I ! Ill I !l ! i !^n HE^^idLD;PATHO:OI^ PS 3505 .048 05 1899 Copy 1 u lllr-i 1 m:M ^m 8ECJ .:) COPY, 1699. -^^< LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Chap.„.„..._ Copyright No. ShelfiZi UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/oldpatroonotherpOOconn THE OLD PATROON AND OTHER PLAYS / BY GEORGE STANISLAUS CONNELL NEW YORK WILLIAM H. YOUNG & COMPANY 1899 L- , gn 29295 Copyright, 1899, by GEORGE STANISLAUS CONNELL, Warning :— The right to act these plays Is withheld. Legal redress will be sought for their presentation without the author's consent. CONTENTS. PAGB The Old Patroon, Comedy 3 A TRILOGY IN MINIATURE : My Youngster's Love Affair, Comedy 55 The Guardian Angel^ Melodrama 77 The Mild Monomaniac, Farce. . , .-; , 91 THE OLD PATROON, CHARACTERS. Gerrit Van x\lst, ''ihe Old Pair oon.'^ Dirk Van Wie, burgher. Captain Glen, a young officer. Master Barlow, of New York. 'Zekiel, negro servant. Mistress Matty, a7i English maiden. Dame Marian, her mother. Dame Louisa, Matty s aunt. Judy, wife of 'ZekieL Townspeople, etc. Scene, Schenectady ; Period, about 1730 ; Time for representation, one hour. THE OLD PATROON. Scene — A street in the outskirts of an old Dutch-colonial town. House, LC, with low " stoop " having a narrow seat either side of doorway. Half-doors. Flower garden hidden by hedge, RC. Large tree with bench encircling it, R. Enter Gerrit Van Alst and *Zekiel. 'Zekiel. Massa Gerrit, 'jes* yo' lean all yo' weight on dis yere chile ; I'se ony a brack nigger, an* Fse a'gittin* ole, but my legs is mos' better dan a flea's. An' yo' 'member, Massa Ger- rit, yo' say I'se de on'y heart dat lub yo' now. Gerrit Van Alst. That's true, boy ; and when we oust these English robbers, and the good old stock of New Amsterdam comes into its own again 3 4 THE OLD PATROON. you shall have a fine blue livery all trimmed with Dutch galloon straight from old Holland. Now fetch the grub-ax and tend the flowers a little. I can't afford to waste so much time over them. 'Zekiel. Is yo' a'gwine to let yo* flowers die, Massa Gerrit ? Gerrit Van Alst. Not a bit of it ! And mind you keep them as well as they are now ! But down there on the Green to-day the town will put me in office for another year, and it is about time I gave up playing with flowers as any child might. 'Zekiel, you don't know what ambition is, my boy. 'Zekiel. Oh, yis I does, Massa ! Gerrit Van Alst. Hey-diddle- diddle ! You have no ambition, 'Zekiel. 'Zekiel. Yis I hab, Massa ! Gerrit Van Alst. What is it ? 'Zekiel. Wull, it jes' dis way. You THE OLD PATROON. 5 know Judy am a^gittin* ole an* sup- perammunated, an' she hab* a misery in 'e back mos' de whole time, an' yo* 'Zekiel always take ambition on po' sick folk — 'specially when de folks be he own 'ooman. Judy say I hab mo' ambition she nebber did see, fur I tuk de chores right out of um harnds yister- day an' scrub de big iron kittle, an' druv ole Mistis Verveelen geese out de kibbage patch, an' swep' out de cock- loft. An' Fse a'gwine to do all de fixin' an' fussin' right 'long now, an' Judy she kin jes' sit 'roun' an' tek care o' hersel' like 's if she war a lady. She di'n't want let me doit, but at de eend she promise, an' I say ** Swar ! " an' she say ** Lordy gracious ! " Oh yis, dere be a heap o' ambition in yo' 'Zekiel ole heart, Massa Gerrit. Gerrit Van Alst. Well, if you take to cooking and burn by suppawn, you'll suffer for it. Go along now and 6 THE OLD PATROON. get me my pipe ; I'll take a nap here on the stoop. {Exit 'Zekiel into house. Townspeople pass R to L, saluting. Enter DiRK Van Wie, R) Dirk Van Wie. Guten dag, Excel- lency. May I valk vid you down to der Green for der elegtions ? Dose poys vould fire de old demi-culverin dat vas captured from de French, und I vould consult vid you how much of powder to put in id. Gerrit Van Alst. Fire the demi- culverin, Dirk? What for? Are there any French and Indians, — is there a mutiny ? Dirk Van Wie. Dey say dey joost vould celebrate der elegtions. Gerrit Van Alst. Humbug, Dirk ! Do they know how much that foolish firing would cost, and how many wolves they could shoot with the powder if they put it into their muskets? THE OLD PATROON. 