise.) IsoBEL. But, cousin! Sir Philip comes. {Rises.) Rohan. {Starting.) To take what should be mine! Ah! {Covers his face with his hands.) IsoBEL. And you — you weep ! Rohan. What else — what else — what am I? IsoBEL. Had I thy strength I 'd not weep. Rohan. No? What wouldst do? IsOBEL. I'd be brave, I'd be like Sir Philip, a proper right good knight who has no fear. Rohan The Silent 171 EoHAN. Lady, I have no fear. I may not be as others. IsoBEL. Nay, I'd be like him. He has a — great castle, and EoHAK. Lady ! IsoBEL. l^ay, I meant not to hurt thee. Lift up thy head, Eohan, — be not sullen, be not churlish. Nay, I believe thou canst speak. Thou canst hear me? EoHAK. Ay, Gods ! I hear ! IsoBEL. Then speak! Though 'twere but an old song ! Mark it ! **When scath is near and hope is flown, The Fulford's voice shall save his own." Now, try — try. {Lays her hand on his ivrist. He shivers, looks at her hand, then up at her.) Come, now, Eohan ! Cousin, take the word from my lips ! (Rohan reaches up hungrily.) Nay, Eohan! Shame upon you! I will go! {He turns on the ground, to follow her dress, as she passes him.) IsoBEL. {At top of the steps.) Thou'rt shamed, Eohan? EoHAK. Ay ! So thou wilt return? IsoBEL. (Pausing on the steps.) I have more chiding for thee. EoHAi^. I would be chidden, lady. IsoBEL. (Coynes down the steps sloiuly and seats herself slowly.) Sir Philip would not have served me 172 Rohan The Silent 80. Eohan, you do not pass the flowers. {She puts her foot up on the stone steps, the better to hold the flotvers; Eohan hands them someiohat blindly, for loatching of the foot; noting which Isobel takes it doiun. Rohan plans that he may lay his hand against the place it rested.) Your father is in coun- cil with his men; Sir Philip's herald came at sunrise, demanding — I know not what ! Or else Sir Philip will — I know not what ! And all the whiles we are thus endangered, thou art footing through the woods and care not if Sir Philip comes or no. KoHAK. Lady ! Isobel. Nay, speak not ! I have no patience for you ! {Rohan turns away his face down toioard the stone steps.) And now thou wilt sulk — I wist not what to do ! I trow, if thou dwell on form, sooth, so will I. {Begins to spin. Rohan touches her robe and offers her a flower.) Nay, I have done; all's said. {Roha7i goes dejectedly.) Nay, depart not so! Though all is said, go not so, Rohan. I — I will remember more. {Rohan comes back.) Nay, at my feet right meekly — see, I have thee chained ! {Puts garland over his head.) Now swear me fealty; the oath thou wouldst swear, were thou liegeman and I queen, thus: *'I, Rohan, do pledge myself yoiu: liegeman for life and for limb and for earthly wor- ship; and faith and truth will I give unto you, to live and die before all manner of folk; so help me God!" Rohan The Silent 173 RoHAK. Out of my heart I **I, Rohan, do pledge myself your liegeman for life and for limb and for earthly worship ; and faith and truth will I give unto you, to live and die before all manner of folk; so help me God!" IsOBEL. Dear cousin, thou art so fierce in thy jesting I'm all but frighted. RoHAi^. I will be gentle. IsoBEL. Alack ! Thy father with his brow still dark! {Rohan starts down X, Isolel stands hy her wheel below and to left of steps. Enter Sir Robert Fulford^ Beowulf^ Gobyn^ Godwin, John and others.) SiE RoBT. {Centre.) The honor of me and of ye all I would gladly save — had I a son or were I less enfeebled and sore weary with many years, we might do other how. Godwin. {Right.) Let us go out and give our arms some trial. John". {Left, front,) Aj, ay! SiE RoBT. Shall we go out to fall like corn in harvest? Godwin. We might prove the better men John. Ay! The better men ! GoBYN. {Right, beside John. To John.) Peace! SiK RoBT. And if it happen that in war's work 174 Rohan The Silent yo are the better men, what will it profit if ye be left upon the slaughter -place, mangled with wounds? Nay, I am weary and war -sad and our force is few. I have bid Sir Philip here for parley. For saving of my oath, this day must pass ere my sad son be set aside. In proof of faith we'll give him up the girl. The morrow he may enter here in peace and with no test of arms. This is our wisdom. Ah, 'tis long since I was Eobert Fulford ! Godwin. Still say I, let us fight ! John". Ay, let us fight ! Sir Eobt. Had I a son! Had I a son! EoHAN". (Tlie garland still about Mm comes for - warcly L. C.) Good my father, a son thou hast! Sir Eobt. Now look down, God, and laugh upon my fortunes ! Here stands out my son — ^look down upon him and laugh ! Godwin. Harnessed bravely for war ! Out! Out! Beowulf. {Left.) Shuttle-thrower! Fit to sport with wenches ! Sir Eobt. Here stands he who should be prop and stay — here stands — Ah ! I choke ! Godwin. He is no remedy. Let us fight and abide fortune. John. Ay ! And every man to show his prowess ! GoBYN. Boy! (To John.) Sir Eobt. Peace ! We have spoken. Where is the girl? Go one for the maid Isobel. Rohan The Silent 175 IsoBEL. {Coming for luard.) I — I sat here spin- ning, good my lord, and Sir Robt. {Gravely and hindly.^ Thou hast heard, then; what say you, fair niece? Wilt be our hostage? In part we owe this coil to thee. Hadst thou looked with favor on Sir Philip's wooing we had not now been set to council. Wilt be our hostage? Or shall we mend thy quarrel with our good blood? IsoBEL. {Faintly.) Bounden am I to be content at what is thy good pleasure, my lord. Sir Eobt. Right maidenly. Rohan. {Flinging off the garland.) Father! Stay! Sir Robt. I wonder at thy insolence who by God's curse and mine hast no place here. Godwin. Good my lord, let us not stoop to maiden service. Let there be wage of arms, one of us against a one of Philip's. Heaven will decide the right by the issue; and by the issue we'll abide. John. Ay! And let me fight it! Godwin. To thy mother, boy! Let my arm make the test. If that my fellows and thy word will have it so. Gobtn. Ay, good ! A wage of arms ! Beowulf. And Godwin's arm to make it! John. {And others.) Ay! Ay! A wage of arms, and Godwin's arm to make it ! Godwin. 'Tis said. 176 Rohan The Silent {Spealcing together.) KoHAN. Nay, my father ! All— let me fight? Godwin. Ha! He asks to fight ! Beowulf. The shuttle-thrower fight! John. The dumb our champion! Omnes. {Laugh.) EoHAN". I am like iron. None here can cope me. Heaven will decide the right. Godwin. Gods! None cope thee? Thou art my pastime ! Shall I be holden and stayed? {Rushes upon Rohan. They tvrestle. As they grip and strain., the 7nen folloiu them about with hrolcen cries and exclamations. Rohan throws Godwin. All shout.) GoBYN. Where learned the fool such play? IsoBEL. Oh, good uncle, let him have trial! Good uncle, abate thy rigor against thy son ! What hath not Eohan that befits a man? He speaks not? What need hath a Fulford of words, when that he is a Fulford and wears a sword? Have the hills'speech? Yet there is no strength may stir them ! Speaks the great gold sun that makes the whole earth live? Hath the lightning need of words when that it strikes and kills? So, good my lord, is Rohan! Rohan. I, saving thee, should be lord here ; by right of place mine [it is to fight this wage, by right of strength, too, as I have shown but now before ye all, here with your best arm, Godwin. Rohan The Silent 177 GoDWiK. {Leaning heavily against talile R.) Ay, he hath wrenched me. I will call him young lord. EoHAi^. For that I cannot speak ye set me hy. I crave my curse he not remembered now ! By the cause whereby it fell upon me, by the shaft that struck my mother's brave heart through, by the piti- ful sad sight of her here at my feet, I crave you, I cry you, I demand you, remember not my curse, but let my right speak, let my heart speak, let my ^sword speak, let me fight ! IsoBEL. Oh, good uncle, lacks he words who can plead so? John" and Godwin. Ay, ay ! Beowulf and Gobyn. Well said ! Sir Eobt. What say ye, men? {Horn sounds without the wall.) Sir Philip is at hand. Beowulf. We shall more nearly save our honor by a wage. GoBTN. And Rohan here hath given good proof of strength. Godwin. Ay, strength hath he, and the way to put it forth. John and Others. Ay, let the wage be done by Rohan ! Beowulf. Rohan say I ! Sir Robt. (To Rohan.) Put thee in war dress! {Exit Rohan into castle. To John and Gobyn.) 