7 Dirk Van Wie. I told dem so, Excellency, but dey joost maagd a choke at me, und vould know if I vas gedding old und useless now. Gerrit Van Alst. They're getting old themselves ! And they never were anything but useless ! Dirk Van Wie. Und some of dose English gallants maagd fun aboud our good Dutch prayers for de blessing of Heaven over de elegtions. Gerrit Van Alst. Donner ! Dirk Van Wie, you tell those runagates that I forbid their firing the culverin — I, Gerrit Van Alst. And if they want to blaspheme or to ridicule our good old customs tell them they can go to their own Albany, where they'll have plenty of their own upstart kind to appreciate them. And wait — if they say again that you are growing old and useless — just come to me and I'll make you the town's rate assessor for five years. 8 THE OLD PATROON. Dirk Van Wie. Your Excellency viU not gum to der elegtions ? Gerrit Van Alst. No, Dirk ; the old wound in my knee has rebelled against parading and speech-making to-day. But tell the boys to abide by the laws, for if there's turbulence I'll hear of it, and, Dutch or English, the culprit shall pay ! {Exit Dirk Van Wie, Z. 'ZEKIEL/^^i* meanwhile returned with the pipe) Gerrit Van Alst. Come, 'Zekiel, my boy, what's the matter with that coal ? you're slow getting a light to-day. 'Zekiel. Dat so, Massa Gerrit. I'se ony a po' ole nigger, — but ef yo' jes* wanted yo' could git some nice white pusson could light a pipe wi' dey eye jes' as quick as a wink. Gerrit Van Alst. What is that, 'Zekiel ? Light a pipe with their eyes ? 'Zekiel. Yis, Massa Gerrit, an' warm THE OLD PATROON. 9 yo* all up wi* de light from dem — dey is eyes like dat, Massa Gerrit. An' yo' could hab de pick o'dem allef yo' ony say so. Gerrit Van Alst. You mean I should marry, eh 'Zekiel? Now, why have you said that so often the last few years ? 'Zekiel. Wull, Massa Gerrit, in de bible dat yo' read for me an' Judy ebery night all de folks of any 'count hab got married when dey done git ole enough. Dere's Adam, he hab a v/ife when he done got ole enough, an* Abram, he hab a wife when he done got ole enough, an' Jacob, he hab a wife when he done got ole enough, an' dey war all 'spec'able folks. But de bible don' say Esau hab any wife, an' he sole he birfday fur a mass o' potash, an' it don' say Cain hab any wife, an' he kill 'um brudder. Now, Massa Ger- rit, yd done got ole enough. lO THE OLD PATROON. Gerrit Van Alst, {laughing), 'Ze- kiel, rm not old enough, and you can't make me believe I am. If Tm a little forgetful now and again that's only natural, considering all I have to occupy my thoughts, — and this old wound doesn't trouble me often. No, 'Zekiel, I need no one but you and Judy to take care of me ; and as for bright eyes to light my pipe with, listen and I'll dream aloud for you a little of the past : Beside our old Dutch church, long, long ago, — Perhaps the belfry swallows yet re- member, — A noisy youngster burst upon the world With shouts of boyish glee and mad bravado. An only child, he ruled the little house- hold. Taxing an angel-mother's love and kisses THE OLD PATROON. II With spendthrift confidence. And as he grew, Schenectady's old burghers at their pipes Talked proudly of his future for the state. Some fifty years agone our bowling green Saw him acclaimed a schepen of the town, And, half in sport, old Jan Van Tien- hoven Planted the tented elm that stands there now, Saying that as it grew to shield and shade, So should the day's young hero serve the state. In time the English came. New Am- sterdam — New York, as they would dub it, — fed its eyes On scarlet vest and pretty petticoat, 12 THE OLD PATROON. And old Schenectady, good, loyal Dutch, Sent there her chosen son to plead her cause. — I know not, *Zekiel, if love be blind. As heathen poets tell us, but a lover Is rebel to all law save love alone. And so, although the British blood and Dutch Were meant to mingle but as air and water, A fair young English maid with April eyes Of ever-changing passion won the heart Schenectady alone had right to rule. *Zekiel. An' dat war you, Mass' Gerrit? Gerrit Van Alst. Yes, 'twas I. 'Zekiel. But ef yo' lubbed her so why din't yo' tell her dat she could marry yo' ? Gerrit Van Alst. Ah, 'Zekiel, THE OLD PATROON. I 3 boy, I loved her dearly, — love unwary, lavish. — She took a red-coat captain for her husband and sailed beyond the seas. 'Zekiel. Wull, Massa Gerrit, ef she don'lub yo', — what yo' waiting fur? Gerrit Van Alst. 'Zekiel, I love her yet. — But enough ! A sentimental statesman is as big a failure as a timid soldier. Broken hearts will be mended in heaven, but on earth ambition's the sovereign balm — ambition ! To-day they're re-electing me a burgomaster of Schenectady. Next fall half the colony will hail me in the Assembly of New Amsterdam, and 'Zekiel, this time I'll go to fight — to fight for our old traditions and the rights of Nevv^ Netherland. Who knows, boy, there may be another Dutch governor be- fore many years ! God never meant the red-coats should prosper very long. They succeed sometimes — sometimes. But the Dutch are true and faithful, 14 THE OLD PATROON. and ill Heaven — in Heaven— (/^//^ asleep). *Zekiel, {working over the flower- bed). In Heaben dey done got all de Dutch gubbernors, Massa, an* I 'low as how de English gubbernors'U hab to go — back again to England. Dutch gubbernors is a heap better, an* my ole Unc* Azra say he done see two Dutch gubbernors eat a whole ox at a bar- becue, all by himselves. (Gerrit Van Alst snores}) Yis, Massa, a whole ox, out-tekkin' de hoofs an* de horns. — Yaas, Massa, bible troof, 'fore de Lord ! — Wull, Massa Gerrit ! Ef yo* gwine be a'snoozin' an' a'snoozin' yo' ole 'Zekiel hab no mo' to say ! {Exit 'Zekiel through garden. Enter, R, Matty, Barlow and Capt. Glen, marching,) Capt. Glen, {marking the step). Hep ! Hep ! Hep ! — Indeed, Mistress Matty, your rustic cavalier is too am- THE OLD PATROON. 1 5 bitious. {Airily^ though with habitual drawl}) Had he been born under Mars instead of somewhere beneath the Great Bear we could all put the right foot forward together without his awk- ward pause spoiling the step. {To Barlow.) Your method of progression, my young friend, is imperfect, and if you would abate the heavenly rolling of your eyes and the infernal rolling of your gait you would remind us less of a cork in a duck-pond. I trust for your sake that those soulful glances are all lost, for such a deal of good looks must certainly damn your ill favor! yiKY'YY .{laughifig). In truth. Captain Glen, that is rare advice ! Master Bar- low is merely colonial-bred, and so his manners smell of hay-time rather than ''Hep!" time! 'Q A.K'LO^^iw it h i7tjured dignity). You proffered me the honor, Mistress Matty, to escort you to the Green. l6 THE OLD PATROON. Matty. What ! Master Barlow, are your manners as bad as that ! Mistress Matilda is my name, so please you. Barlow, {bitterly). Pray overlook my freedom, for in view of our eight months' acquaintance in New York my privilege seemed no less than his you Ve hardly seen-~at least, so I thought. Matty, {derisively). Think again. Master Barlow ! Capt. Glen. Don't think so any more, Master Barlow ! And now. Mis- tress Matty, may I escort you ? And, sir, when youVe learned your lesson of colonial respect, acquired some polish, and attained a greater legal eminence than you now enjoy you may find us more indulgent, feel us less critical and hear us say, without an incredulous smile, '* Your Honor'' ! Barlow, {angrily). Is my honor your jest to be played upon at will? Capt. Glen, {tantalizingly). If I THE OLD PATROON. 1 7 touch upon the subject are you wise to rail about it ? When you play upon a drum it sounds because it is hollow ; so, my joke has barely left my lips when you proclaim yourself beaten ! Barlow, {furious). To your guard, sir ! Let us see if your sword be as quick as your tongue ! Matty, {apprehensively). Oh gentle- men, pray be calm ! Capt. Glen, {coolly). No cause for alarm, Mistress Matty. A colonial citizen it is needless to disarm. Shall we proceed ? Barlow. No ! You must fight, you coward ! Flamingo ! Til preen your plumage for you ! Petticoat soldier! Come, let's put a placket in your breeches ! Capt. Glen, {mildly surprised). Zounds ! The little cur can bite. {They begin a duel ; NlATTY screams.) 