178 Rohan The Silent The gates ! (Beoiuulf and Sir Robert confer L. C. John and Gohyn go to the gates.) Godwin". (To Beowulf while the gates are being siuung.) I tell thee, he wrenched me with my own tm'n o'er the shoulder, — the same as thou taught me. Beowulf. 'Twas I taught the lad sword-play ere he turned dolt. What's in it all, think you? (Beoiuulf and Godiom go to either side of Sir Robert nj) L. Gobyn and John stand either side of the gate itp C. Nurse and Iso- bel remain to L of steps. Beoiuulf and Sir Robert L. C. Enter Philip through the gates C ivith five men and an atteridant priest^ Godfrey.) Sir Phil. {Coming to R. C.) I have come for brief parley, good Lord Fulford. I have no need of consult, having many good stout men. By mes- senger this sun-up I have made known to you my will. The castle yielded straight with all therein. {Isobel shrinks back.) Or thy fair niece Isobel as hostage of thy faith, to yield at later pleasure. Fail- ing both these, good my Lord Fulford, I have a right rare gathering of yeomen and brisk archers to show to thee, and brave catapults to knock for entrance. But that I reverence thy years and thy good service to our lord the king, I had not come. What further parley would you? Is it thy will to settle now when Rohan The Silent 179 I may enter here? That were fit wisdom, good my lord; and I have brought an escort for my fair hos- tage. Speak, my lord. SiE EoBT. Sir Philip Eochemont, we do desire the controversy be decided by a wage of arms. Your stoutest soldier and our own. One man to one man, body to body. SiE Phil. Ha ! My lord, for such lad's play why have I brought my yeomen many leagues? Sib Robt. The king would ill regard thy violence against me, good Sir Philip. GoDFKEY. (Aside to Philip.) The old wolf hath blood still. Be thou prudent, Philip. The king's in no good humor towards thee. SiE Phil. {To Godfrey.) Peace! (Pauses sullenly.) Thy terms? Sir Robt. In fair fight, one man to one man, body to body. If that ours prove the stronger. Sir Philip shall depart with courteous safe conduct beyond our walls, and pledged to trouble us no more. If that we shall fail, we shall by need constrained submit us to Sir Philip, ourselves, our walls and all therein, swearing our fealty and pledging our serv- ice; thenceforth for always. Godfrey. (Aside to Philip.) Be advised, 'twere better so. Thy arm is good. Be mindful of the king. Better 'twere done so. Thou wilt have the maid as safe i8o Rohan The Silent Philip. {Aside to Godfrey.) Ay, I'll have the maid. Yet 'twere a risk. These few we have are not mate for e'en their poor forces. Godfrey. 'Twill take but a small space to whis- tle in our yeomen and our archers, Philip. Be advised. (Pause, during luhich Philip takes note of the force present, IsobeVs position, and the gates, then aloud to Sir Robert.) Philip. Were honor drowsing now, 'twere a brave trap, good my lord, to stand single with closed gates. Sir Eobt. (Motions to Golyn and John to go to gates and swing them open.) Thou hast my surety and thou hast open gates, my lord ; and thou wilt let the wage be fought without the walls. Philip. Nay, here ! Let me confer. (Sir Roherfs onen gather round Sir Robert. Philip confers luith Godfrey.) Philip. Mark me, I'll trust no chance for the maid. I fight the wage myself. Watch thou the shift of arms. If that I am mastered, two of our men shall make the maid secure; another two of them may hold the gates ; one more is good against the other force. Come thou to my staying, thou and thy dagger! We'll hold them so, the while we whistle in our forces. Godfrey. Thy blood shows. 'Twas always so that Norman conquered Saxon, Philip. Rohan The Silent i8i Philip. Peace ! Give thou our men instructing, and note well the fighting. GoDFEEY. Ay, Philip. Philip. ( To Sir Robert. ) I do admit thy parley, good Sir Eobert. Myself will meet the wage. SiE EoBT. Good. Philip. Thy Champion? {Eiiter Rohan from the castle.) Rohak. {By gesture.) Here! Philip. {Laughing i7isole7itly .) Sure Lord Ful- ford does not offer insult to a knight and kinsman! Thy terms state man to man, not man to beast. War dress hides not thy dolt son Rohan. GoDFEEY. Wisely, PhiUp, wisely. The wage is easier thine. SiE RoBT. The wage is not of words, Sir Philip, but of sword-stroke. Philip. {To Godfrey.) So! {To Sir Rolert.) Good! {Godfrey tightens the strappi7ig of Sir Philip'' s armor. Sir Robert mounts steps X, giving inspection to Rohan'' s equipment as he passes.) Godwin. {To Beowulf duriiig this business.) I like it not. Didst note the champing of his jaw? IsoBEL. {Down L to nurse.) Nurse! Sir Philip's eye turns craftily. My heart chills. i82 Rohan The Silent Godwin". {Continumg his talk with Beowidf.) Gates open ! I like it riot ! IsoBEL. Ah, Rohan! This word, — In the dark hour — Rohan, I love thee! RoHAK". {Not touching her.) And God will, I may make answer, lady! Philip. (Coming forward.) My lord. Sir Robt. Stand forth. {They take place., Rohan L. C. Philip R. C. Sir Robert on steps to castle L. Isohel and mtrse dotun R. hy the castle. Gohyn and Godwin up C. Beoivulf alove steps to the L. hy Sir Robert. John R. near gates. Sir Philip'' s men doiun L. Godfrey with them.) Sir Robt. In fair fight, body to body, man to man. Heaven to decide the right by the issue. Philip. So betide me as these terms I faith- fully observe me, as I am a man, a Christian and a loyal knight. ROHAX. So help me God, all these terms I faith- fully observe, as I am a man, a Christian, and {look- ing at Isohel) a loyal knight. {They prepare.) Sir Robt. Neatroque ! {They fight.) IsoBEL. Now dear Heaven save my heart ! {Theyfight.) Rohan The Silent 183 GoDWuq". Rare ! Eare ! Note his sword-play ! {They fight.) JoHK. Oh, were I there ! {They fight) IsoBEL. Oh, nurse, nurse! Beowulf. There's our lord's blood! {Theyfight) Godwin". God ! Here's rare play. Godfrey. {Who moves about, watching closely.) He'll do it fairly! {Philip begins to get the better hand. ) GoBYN. The fool goes under ! Sir Eobt. Mine eyes mist. Here his mother fell! GoDWiK. We're undone! IsoBEL. God! Rohan! I cannot look! {Hides her face.) {Rohan begins to get the better hand.) Sir Robt. 's Men. Ah ! Ah ! Godfrey. {Watching closely.) Not yet! Not yet! {They fight furiously , Rohan gaining.) Godwin. Bravely ! Bravely ! Godfrey. He's spent! At last! If ever — now! 184 Rohan The Silent (Gives signal to Philip^ s me?i, to pass swiftly around the hack behind Beozuulf, and over the 2)Iatfor7n, behind Sir Robert; thus to Isobel. Only Rohan sees them. He tries to hold Sir Philii) with 07ie hand, that he may signal for IsobeV s protection ivith the other.) GoBYN. He loses ! JoHK. He's hurt! Godfrey. He's mad! KoHAN. (Speaks hoarsely in his throat.) Ah! Ah! (Loudly a7id hoarse.) A treason! A treason! GoDWi]sr. God in heaven! The lady! (Rushes doiun from up C. in front of steps to Isobel doiun R.) Beowulf. The gates ! GoBYK. Dogs ! JoHK. Treason! Treason! Treason! (Godioin grasps one of the men at Isobel about the tuaist. The other man Godzuin holds down by bach of nech. Gobyn drags shut the gates single handed., and loith John, protects them. Beowulf holds the fourth man of Philip. Godfrey goes to Philip'^s staying, and Rohan forces Philip dojcn. Godfrey lifting dagger is stayed and disarmed by Sir Robert.) RoHAN". (Hoarsely but loud.) Eight is mine! Philip. I yield me. (Philip'' s men drop arms.) Rohan The Silent 185 RoHAK. {Throwing up Ms hands,) Mother in Heaven! I speak! I have found tongue! Ah! Ah! Ah! God hear me! God