2 18 THE OLD PATROON. Gerrit Van Alst, {awakened and coming down). What ! Fighting here upon the public way ! Is this a cock-pit? You defy the town ? Schenectady has suffered daily insult And borne it with the dignity of si- lence. But not till now was brawling in the streets Ranked as a privilege within her laws ! Capt. Glen. Sir, I am Captain Glen, an English of- ficer. Stand back ! Gerrit Van Alst, {facing him). And I am Gerrit Van Alst, a Dutchman, As well you know, and trustee eighteen years Here in Schenectady. I make the laws And with the help of God FUsee them kept! THE OLD PATROON. 19 You, Captain Glen, an English officer, And neighbor though you be, shall pay for this And half a hundred past unnoted pranks. Within the month our English gov- ernor Will find you more congenial residence. You know my word, so fear my influ- ence. {To Barlow). But you, sir, if there's breeding in a face. Were reared for better trade than tiffs and broils. From hereabout, I venture, you have come To taste of our election holiday, And found the draught too strong for good behavior? Barlow, {sulkily), I am no bumpkin, sir, but secretary To this young lady's uncle, an alderman And merchant of New York. 20 THE OLD PATROON. Gerrit Van Alst, {kindly). Then take advice Distilled in sorrow's wine-press. Come, let's talk. {Leads him aside and warns him against Capt. Glen.) Matty, {surprised). Well ! This old man leans boldly on his power. Capt. Glen, {nettled). An old Dutch windmill ! Matty, {with aroused curiosity). What's his history ? Capt. Glen. Dull as the town's and full as common- place. We call him here Schenectady's patroon, For every year, as regular as frost, And by a sort of habit long acquired, These Dutch elect him village autocrat. He wears the town upon his little finger. And with that signet makes his humor law. THE OLD PATROON. 21 Barlow, {to Gerrit, impatiently). ril pay it all the thought it may be worth. Matty, {to Glen, sarcastically). Then you are but a monkey on a stick For him to dance ? Capt. Glen, {taken aback), — To dance with others wooden as my- self. Now may I dance with you upon the Green ? Matty, {inattentively). Well — but I'll make this cavalier my escort, — And, if he will, my partner for a dance. {Goes to Gerrit Van Alst.) Gerrit Van Alst. My pretty mistress, if a cavalier Alone can please, I fear lest fitness grudge Your bounteous favor, for I never learned 22 THE OLD PATROON. The minuet ; besides, — my dancing days Died with a past long dead, my little girl. {Seats himself upon the bench by the tree,) Capt Glen, {to Barlow). Come, if you*ll second me we'll chime together. While this young warbler and her base companion Descant upon the Dutch, we'll ring the changes, We'll change the modes, we'll turn the scales against them ! Our glee will drown the dumps ! Barlow, {gazing back spitefully at Matty). With all my heart ! I'd sell my life if I could — Capt. Glen, {sarcastically). Bravely spoken ! THE OLD PATROON. 23 We'll be two roses on a stem, two sun- beams, Two dewdrops in a lily-cup ! {Exeunt J L,) Matty. Yes, let them go; Fll chat a bit with you. What did you dance ? {Seats herself beside Gerrit) Gerrit Van Alst. I loved a good Dutch reel. Matty. Yes, Captain Glen has told me you are Dutch. Gerrit Van Alst. My parents were, and left me as a pre- cious heritage Love for the Fatherland and Holland ways. But stands this Captain Glen so well intrenched In your good graces ? Matty, {lightly). Oh, my heart is free ! 24 THE OLD PATROON. I knew him but by name till yester- day. My aunt was hungering for his mother's voice, As old friends will, so that green sprig named Barlow Was bidden to ease our voyage from New York And kept the sails blown big with laboring love-sighs. Whenever we were becalmed a glance at him Would start us off again ! But Captain Glen Is such a silly goose, and drawls his words — Why, taffy pulling isn't half as slow As coaxing him to coin a compliment. And all this blessed time, if you'll be- lieve it, He's not said once he loves me. Gerrit Van Alst. But he does? the old patroon. 2$ Matty. Oh, no indeed. Of course he wouldn't mean it. — That's why I like the Dutch ; they never say They love you when in truth they don't — now ^^ they? Gerrit Van Alst, {trying to be iin-^ partial). Even among the Dutch, my little lady, There's some base coin, — though rarely have I seen it. Matty. To me the Dutch are honest, true and simple, — Just like your flowers here. Oh, may I pluck some ? Gerrit Van Alst. ' Twould yield the fairest tribute to their worth. {Aside) What spell is hidden in this childish prattle 26 THE OLD PATROON. To make my heart-blood course like an April kill? It whispered back the spirit of a dream Buried among the hills of green ambi- tion ; It breathed the echo of a clarion That called gray veteran memories to arms. —Yet, if her father be as old as I He's none too young. — Matty, {among the flowers). You know the language that your flowers speak ? Gerrit Van Alst. My flowers speak ? No, / do all the talking, And they just listen when I*m tending them. Matty. Ah, but they talk about you when you go- And now FU tell you what they're gos- siping : THE OLD PATROON. 2/ Here's Crocus lingering — tells of cheer- fulness ; And Jasmine, amiability. Gerrit Van Alst, {good-naturedly). Enough ! The little flatterers are fooling you ! Matty. These violets relate your modesty ; The daisies vouch for simple innocence ; And here beneath is artless Honesty, Called by no other name. Why, there are pinks ! You must have been in love — or may be now ! Gerrit Van Alst, {risings with af- fected unconcern). Yes, those must be reduced ; they grow too rich. Matty. And here's a tell-tale primrose, yet un- opened ; That means a silent love : and at the back 28 THE OLD PATROON. Are wali-flovvers, fidelity unfailing. Gerrit Van Alst, {compelled by his lame knee to resmne his seat), Pvly little maid, you have bewitched my garden, And surely studied magic over-well. Love-ribbons, vows, and longing coy- concealed — What may not next your oracles betray? Or moonlight meetings at a kissing- bridge — Matty. What^s that ? Gerrit Van Alst. Ah, one thing you will never learn Till you are half-way over some Dutch rillet. But barter not your heart for any seeming — Love never rode upon a merry laugh. Matty, {taking her cue). Now IVe a flower tells me more of you — THE OLD PATROON. 29 This tearful little yellow asphodel Whispers a tale of unrequited love. — Did some fair lady win your plighted faith To wear it as a love-lorn amulet ? Did some girl write her name within your life And lay the story by unread, uncared for? Speak to me. See, these soft auriculas That owe you life mean trust and con- fidence. Love me for her ; make me your com- forter. — Tell me, did some one cheat you of your heart ? Gerrit Van Alst, {reverently). An angel out of heaven asked for it- God must have known its use.— -But come, your wish To unlock my secret thoughts and as- pirations 30 THE OLD PATROON. Has proved a key that fits. Give me your hand. Promise you'll be my little friend and truepenny Henceforth to the crack of doom ! Matty, {eagerly). I do ! Gerrit Van Alst. And that you'll love the Dutch ? Matty, {giving flower). This tulip-bud, Flame-hearted with a golden crown, shall pledge it. The flower tells a true love's warm avowal, — No less is due Schenectady's Pa- troon. Gerrit Van Alst, {flattered). Tut, tut! That title's but the free- heart gift Of generous neighbors, and upon my head It falls unpaid for as a mother's love- pats. THE OLD PATROON. 3 1 With real patroons it crowned an hon- ored rank, For our old Dutch West India Com- pany, Back in the days of loved author- ities. Coined it and stamped it probity and worth. — That chord contains the key-note of my hopes. For fame's a martial air that fires the heart To stride exultant over fallen sorrow. Ambition leads to victory or death — A glorious death in honorable fight. For eighteen years, my pretty Dutch recruit, IVe worked to win for friends my fel- low townsmen ; Counseled their plans, tempered their public wrath. Borne with their faults and cheered them in their sorrows. 32 THE OLD PATROON, This knee was worsted fighting for their homes With Indians tired of English treachery. At harvest time a new assemblyman Leaves us to sound abroad our people's will, And in the hand of God he'll do his duty ! He'll plead for public honor, thrift, and truth — Plead for the old-time rule of peace and justice And neighborly good will. He'll wake their hearts, {Rising) And, when a wider sphere shall hail a welcome, Ready he'll stand to rear the hard- hewn walls That sentinel the safety of a state. — But there, the future cannot dull the taste For sweets the present offers.