hear me I f GoDWii^. He speaks ! (Speaking \ JohinT. He hath found tongue ! together.) \ Godfeey. A miracle! Omnes. He speaks! A miracle! {etc.) RoHAK. {Turns R. toward Isohel, reaches out his arms.) I make answer, lady! I claim my own! IsoBEL. Thine, Rohan! {Comes to him.) {Sir Boiert L. C. Rohan and Isotel C. Nurse and Godwin down R. Beowulf and Goiyn up C. John and others up L. Philip'' s men and Godfrey down L. Philip disarmed on the ground to the rights and in front of Rohan.) (CUETAIK.) AT THE BARRICADE AN EPISODE OF THE COMMUNE OF '7 1 At the Barricade PERSONS REPRESENTED. Makquis de Malkevanche. Laueent, Lieutenant of Chausseurs. Kadoc, Sergeant. Jacques Sage, Corporal. De. Rodellec. YvoNi^E 0¥ GuiMPEELE, Called Queen of the Pa- trol euses. Claiee, Contesse de St. Lunaire. NicoLLETTE, her maid. Thtmette. ^ Maetok. >• Petroleuses. Jeakke. ) Before the curtain rises the orchestra plays a series of French airs: '•'Sur le Pont d^ Avignon;'''* ^''U Amour fait le monde a le ro7idej ' ' ' 'Partant pour la 8yrie;'*'' at last striking into the Marsellaise, which is repeated with rapidly increasing tempo and em- 189 190 At the Barricade pliasis. Beliind the curtaiii a tocsin is heard; shouts; the noises of a swiftly rising emeute; a drum-roll; cries; shots; at first scattering, then a fusillade; the cicrtain rises on the last moment of a fight at a barri- cade in the Quartier Latin^ in 1871. At the left of stage^ half-way hack^ set at an angle, is a '•'barri- cade,'''' roughly throicn up, of paving stones, a cart, broken furniture dragged from houses, gates, and the like. A man lies dead, fallen across it face forward. Another lies dead in foreground. There are wounded men and women, some regular soldiers, some revolu- tionaires, lying or sittitig about the stage. At the right of stage, two-thirds back, there is a high, bla7ik brick tuall, as to a courtyard. Dr. Rodellec is exam- ining the dead and loounded: by his gestured order, the wounded are lead and the dead carried aioay. At the right of the stage, at the back, a group of Petro- leuses, TJiymette, Jeanne, Marton, are being boimd, their arms behind them, by tico soldiers, under di- rection of Jacques Sage; Laurent is luatching them. He is dishevelled and powder-stained; there is a tear in his unifonn just above the heart. The women are bloodstained, with disordered dress and hair. After a feiu moments of such a7iimated pantomime as that above indicated. Doctor Rodellec crosses to Laurent, and as he speaks, they come dotun, centre, together. Rodellec is adjusting his cuffs, putting back instru- ments in case, etc. At the Barricade 191 Dr. Eodellec. Congratulations, Monsieur the Lieutenant : vive le ligue ! I could not have led the fight better myself! Can a non-combatant say more ! Laurent. There was no leadership, Doctor! The word came to us — They have raised a barricade ! Level it ! — I but passed the word to my men, here, — faith, it was done ! Eodellec. And well done ! Behind such shelters as that revolutions grow, full-statured in an hour. They are very mushrooms of hell, springing up no one knows how, and under them, the creatures spawned by Martok. Eemember your gallantry, Monsieur the Doctor ! Some of the spawn chance to be of your audience! Eodellec. Be quiet, you fool! Or you'll lose more of that hot blood of yours than you can well spare! I warned you I wouldn't answer for that shoulder's bandage. It's an awkward slash, that! Thymette. And why not lose hot blood as well through a shoulder -cut as through a bullet-path to the heart? It's a question of an hour, — no more! and then, — backs against the wall! — present! — fire! Jeanne. ( With a cry of terror.) Marton, no ! Monsieur the Lieutenant, no! Will it be like that with us? Is it true? Laurent. God's mercy, child that you are ! why 192 At the Barricade did you not ask yourself that question before you rushed to thafc barricade? Jacques Sage. And before you said good-morn- ing in lead to me across it? Day of my life ! Look at the mark her bullet left ! Jeaististe. Monsieur the Lieutenant, what could I do? I followed Marton, — that is all! I did not know why ! I did not know where ! — Monsieur the Lieutenant, Marton is my comrade ! She has shared her one crust with me, — she has wrapped me in her one blanket when nights were cold! Monsieur the Lieutenant, what could I do when some one had thrust a pistol in my hand, and I saw that man's bayonet at Marion's breast? {A drum-roll is heard icitliout.) Laureis^t. (Crosses R. to looh down street.) De Guyon, perhaps? My colonel? God send it! It is he settles these women's fate, not I. Shoot a woman in cold blood? Faugh! It's butcher's work; not a man's ! RoDELLEC. It's butchery to France not to shoot them! They're the devil's right hand. Lieutenant! Why, take that woman, Yvonne, now, the Petro- leuse leader, the most damnable, — that — which is Yvonne? Thymette. More fitly ask, Monsieur, where is Yvonne 1 At the Barricade 193 EODELLEC. You're not Yvonne of Guimperle? Thymette. {Laughs.) Am I Yvonne? Eh, Mar ton? Maktoi^. You Yvonne? No more than a spark of fire is hell ! Laukent. Sage! Has one of your prisoners escaped, then? Eodellec. Yvonne escaped! Then you've picked the cherries and spared the tree ! Sage. There were no other prisoners, Monsieur! The woman who led the fight, — a she devil ! — was gone when the fight ended. [The Petroleuses laugh.) Laueekt. Diable! Does any man here know her? Thymette. One of your men knows her, Mon- sieur ! He was carried from there just now with her knife through his heart. Laueekt. She's had no time for escape. Our men are everywhere. The woman is in hiding some- where near. I'll set Kadoc on the search, and Fran- 9ois. Guard these women well, Sage. (8age salutes.) Curse such bloodhound's work. Doctor! {Exit.) Eodellec. Good faith! But that hunt will be worth the following ! There'll be sport at the finish ! {Exit, following Laurent.) 194 At the Barricade Jeanne. Marton? Marton. Well, child? Jeanne. What do you think it will be like, Marton, — the minute after? Marton. After — what? Jeanne. After we have stood — against the wall? Thymette. Nothing so very new, pardieu ! We shall find ourselves a bit colder than the nights last winter — voila tout! Marton. Death will be the first lover who ever touched you to find you cold ! {Nicollette enters hastily.) Nicollette. {To Sage.) Monsieur! Is it here the Hotel St. Lunahe lies? Ah, Monsieur, I am so terrified. All this noise — blood — Monsieur, a man fell dead at my feet in the street yonder ! Thymette. Honor us with your presence but a half-hour. Mademoiselle, and you shall see three women fall *'dead at your feet!" {Mochiiig her accent and gesture.) Nicollette. Monsieur, who are these women? Why are they wounded — and bound? One of them is a girl — like me! Ah! {With a cry.) They are women like those who fought in the street yonder — they are petroleuses ! Monsieur, you will not shoot them? They are women ! Sage. When a woman puts herself in a bullet's At the Barricade 195 way, petite, — diantre! She must not grumble at swallowing the bullet! As, for instance, when she puts herself in the way of a kiss, she must not grumble {He catches her hy the tvaist. She struggles.) NicoLLETTE. Let me go ! Let me go ! No man but Kadoc shall touch my lips. I promised Kadoc Help! Help, I say! {Kadoc enters.) Kadoc. Who said Kadoc? Now by the entrails of the devil {Catches Sage hy the collar and whirls him from Nicollette.) To-day's been a dream from the start, and here's more dreaming! You're not real? You're never, Mcollette? ) Seizes loth her hands.) {Sage goes up stage rubling Ms shoulders,) Thymette. a capital entr'acte of comedy, on my soul ! Life is entertaining to the fall of the curtain I Jeanne. He has eyes like my Pierre, that soldier, and big kind hands like my Pierre ! And his hands will never touch me again! Ah, my Pierre! my Pierre ! Nicollette. Kadoc! It is a dream, as you say! How came you here? Kadoc. That's for me to ask you, little one! My place is here — Monsieur Laurent, my Lieutenant, 196 At the Barricade is here — man's work is here; but a woman? How came you here, little sweetheart? NicoLLETTE. Kadoc, we are on our way to Eng- land, Monsieur the Marquis, Mademoiselle my mis- tress, and I. Monsieur the Marquis found there were papers, jewels, left in his Hotel St. Lunaire, yonder; he would not leave France without them. Paris was quiet at last, they told us down in Brittany — quiet and safe. We were to go to England by way of Paris. Our carriage was in the next street — figure to yourself ! so near ! — when on a sudden Kadoc. Theemeute! Sapristi! Yes! It swept on us in a moment, as the storm sweeps up the old St. Malo shore ! NicoLLETTE. Our horses were shot — our carriage overset — Mademoiselle whispered, "You know our town house, child; reach it if you can — the servants will open to you." Kadoc. Servants? Open! The Hotel St. Lunaire is a smoked-out rooks' nest! But its cellar's good hiding for you, little one, till we are sure this tempest is spent. Come ! NicoLLETTE. Ah, in the dark one can be safe! Kadoc. In the dark one can steal, — peste ! Why should one wait, then, for the dark? It's all a dream ! {Clasps and hisses her,) Maeton. And that's all in it worth dreaming! At the Barricade 197 {Enter Laurent.) Lauke^stt. Kadoc ! {Kadoc springs erect and to the salute. Nicollette so hangs her head that Laurent does not see her face.) Laurei^t. {As a drum-roll is heard without.) Kadoc! Playing at love to that music! At this hour ! And you a Breton soldier I Kadoc. Monsieur, — I {Claire enters.) Laueent. Girl, find some safer place, and that quickly! No woman who values life or honor is found in Paris streets to-day! Claire. I count that less than courteously said, Monsieur the Lieutenant! Laurent. Claire! Contesse! God! What does an angel in hell? Claire. Where else were an angel so needed, Monsieur, or where should she he so welcome? Laurent. I — I thought you safe in England, and your journey ended ! Claire. My faith! I, too, thought my journey ended but now, Monsieur, when a Communist bullet played ungallant barber and robbed me of a curl! A half -inch nearer, and 198 At the Barricade Laurent. {Extending his hand as though to touch her curls^ then suddenly luithdraiuing it.) Claire! {He speaks in a stifled voice^ and turns aivay to fight doiun his emotion.) Thymette. Will they rob iia of our last distinc- tion, these aristocrats? Diable! That was a prettier grimace than ever / made at Death ! Claire. Nay, Monsieur, why shrink at the men- tion of Death's shears, when the shears themselves have touched you, too, so close? {She indicates a tear in his icniform.) Laurent. It was a bayonet thrust. Jacques turned it from my heart. But — it was not then Death's nearness brought me fear. It is now. Claire. Strange, Monsieur, when now is the first hour in months that I have known no fear. Laurent. You speak riddles, Contesse. It is part of this evil dream. Claire. Then I will make my riddles plain. {To Nicollette.) Go you, child, as the Lieutenant bade you. Kadoc will have leave to guard you. {Laureiit hoios.) Find if our hotel stands, and bring me word. Nicollette. Bien, Contesse. {To Kadoc.) See that you guard me well ! Kadoc. No fear. {Arm around her.) You shall see I know how to hold a prisoner ! {Exeunt Nicollette and Kadoc.) At the Barricade 199 Claike. Monsieur, the fear from which this hour delivers me was the fear that I might never find again that which yon took with you when you left our old Breton chateau, one spring morning, a twelve month ago. Laueei^t. What I took with me, Contesse? Nay, I took with me nothing not my own. Claire. You are sure of that. Monsieur? Laurent. I took with me a secret, Contesse, that was mine — all mine — because I had no right to share it ! Claire. And you took with you also, I think, Monsieur, a something that was not yours — the something that held your secret, — my heart, Monsieur ! Laurekt. Contesse ! {Moves passionately toward her,) Claire. Nay, not Contesse, Laurent, — Claire! Claire, your old playmate, the child you protected, the girl your arm taught to trust man's strength, that your soul taught to trust man's goodness! Claire, — your childhood's friend, — your manhood's — Laurent. My manhood's idol! The love of all my life! My dream of heaven! Claire! {He falls on one hnee^ hissing her hands. She raises him.) Claire. Nay, Laurent, listen! It is not noble- woman that speaks to officer of France — it is not 200 At the Barricade maid that speaks to man — it is soul that cries to soul, across the barricade of flesh that any moment may tear away ! I have lived in fear, Laurent — the fear lest I be unworthy the dignity of a noblewoman — lest I shame what my own soul has taught me is the dig- nity of a maid, who may not speak love, with the lips no love has kissed! But in this hour such barricades must fall. May not the bullet that clipped my curl an hour ago fly nearer in the hour to come? May not the bayonet that missed your heart but now find it, before my heart has had leave to speak? Laurent, we stand as spirit to spirit in Death's freedom. Tell me you love me ! Laurent. I love you! I worship you! Soul and flesh, I worship you ! Martoit. Tudieu ! But it seems these aristocrats can also teach us how to love ! Laurent. My Claire! You knew I loved you! Claire. I knew; and therefore my love leaped its barricade. Your eyes have told me so, my Laurent, — oh, many a time ! — in the sweet old gar- den, in the sweet lost time! But your lips Laurent. My lips dared not, Claire. How dared they — I, a poor soldier of fortune — you, a noblewoman of France, the petted child of fortune ! I, who have not even a name to offer you, my Claire — T, who owe the training of a gentleman to the charity of the man — your guardian — whose At the Barricade 20i charity to me hints my shame and his. Claire, I am nameless ! Claire. Not nameless from this hour, my loTer! My name — will you not make it yours? I am the last of my race. No man lives now who may call himself a St. Lunaire. There is no nobler name in Brittany — no nobler name in France! Yours is the spirit of the men who have borne it — the men behind whose sword their king was safe — in whose love was the safety of a woman! {The Marquis enters. He ivatches them through his lorgnette.) Laurent! If we outlive this hour, my name is yours as now my heart is yours, — take it, as you take — my lips! Laueekt. My queen! My Claire! (Kisses her passionately.) Thymette. {A drum-roll without.) Diantre! One can after all play at love, it seems, to such music ! Jeakke. Ah, my Pierre ! Marquis. {Coming forward. He is lightly applauding .) On my word, as pretty a love-scene , as I ever assisted at in any theatre. And — jour de ma vie ! Did I not deserve applause for entering so pat upon my cue? Martok. The first cue you ever took, then, from honest lips — ^Idche ! Jean^ne. You know the man, Marton? Martok. Every girl in Brittany with eyes of any 202 At the Barricade sort has had opportunity to know the Marquis Malre- vanche ! Marquis. Parole d'honneur ! (Takes snuff.) It has annoyed me — but yes, seriously annoyed me! — to feel that I have missed my cue more than once to-day! It bores one to be cast for a part one is unfamiliar with. I have never played a refugee. I do not find the role congenial ! (From this point there arise ^ gradually^ the sounds of a rising emeute; drum-roll^ shots, shouts, the tocsin, and the Marsellaise; hut faint at first, and very distant.) Laurent Monsieur the Marquis Marquis. One moment, my children! One moment's patience! I was about to say that it is most gratifying to chance on a cue one cannot miss, — and my obvious line is — Bless you, my chil- dren! Claire. I thank you, Monsieur, for the consent that to-day makes