-- {Cannon heard. Matty screams^ THE OLD PATROON. 33 Matty. What's that ? Gerrit Van Alst, {sternly). Those reprobates let loose the culverin Against my orders ? They must pay for that ! Matty, {admiringly). Now promise me you'll be my own gallant, My own knight-errant, shield and cham- pion ! Gerrit Van Alst. I'll be your humble servant little prin- cess, And in my heart I'll build a throne for you. One only is its queen, but she's away, And, till she comes — will you receive my homage ? Matty, {triumphantly). Gladly. I'll make you Lord High Ad- miral, And you shall navigate my ship of state. 3 34 THE OLD PATROON. No one, however favored, shall usurp Either the fame or duties of your rank. {Enter DiRK Van Wie.) Dirk Van Wie, {greatly perturbed). Ach ! Excellency ! — Yet Excellency no longer. Oh, Herr Van Alst ! Vat duyvil's vork is dis ? Gerrit Van Alst. What's hap- pened, Dirk Van Wie ? Dirk Van Wie. Dose rapscal- lions! Dose English poys ! Dey turn us out of all de offices! Fm no burg- omaster any more, nor you, nor Pieter Maerschalck. De Dutch are dying every day ; dese Englishmens are gom- ing into allerdings ! Gerrit Van Alst, {dazed). They Ve — turned us out ? Dirk Van Wie. Yah ! Fm going to Fort Orange now to-day. I take de first sheep home to old Holland. New Amsterdam is in der Duyvil's fist. THE OLD PATROON. 35 Dis IS no blace for good peebles. Coom, ve'll get avay ! Gerrit Van Alst. No, Dirk ; the times will change. You know how long weVe worked for Dutch repre- sentation in the Assembly of the col- ony. We'll elect our spokesman hardly three months from now. I must be here to undertake it. Dirk Van Wie. Dey Ve chosen him ! Dey cast de votes to-day, be- hind de elegtion of burgomasters ! Captain Glen, dat tvist-zoeker, cajoled dem und made dem promises of busi- ness und prizes und thalers from some Englishman down in New Amsterdam. Matty. Captain Glen ? Was Cap- tain Glen elected over everybody? {Retires and looks off L.) Dirk Van Wie. Und now, Herr Van Alst,— dear, good Gerrit, dot veVe known und lofed so long — come mit me back to old Holland — 36 THE OLD PATROON. Gerrit Van Alst, (^firmly, after regaining composure). Never, Dirk ! Here I was born and here Til stay, ofifice or no office. And why not stay here with me ? What if you were born in Holland ; the best years of your life have been here in Schenectady. Stay, and see the Dutch influence leaven our colony. Stay, and see our glorious West India Company resume direction, and peace and honest com- fort return. And then, think, Dirk, we love some of the English, and they love us with all their hearts. Dirk Van Wie. Dieven ! Schobbe- jacken ! Blaaskaken ! Loosen-shalken ! Dot Captain Glen, he maagd a Duyvil's dans-kamer of our elegtions ! I said he should not fire der culverin. He pointed a pocket-pistol oud at my head. Den dose scamps und deugenieten fired de culverin und py St. Nicholas der pullet hit dat elm-tree in der middle of it — THE OLD PATROON. 37 dat elm-tree you loved so — und now it vill die vid a hole all de vay oud of it ! Gerrit Van Alst, {sadly). Poor old tree ! Even its heart was not safe. — But promise me you'll stay^ Dirk, ril show you one case already where our old Dutch virtues have won an English heart. A cheery, lovable girl — (turns to where Matty had been sitting). Dirk Van Wie. A girl ! Yaas, she'll like de Dutch for schmelkty- nudels and raisin-pie und chincher- bread ; but tell her to clean off de galousie blinds und — koockamulto, yoost see how she ben gone ! — Ach, haltybissel, mine Gerrit, der goot Dutch girl is goot in der whole year altogedder und der English girl is goot at Paas und Pinxter. — No, I go back to my old home on de Yssel. Gerrit Van Alst, {sadly, but with determination). And I stay here till our old Dutch honesty returns ! We 38 THE OLD PATROON. may not win the offices yet, but well conquer the hearts of those about us! Dirk Van Wie, {admiringly grasp- ing his hand), Gerrit,you ben a crate pig fighting ram-sheep, und I vish I too vas ! {Exit, R.) {Enter Barlow and Capt. Glen, jubilant^ Barlow. There she is ! Capt. Glen. Here he is ! Trying his influence ! Ha, ha ! '* You know my word ** — now, old Patroon ! There's a change in the tide, so level your "" influence '' Straight at your rival,~the Man in the Moon ! Matty, {eagerly). Let me felicitate you, Captain Glen ! Gerrit Van Alst. Young man, weigh well the burden you would bear, THE OLD PATROON. 39 For honors underrated carry curses. Jeer, if you must, at Gerrit, the old Patroon, But reverence the trust he hoped to safeguard. Matty. And tell us, Captain, was the dancing drowned In other celebration of your triumph ? If not, I hope to try a measure with you. Gerrit Van Alst, {in surprised dis- appointment). Does friendship follow fortune, little maid ? Matty, {embarrassed). Oh no, — but then I love the red-coats so, — My father was an English ofificer — Was stationed in New York long, long ago— 'Twas then he met my mother — Gerrit Van Alst, {in great emotion). At New York ? 40 THE OLD PATROON. Her name before she married ! — Wait — in my ear ! Matty, {after hastily whispering her "inothers name in his ear). Well, Captain Glen, must I implore your notice? Capt. Glen. Your pardon, but this gentleman re- quired, As payment for your uncle's name he used. That I should cede to him your com- pany — Barlow, {exultant). And all that he might yield it back again ; But at its proper worth — for noth- ing! Gerrit Van Alst, {furiously). Sir ! ! Mati:^ , {humbly). Then, Captain, shall we leave ? — And, if you will. THE OLD PATROON. 4I Let's go by way of the bridge. {Exeunt, Z.) Gerrit Van Alst, {enraged). See here, young man — If time had served us both an equal portion, You'd pay for what youVe done! Fd baste your hide ! Barlow, {sullenly). She is a jilt ! Gerrit Van Alst. And youVe a coward, sir : Enough, begone ! {Exit Barlow, R^ Gerrit Van Alst, {turning sadly toward his home). 'Zekiel !— 'Zekiel !— Judy ! Judy, {appearing at doorway), Yis, Marster. Gerrit Van Alst. Bring me the grub-ax, Judy, I must work with the flowers awhile. Judy. Why, Marster, 'Zekiel 'lowed 42 THE OLD PATROON. as how you tole him to mind de flowers arfter to-day. Gerrit Van Alst. No no! They're too important to be trusted with him. I'll tend them myself. — Fm going to raise the best tulips in the Colony— these great gay ones — " flame hearted with a golden crown.'' I'll make them famous through all New Netherlands. Down in our old town of New Amster- dam they may please some chance visitor from over seas. {Enter, R, Dame Louisa leading!) auy, Marian, who is bliitd,) Dame Louisa. Marian, I'm heartily thankful you had no more daughters, for another niece like Matilda would drive my poor head crazy. The Lord should never have made you blind un- til she was safely married, for it takes four eyes to watch her — and even then she slips away on the sly. I'm con- vinced, Marian, that we must send THE OLD PATROON. 43 her to bed and take her clothes away. Dame Marian. Sister, she is only a child. Dame L. Oh, she's old enough to know better. You were only a child once yourself, but you knew enough to marry a brawling tippler that kept his foot upon your neck to the end of his life, — fifteen long years. He tried to get his other foot on my neck, thinking, I suppose, that it was all in the family. But he couldn't play Roman charioteer or Colossus of Rhodes with me ! Dame M. Sister, can you see Matty anywhere ? Dame L. Not a vestige of her. But then it is useless to look in such a quiet spot as this. I know she must be down at the Green. Dame M. And alone ! Dame L. Oh, don't be afraid ; I'll warrant she has escorts enough ! Wait 44 THE OLD PATROON. — sit here ; TU ask this old Dutch gardener if he has seen her. {Seats Dame M., atR,, and addresses Gerrit, who is zvorking among his flowers^. Good Sir, have you ojpserved a flighty, light-headed, scatter-brained goose of a girl pass this way ? Gerrit Van Alst, {rising). No, madam, I have not. Dame L. — A giddy, flippant, pert young miss? Gerrit Van Alst. I have not, my good dame. Dame L. — A silly, laughing, coquet- tish English maid ? Gerrit Van Alst. A little Eng- lish maiden I have seen. Are you — her aunt ? She said her aunt came with her. Dame L. Yes, I am unhappily that aunt. We arrived here scarce twenty- four hoiirs ago, and I declare she has met every man in the place ! Do you chance to know where she is now ? THE OLD PATROON. 