it unnecessary for me to ask ! Marquis. Well and neatly said, my ward! We celebrate your birthday but ungallantly, — yet it seems to bring you a desired gift after all ! Monsieur the Lieutenant — may I add, Monsieur my son? — let us make it complete, in bringing you also a gift, — my name ! Claire. Monsieur the Marquis, to-day has twice At the Barricade 203 brouglit my husband an honorable name, — one name won by brave fighting, — one name offered by humble love! Laukekt. Unworthy as I am, she has answered you, Monsieur the Marquis. I desire no other name than these. Maequis. Yet consider, Monsieur my son. But for a slight legal formality, regrettably omitted, the name had been yours by right of birth. Yet who could regret an amiable indiscretion that has had such a consequence? It arranges itself so con- veniently! The lady for whom the formality was observed, neglected, before her lamented exit, to fur- nish an heir to the Malrevanches ; — another lady had already generously anticipated that deficiency — it is perfect! The unclaimed name — the nameless son! Voila! Thymette, Such as he is make revolutions ! Claike. I say again, to-day brings Laurent what you cannot offer him, — an honofalle name. Mon- sieur ! JeainTKE. Such as she is make — France! Laueent. Monsieur the Marquis, you have given me the right to ask you the question on which all depends — for me. Who is the woman who must bear, your name before I bear it? Monsieur the Marquis, who is my mother? Maequis. Dieu des dieux ! There you bring me 204 At the Barricade to an embarraaament. Who was your mother? Frankly, Monsieur my son, I do not remember ! (There is a cry icithout. Nicollette enters^ struggling in the grasp of FrariQois. She is tueeping with fear. Yvonne folloios; she twists FranQois''s hands from Nicollette^ who throws herself sobbing at Claire^ s knees.) Nicollette. Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! They broke into my hiding-place, these soldiers! They said I was a Petroleuse, Mademoiselle ! That I waa that terrible woman, the Petroleuse they were seek- ing, Mademoiselle! That I was to be brought here, and shot against the wall ! — that I was Yvonne. {Advancing.) That she waa Yvonne of Guimperle — in a word, that she was I! {Claire raises Nicollette and tries to calm her.) Jeakne and Thymette. Yvonne! Laurent. Yvonne of Guimperle ! Yvonne. {With a mode courtesy.) At your service, Messieurs my executioners! Marquis. Yvonne! Foi de mon honneur ! And she is handsome yet ! {Kadoc^ entering^ brings a folded paper to Laurent^ who opening., reads. Yvonne laughs with the tvomen as the soldiers bind her arms.) Kadoc. The Colonel's orders, Monsieur the At the Barricade 205 Lieutenant. And immediate! (He indicates hy gesture the Petroleuses.) LAUREi!fT. Make them ready, then. But do — nothing — ^until Mademoiselle the Contesse — — (He indicates Claire^ s departure ly gesture.) (The soldiers tighten the binding of the women^s arms.) Martok. What fool's work brought you here, Yvonne? Yvonne. A fool's will, if you like, comrades! I had safe hiding in the cellar of the Hotel St. Lunaire yonder, — ^your pardon for trespass, Made- moiselle the Contesse! This small one (Indicates Nicollette.) was brought to the same hiding by her big lover. Did she fear me when she found me! Diantre, no ! No more than had she been kitten and I cat, instead of tiger ! My word ! She fed me bread and wine — it was a fete! Then burst in these unmannerly clowns — they seized her, crying we have her — the hell cat — the queen of the Petroleuses! — She — the queen of the Petroleuses ! But they have perceptions, these gentlemen! (The women laugh.) Thtmette. She might have convenienced you, all the same, by filling your place — there ! (Indi- cates the wall, against which they are placing Mar- ton, sullenly resisting.) 2o6 At the Barricade Yvonne. Diable! No! That is precisely where she could not take my place! Is all my vanity dead? Should they say, ''So Yvonne of Guimperle dies" of the death that small one would die? The death of a little scared kitten? No! I've lived my own life, I'll die my own death; mille tonnerres! 'Tis but to leap one more barricade, with a Perhaps be- yond it ! Laurent. Let Kadoc take you and Nicollette away, my Claire ! What must come presently is not sight for woman's eyes. Claire. Nor work for men's hands, Laurent! They are women! {Laurent makes a gesture of despairing appeal^ indicating his helplessness to disobey orders.) Marquis. (Crosses, surveying the Petroleuses through his lorgnette.) Ma foil It is of course the fortune of war, but all the same it is a pity to waste such good material ! Yvonne. {Squarely facing him.) It is a pity you did not say that to yourself twenty-three years ago. Monsieur the Marquis de Malrevanche! Marquis. You do me the honor, then, to remember me? Yvonne. My excellent memory saved your life a half hour ago, Monsieur. When my people so rudely At the Barricade 207 interrupted your journey yonder, I struck up the pistol that was billeting you for a longer journey. Marquis. And to be remembered kindly ! How gratifying ! Yvonne. If you put it so. Frankly, I reasoned thus, Monsieur. The chances are I travel the dark road within an hour or two. God save me from meeting him upon it ! So I ensured your remaining behind ! Maequis. Truly woman varies ! This was hardly your attitude two and twenty years ago, my dear ! Yvonne. Are you sure you knew my attitude, Monsieur? My action — yes, — my motive — no! Van- ity has ever been your weakness. Monsieur. I have sometimes thought you may have fancied I loved you! Maequis. The fancy is pardonable, perhaps, when one considers that yonder stands — our son ! Laueent. My mother ! Claire ! God ! God ! Claiee. Laurent! Her courage is in your eyes ! Yvonne. As you say — our son. Your servant, Monsieur, our son! We were speaking of love, I think? Monsieur, all my life it has been my whim to leap barricades. Two and twenty years ago I dreamed my youth and beauty might lend me wings to leap the barricade of rank. I thought to be a Marquise, Monsieur! Hence, — our son! You were 2o8 At the Barricade too clever for me ; for the first and last time a barri- cade baffled me. But love — Monsieur, I am a woman of taste! Thymette. She is magnificent! {Laurent advances to Yvonne^ and begins to unbind her arms, straining at the twists of the ropes. He is tensely white.) Marquis. What are you doing? Claire. His duty, Monsieur — how should you comprehend it? Yvoi^NE. Why do you release me? Laurent. You are my mother. Yvonne. You know what I am? Laurent. You are my mother. Yvonne. Do you know what you do, boy, I say? You free the best hated woman in all Paris, — the woman on whose head your army sets a price ! Laurent. You are my mother. Yvonne. In loosing me you put the ropes on your own wrists. It is treason. Laurent. You are my mother. Yvonne. Eeflect, if you can. Do you count on this man's favor when you stand cashiered — dis- graced — your sword snapped before your face? You do not know this man ! Laurent. You are my mother. Yvonne. Do you think this girl will reach her At the Barricade 209 hand to you acrosa prison bars? You do not know our nobility ! Laueent. You are my mother. {He breaks the last knot. She stands chafing her wrists^ red from the ropes, and suYveys him, keenly and curiously.) Yyon^n^e. And for what I am you will give up honor — name — ^love — life? Laukei^t. For my mother. YvoKKE. Tudieu! {With a short laugh.) But I doubt after all if you are the son of the Marquis ! Will you give me one thing more, having given me so much? Monsieur my son, — may I kiss you? Laurent. If you will — my mother ! {Yvonne throws her left arm about LaurenVs neck, and kisses him full and long on the lips. With her right hand she swiftly and softly takes his pistol from his belt. Releasing him^ she faces him, holding the pistol behind her.) Yvonne. Turn for turn — I have given it all my life ! Why should I change policy because the last turn is a good one? Monsieur my son, you freed me, — I free you ! {She shoots herself — staggering back- ward.) I have leaped my last — barricade! {Falls backward across the barricade.) Laurent. {Rushing to her.) Woman! 2IO At the Barricade Claire. Nay, Laurent! — Mother! {Tliere is a crash of drums withoiU; fusil- lades and cries. Kadoc rubhes in.) Kadoc. Monsieur the Lieutenfint, the emeute rises again! They will try to make this barricade! Laurent. Claire ! In God's name, let me make you safe! Claire. I am safe beside you, my Laurent! There is one more shot in your pistol. (She raises the pistol that has fallen from Yvonne^ s hand.) {There comes a mad rush of revolutionaires and soldiers. The Petroleuses are released. Jeanne cries ''^Pierre! my Pierre! " as a stalwart soldier catches her in his arms. He tears her off, fainting. Thymette ricshes forioard, a knife in her hand. She kneels to Claire, catchi7ig and kissing the hem of her gown.) Thymette. This to you. Mademoiselle! {She buries her knife in the Marquis''s side.) And this to you, Monsieur! Follow me, my women! {She rushes out, the fight stvirling after her. The Marquis stands quite erect, for a moment, the hand that holds the lace handkerchief pressed hard against his wounded side. He removes it, and glances at it, his face clouded At the Barricade 2ii ly a slight spasm ^ as lie sees it is stained with his life-Uood. He opens his hand and the handkerchief flutters doivn to the floor.) Makquis. Apparently one does not — miss — the cue for — one's — exit. {He staggers and falls; with his face upturned. ) {Laurent rushes hach^ the flag in his hand. He plants the flag on the barricade. He hastens to Claire^ catching her hand and kiss- ing it, in an ecstasy of passionate relief at finding her safe. She points to the dead Marquis. He comes down, his sword in hand, and stands looking at his dead father, in a kind of daze. Claire comes softly doivn, and slips her hand into his. He lifts his hat from his head, as if unconsciously, looking down still at the dead man.) (CURTAHS-.) Galatea of the Toy-Shop A FANTASY IN ONE ACT Galatea of the Toy-Shop DRAMATIS PEESON^. OscAK ScHWABZ, a German toy-maker. Galatea, a doll. The place is Germany. The time is the present. The scene is Oscar's work-room. The scene is the interior of the loork-room of a German toy-shop. Across the lach^ there runs a low, broad latticed window. A large work-bench, bach, C. is littered with all sorts of tools. Toys of all sorts are scattered about the room, ad lib. The furnishing, rough and sim^jle, is as foreign in suggestion as pos- sible. At the R. C. is a wooden stand, with a railed top, from which hang calico curtains: concealing the figure within. On the wall, R. is a telephone, which rings, as the curtain is rising. Oscar Schwarz is 215 2i6 Galatea of the Toy-Shop seated on a stool, R. C, working busily at a steel spring. He is in the blouse of a vwrkman. He is hnniming or whistling the last few bars of Die Lorelei which is the curtain music. Oscar. Du Lieber ! But I do not think I have the curve yet ! And until I get the curve, this spring that is to make the voice of my most beautiful of dolls, — my queen of dolls — (With an adoring gesture totuard the closed curtains.) her voice will be like the squawk of a crow who has eaten of green apples ! It is her only fault — that voice ! I have the perfect- est doll in the world, when this sprine^ gets the true curve, and my doll says "Papa!" *' Mamma!" like a cherub, and not like a crow after green apples! {The telepho7ie rings again.) Tausend teufels! I waa just getting the curve, and now I must lose it to scream with some fool, at this accursed box in the wall ! {He angrily lays down his work, and goes to the telephone.) Hello, thou, Fritz? No, I cannot come to the beer-drinking to-night! My doll is not finished: and the prize competition for the doll- makers of all Germany, opens but two days off ! For my doll she is all but her voice the perfectest doll in Germany: and her voice — ah! my Fritz! Her voice — it is to hear it, as if the devil's dentist sat astride thy front teeth with a saw ! It is her voice- spring that I curve at this moment. Wherefore I Galatea of the Toy-Shop 217 can have neither beer nor thee! Yes, if my doll take not the prize, I am ruined. Yes, my Fritz! My father is a pig and the son of pigs — What is it thou sayest? The father of pigs? Get thee where beer cannot qnench thirst! Yes, my father will cut me from his house, if I bring not home a wife instantly ! A wife! I! Better the lost prize, and the river! Good luck, my Fritz! Drink many steins to the voice of my doll. (He hangs up the telephone and returns to his work.) A wife! Who frowns on the beer, and demands that the friends of the husband wear clean collars ! A wife ! Pig of a father ! {He crosses to the standi and lifts the curtai7i at the hack^ so that the audience cannot see within.) Now let us once more try the spring! In it goes ! Ah, sure the curve is exact. Now let us touch it, and hear the sweet little voice say "Mamma!" {He makes a motion as touchiyig a spring^ and there comes from within the curtai7i a raucous and ear-splitting yell of ^^ Mar-marl I !^^ — He jumps wildly hack.) Donner und Blitzen ! What have I done ! It is thrice worse than before ! It is the nightmare dream after pork ! {From withi7i, the voice repeats ^^ Mar-mar P^ in a gradual diminuendo, but alioays most discordantly, until it dies away in a hoarse and jerky whisper.) That spring is in on the wrong side up! It is bewitched, that spring! What shall I do? 0, me miserable — ^and the competition opens but two days 2i8 Galatea of the Toy-Shop off! {Tlie telephone rings again.) Donnerwetter ! Once more! (Rushes taadly to the telephone.) Hello! I will talk with nobody! Yes, I am Oscar Scliwarz! But I am not here ! I am away ! I am dead ! Since yesterday I am dead : and the doctors say I am to speak to no one, for the fear of contagion! Eh? It is yon, my father? Well, then, I am not dead: but I soon will be, if I am not left alone to finish the accursed voice-spring of my doll! A wife? My father, I have sought no wife! I will have ho wife! Furthermore — yes, to-morrow is my birthday — and my death-day it shall also be, if you leave me not alone with the spring for the voice of my doll ! If I find me a wife before to-morrow, I shall have the half of my heirship — and if I find one not, you cut me off forever? Cut me off, then, father of a pig! — I mean, S07i of a pig! Cut me off ! ! Cut me (He jumps hack from, the telepJione^ as from an exjjJosion.) But cut me not off with a bang that destroys the last ear Heaven gave me ! {He returns the receiver to the hoolc, ruhling his eeir dolefiiUy.) It is ended! Unless I can shape the spring to give my doll the cherub's voice to match her cherub's face, I am a done man! (He approaches the standi and sta7ids with his hand on the front curtain.) Let me once look on thee — perfectest result of mine art ! Let me gaze on thy face with its red and white — on thy little hands, that I have made to extend themselves as if they gTceted Galatea of the Toy-Shop 219 the world — on thy tiny feet, that I have made to carry thee, as if thou thyself did guide them ! (As he speahs, he slowly draws the curtains. Galatea is discovered on the pedestal. Her coloring is that of a dainty doll. She is in a white lace-trimmed petti- coat^ rather shorty showing pretty^ high-heeled slip- pers; she has a loiu-neclced hodice^ as it might he a corset-cover., or the waist of a chemise; the effect of leing all dressed., except the outer dress.) Ah, vision that thou art! How shall I dress thee, when the spring is rightly in its place and thou art complete? Shall it be the dress of a fine Paris dame, that I have yon? (As he turns his face toiuard his worTc-tahle., her face turns too., unseen hy him., in the same direc- tion; hut mechanically and sloivly., as if a spring worked stiffly.) Or shall it be the little gown of a dear German house-mistress? In either thou wilt be adorable, thou perfectest of dolls ! {Before he again looks at her, she has turned her head to its original position.) In any dress how lovesome thou wilt seem! How the so happy child to whom thou wilt belong when Christmas comes, will kiss those perfect lips! I all but wish I were that child! Nay — no one sees! I will be as that child, and taste if thy lips be as sweet as they seem! [He kisses her. Her eyes move from side to side. 8he smiles, and makes a few jerky motions^ as if coming gradually alive. He starts hack, in terror and amaze.) 220 Galatea of the Toy-Shop Galatea. {Speaking in the same raucous yell, as that in which she spoke, behind the curtain.) Do that, yet once again! Oscar. Mine Heaven ! She speaks ! Yet speak- ing it is not : for the spring of her stomach is upside down! Galatea. Do it yet again — again! Oscar. {Stammering.) Do — what? Galatea. How know I what you call it? This! {Picrses her lips as for a kiss.) It brought me awake — that: but I would be awaker! — again! Oscar. Speak no more, for the pity of me! I will kiss thee ten times, — it is no great penance! but in mercy cease that crow-scream ! {He kisses her again; she smiles, and legiyis to jerkily descend from her pedestal.) Galatea. It is not easily that I come! {She pauses with her foot in mid-air, with a kick-like motion, as if the spring for a moment refused to work; then, gaining control of herself, jerkily comes dotvn from out of the stand.) Galatea. Something stiffs me! Can't you un- stiff me? {Sharply — as he stands in a daze.) You made me, — didn't 5^ou? Oscar. I suppose so! Galatea. Then un- stiff me! My arms — they Galatea of the Toy-Shop 22 1 will not work at all ! {SJie alruptly stretches out one arm, hitting him so that he reels.) Ah, yes! The arms work more better than I thought — better than the legs ! {8he snakes as if to Tcick; he ^precipitately hacks away.) Oscar. You need not be anxious — you're less stiff than most young women I know ! Galatea. Am I a young woman? Oscar. Well, yes — partly! Galatea. What do you mean by ^'partly"? {Her voice throughout this scene is very queer; alternating between a sudden raucous yell, and a hoarse whisper; with as many sudden and droll variations as possible.) Oscar. Well, you are a young woman, — and you aren't, — you know! Galatea. How aren't I? I will be a young woman! I came awake on purpose to be a young woman ! (8he hursts into the queerest possible laugh.) my soul! My soul! My inside is made wrong! 1 could cry loudly because I am only partly a young woman ! — and I can only do — so — instead ! ( With a repetition of the queer laugh.) Tell me why — why — I am only partly a young woman ! Oscar. Well — for one thing — ^your voice isn't — isn't Galatea. Don't all young women speak like me? 222 Galatea of the Toy-Shop (Rising to a sudden^ calliope-like shriek, on the last word.) Oscar. The Lord forbid ! Galatea. You made me — well, then, why didn't you make me right? Can't you oil me, or some- thing? Maybe I'm dry! Oscar. Donnerwetter ! Maybe that's it! (He runs to his table, and fetches doivn a tankard of beer.) Here! Drink quickly ! Galatea. What is that? Oscar. I made her, — and she asks — What is that! It is beer ! Galatea. What is — beer? Oscar. We do not describe beer : — we drink it ! Galatea. 0! It is to drink? {She sips it daintily; takes dotvn the ca7i, for a moment, with an expression of amazed and ecstatic delight; and then hastily raises the can to her lips again, and drai^is its last drop.) More! — Again some beer! — Much, — much — more beer ! (Her voice is queer on the first word or tiuo; hut immediately softens, and she ends in a sweet and girlish tone.) Oscar. A miracle! The beer has turned the spring right side up! Her voice is mellow as honey from the comb ! Galatea. More beer! Much — much more beer ! Galatea of the Toy-Shop 223 OsOAR. Not now; you are new to it — and your voice — well, there is such a thing as beer making us too mellow ! Galatea. I foresee I shall be dry and scream again. And am I now really a young woman? OscAE. Well — as to your dress Galatea. Do not young women wear dresses? {She makes as if to loose the hand of her petticoat. He hastily stops her.) Oscar. Yes — yes — indeed, I may say young women wear — rather more dress ! Galatea. Very well, then — you made me. Where are the rather more dress? Produce the rather more dress ! Surely you have the rather more dress — if you made me to be a young woman ! Oscar. Don't let it hurt your feelings — but I am afraid I made you to be a doll! Galatea. Is there such a great difference between a young woman and a doll? Oscar. Truly, that depends. I have known a good many young women that were dolls; but I never before have known a doll that was a young woman. Galatea. I prefer to be a young woman. Dolls are not kissed — at least, they are not nicely kissed, as I was, just now. Dolls cannot drink beer! Ah! Beer! (With an affectionate gesture toward the 224 Galatea of the Toy-Shop tankard.) Decidedly, I will be a young woman. Produce the rather more dress ! Oscar. I — I had not yet decided what you were to wear. Galatea. Now I am awake, I will myself decide that. A young woman need not be long awake to decide what to wear. Oscar. I had thought to dress you as a French demoiselle — perhaps as a little German hausfrau. See ! Here is the one dress and here is the other. (He goes to Ms table, and takes from a box, the two costumes. Both must he correct; the French goion dainty and chic; the German one pretty and simple; but both must he made on the princess model, in a single piece, so that they can be easily slipped on.) Galatea. {Catching at the French gown.) Ah, that is of France. I know, for the French doll that stood beside me was so dressed ! I wonder, did she come awake, that French doll? Du Lieber! {Turn' ing to him in an explosion of susjncion.) You, did not kiss that French doll? Oscar. I sold her. I never kissed a doll but thee. Galatea. Nor a young woman? Oscar. (Hastily.) You are dry, perhaps? Another mug of beer? (He hands her the beer, luhich she drinks ecstatically, as before.) Galatea of the Toy-Shop 225 Galatea. It is good. But you will not kiss another doll — nor another young woman ! Now put on my gown. {Holds out her arms stiffly.) Oscar. {Fastens the gown rapidly but [awk- wardly.) I am not wise in dressing dolls. Galatea. Nor young women? OscAE. May Heaven forbid! Galatea. Now I am finished — and I am very good to look at ! Oscar. How are you sure of that? There is no mirror. Galatea. There are two mirrors that tell me so — this mirror, and that mirror ! {She touches his eyes, softly y one after the other.) What other mirror does a young woman need, than the eyes of a young man? Oscar. Lieber Himmel ! And but an hour ago, thou wast a doll ! Galatea. I have been kissed since then. More- over, I am French now ; and French young women come early very wide awake. Oscar. Why that? Galatea. Ah, in Paris the world is wide awake — night and day it wakes ! Watch me, and see what like is Paris! {In the speech that follows, she imper- sonates as fully as possible, every scene of which she is speahing.) The Paris of the morning — ^the sun is on the white pavements — they are new -sprinkled, and so clean — so clean! The grass is fresh in the parks — 226 Galatea of the Toy-Shop the bonnes, the pretty iiiirse-maids, in their pert caps and big aprons — they wheel the perambulators with the rosy babies. But they are not looking at the babies — they are looking at the gend'armes, who march by, so natty and so proud, twisting the little moustache — as thus. And the bonnes are looking — thus — from under the lashes. **Good morning, Mademoiselle!" "A fine day, Monsieur!" "Are all mademoiselle's promenades taken in company with this encumbering machine?" {Indicating the imag- inary perambulator.) "No, truly, Monsiem*, this most afiflicting infant is sometimes asleep in her creche!" "And then. Mademoiselle, there may be opportunity." "Truly, as you say. Monsieur, there may be opportunity." And so they pass, — he with his little moustache, she with her lashes. Noon, then — the sun so hot and strong on the big, splendid boulevard. Hark! From the Arc de Triomphe, hear the crash of the trumpets — the drums — the drums — r-r-r-rub-a- dub-dub! ta-ra-ra-ta-ra ! See the flash of the bayonets ! How straight they march ! One — two — one — two ! — tramp ! tramp ! For death or glory ! Aux armes, citoyens! {Singing a bar of the Marsel- laise.) Tramp! tramp! Tra-ra-ra! Rub-a-dub-dub! {She imitates the effect of the music ajid the tramping groiuiiig fainter and dying aioay.) And pouf ! The soldiers are also gone. And bye and bye it is night. The streets are ablaze ! How the glow streams from Galatea of the Toy-Shop 227 the doors of the Grand Opera! Within, the stage is set for great Wagner night — it is the moment when Brunhilda defies Criemhilda, — how they scream and storm! {She imitates^ ad lib., the scene between the ivome?i, ending in Criemhilda^ s death.) After the theatre — well, if one has a fancy to see a pretty dance, — a dance where the slipper leaves nothing to be guessed of itself. {She imitates a high hick.) Pouf ! It; is dawn before we know — dawn — br-r-r-r — {With a simulated shiver.) How cold the dawn- wind is ! How cold the light, after the glare of the cafe lights ! How terrible is the dawn light ! How much the dawn light knows ! What are the white women coming down the street in the grey light? They wear white veils that stir in the dawn-wind as the lily's petals stir. And theirs are lily faces — lilies in the bud ! Uncover as they go by ! They go to their first communion — ^with the souls of lilies, and the dawn-light on their hair! Do you see who is watching them — standing far back in the shadows? It is the dancing woman of the caf6 — the woman with the rouge and the bold eyes and the foot that danced too high — see her eyes, as she watches — how haggard they are ! Do you hear what she is muttering to her- self? *'I was once like them ! I was once like them! And now — ! There is but one cleansing for such as I — ^let me to the river! Let me to the river!" {Oscar catches her as she almost falls,) 228 Galatea of the Toy-Shop Oscar. Cover that dress! Cover that dress, I say! What do you know of Paris? You shall not wear the dress of Paris ! Cover it, I say, with the honest dress of a good German wife! {He aids her to slip on over her gay French goion^ the simple goiun of a German girl of the middle class.) There! Gott sei dank ! You are of that evil life no longer ! Galatea. Nay, now I am of another land. It ia home that folds me in — it is almost time for the goodman to be here for the supper ! (She malces as if setting a tahUy and feeding a fire.) How quietly the little one sleeps ! {She lends over an imaginary cradle^ very gently lifting an imagi^iary baby in her arms.) Sleep, Kindlein! Ah, sleep! The child's home is the mother's breast! Sleep! (She rocks the imaginary baby to and fro ^ crooning to if. Then she lays it bach in the cradle. ) Lieber Himmel ! It is his step! He is here! (She rushes to Oscar ^ catch- i7ig him in her arms.) Welcome! It is thou! Thou art at home ! Oscar. Ay, indeed I am at home! Nay, thou shalt not leave my arms ! 'Twas I kissed thee awake ! Thou art mine — and no other shall make my home — only thou ! Only thou ! Galatea. Ay, it was thou kissed me awake, — and when thou kissest me no more, then let me sleep indeed ! (CURTAIlf.) Appendix NOTES ON THE PLAYS. It may be that those who hereafter take part in the plays included in the present volume, will find it of interest to know by whom the plays were originally produced: and what players have heretofore inter- preted their characters. Hence the notes appended. PO' WHITE TKASH "Was first produced by Henry Woodruff, — ^for whom the part of *'Drent Dury" was written, — at the Bijou Theatre, Boston, at a special matinee, given on March 25, 1897. On this occasion, Mr. Woodruff appeared as *'Deekt"; Miss Minnie Dupree as "Carol"; Miss Maud Hosford as '*Suke"; Mr. Eugene Ormonde as "Judge Page"; Mr. Joseph Brennen as "Dr. Payne"; Mr. William B. Smith as "Zep"; Miss Eachel Noah as "Sal"; and Miss Mabel Dixey as "Millt." 229 230 Appendix The play was again given by Mr. Woodruff, at the Lyceum Theatre, New York, on April 22, 1898. Mr. Woodruff again appeared as "Drext" and Miss Ilosford as "Suke"; the "Sal" was Miss Ina Ham- mer; the "Carol," Miss Jessie Mackaye; the "Dr. Payke," Mr. Eugene Jepson; the "Judge Page," Mr. Geo. FuUerton; the "Milly," Miss Helen Lowell; the "Zep," Mr. John Bunny. The play was used professionally by Mr. Daniel Frawley, on his Western tour of the season of 1898-99. "Drekt" was then played by Mr. Alfred Hickman. IN FAR BOHEMIA Was first produced at a benefit performance, at the Bijou Theatre, Boston, on the evening of January 18, 1898. On this occasion, "Karen" was played by Miss Minnie Dupree; "Alec" by Mr. Horace Lewis; and "Mrs. Penj^ypacker" by Miss Kate Ryan. A COMEDIE ROYALL Was first produced at the Bijou Theatre, Boston, by Mr. Henry Woodruff, on March 25, 1897. Mr. Woodruff appeared as "Royall Hartwynd"; Mr. Eugene Ormonde as "Sir John Hartwyi^d"; Miss Maude Banks as "Queen Elizabeth"; Miss Minnie Dupree as "Piiyllida"; Mr. Ira Hards as "Lord Appendix 231 Fakthokne"; and Mr. William B. Smith as "Sir Edwaed Avis." Mr. Woodruff produced the play later, at the Lyceum Theatre, New York, on April 22, 1898. On this occasion he again appeared as "Eoyall"; Miss Mary Shaw was the "Queen"; and Miss Mary Young, the "Phyllida." AT THE BAEEICADE Was originally produced at a benefit performance, at the Hollis Street Theatre, on April 28, 1898. Mr. William Farnum was the "Laueekt"; Mrs. Emma Sheridan-Fry, the "Yvoi^i^E"; Miss Carrie Keeler the "Claire." The play was later presented by Mr. Franklin Sargent, at a Pupils' Matinee of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, December 14, 1899. A BIT OF INSTRUCTION Was first produced by Mr. Henry Woodruff, at a special performance at Brattee Hall, Cambridge, on February 25, 1898. On this occasion, Mr. Woodruff appeared as "Despard"; and Mr. Harry Gay as "Newbury." The play was given by Mr. Woodruff, at the Lyceum Theatre, New York, on April 22, 1898. 232 Appendix Mr. Woodruff then played "Newbury," and Mr. Robert Edeson was the "Despard." The play was used by Mr. Woodruff professionally for an extended vaudeville tour, in the autumn of 1898. EOHAN THE SILENT Was written for the late Alexander Salvini ; and was accepted by him to be used in connection with "The Fool's Revenge"; which it was his intention to include in his repertoire, in his season of 1896-97. It was produced by him at the Tremont Theatre, Boston, May 28, 1896. It is notable that "Rohan" was the last role ever created by Mr. Salvini. The cast on this occasion was a memorable one : including Mr. Salvini as "Rohan"; Miss Ida Conquest as "Isobel"; Mr. Eugene Ormonde as "Sir Philip"; Mr. George Fawcett as "Sir Robert; Mr. Joseph Francoeur as "Godwin"; Mr. Albert Briinning as "Gobyn"; Mr. Franklyn Roberts as "Beowulf"; Mr. Eugene Sanger as "Godfrey"; Mr. Wright Kramer as "John"; and Miss Rachel Noah as the "Nurse." "A Song at the Castle," "Galatea of the Toy- Shop," and "The End of the Way," have not yet had production. PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY AND SONS COMPANY AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL. \UG 4 1909 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111 m liS'. '-I'foncbt, IIMi'lli'lHI ' t'y '*■ 'rVr-!'\'T ;/ y:. i:.;.,»iJl../Jw"-.'«.'l ; / ^>•.••-•>,v>f,■ '■ I'V'' ■'•i -*\,\-