45 Gerrit Van Alst. She left here to dance upon the Green. Dame L. Well, she'll dance to bed and nowhere else. If her father were alive to-day I should just like to show him how his love for rioting has borne fruit! Sit there, Marian; I'll fetch the girl and be back in a jiffy. {Exit, L.) Gerrit Van Alst, {aside), Marian ! {Approaching) Is this the mother of our strayaway ? Dame M. Yes, I am she. Though in my child's regard 'Twould seem I'm more a keeper than a mother. Gerrit Van Alst, {aside). How altered ! Yet — the same ! Dame M. Are you the gardener ? Gerrit Van Alst. Yes, I'm a gardener ; — {aside) that's all. And fortune, 46 THE OLD PATROON. Perhaps in jest, has left me one poor gift, My flowers ; let me offer you the rarest. ( Takes the tulip from his coat and offers it,) {Hurt), You will not take it ? Dame M., {extending her hand, but not toward the flower). Oh, pray pardon me. Gerrit Van Alst, {aside). My God, she cannot see ! ( Takes her hand and closes it about the flower^ Dame M. The flower's trim And graceful, but a niggard in per- fume. Gerrit Van Alst. 'Tis oft a fault of flowers, and the gayest That woo the eye's approval bear no soul To make their memory sweet. For modest worth, THE OLD PATROON. 47 That with a whispered prayer awaits a lover, Dwells rather in the blossom half-un- seen, A presence felt, a proffer with a pledge. Dame M. Yes, and the world's the same in every part,— Perhaps the sun is but a satellite, — For in the truth you've uttered stands revealed The lesson I have conned for twenty years. A thoughtless girl, I scorned an honest man To wed a rake, — and yet, God rest his soul. Gerrit Van Alst. And if that honest man were here to- day. And bore for you the self-same heart of love — 48 THE OLD PATROON. Dame M,, {excitedly). Stop ! Is it Gerrit ? Nearer ! Quick, your hand ! Gerrit Van Alst, {kneeling and putting his hand in hers). And if his power reached but to the flowers, — A poor Dutch gardener,— Dame M., {eagerly^. That I can mend ! Your life's ambition never climbed so high As I can build your path. Oh, Gerrit, Gerrit, Let me replace the hopes 1 helped to shatter ! My brother holds high office in his gift ; I pledge you now what would have been your honors Had vanity been artless long ago. Gerrit Van Alst, {diffidently). One honor I would ask — THE OLD PATROON. 49 Dame M. That is ? Gerrit Van Alst. — Yourself. Dame M. You love me yet ! — No, Gerrit, — I am blind. Gerrit Van Alst, {quietly). And / am blind — to all the world but you ! Come, love is best that's tipped with bitterness. {Enter LouiSA with Matty by the arm ; Capt. G. behiitd^ tipsy}) Dame L. Hurry, child ; it is very im- portant and requires your immediate attention. Matty. But what is it, Aunty? Dame L., {mysteriously^, I can't bear to tell you. Hurry back to the house with me. {Seeing Gerrit and Marian embracing}) Marian ! ! Dame M., {joyfully). Ah, Louisa, I have found my first love, Gerrit Van Alst. 4 50 THE OLD PATROON. Dame L. What, that young coun- tryman from up the North River? — the one that lodged in Petticoat Lane ? Well, well! (Matty slily substitutes Capt. Glen*S arm in her aunfs grasp and is by him caught by the dress as she attempts to escape^ I remember the first time he put on Dutch goloshes with us — {approaches Gerrit) you re- member, we drove out to the Collect and it was all frozen over from one end to the other. And as soon as you started off over it, up went your heels and down you sat right on your hat ! — And oh, what fun we had that night sliding down Flatten Barrack Hill ! {Discovers Capt. Glen) Oh ! ! Gerrit Van Alst, {laughing), 'Zekiel! ^Zekiel! Judy ! Judy, {appearing around the corner of the house), Yis, Marster. Gerrit Van Alst. Where 's 'Zekiel ? THE OLD PATROON. 5 1 Judy, {giggling). He up in de loft, Marster, mixin* hoe cake. He 'lows as how I karn*t do it no mo', so he tuk de kittle an' de big pan an' all de spoons an' paraphenia up to de loft. I spec'alates he gwine to cook some ambitions fer supper. He done gone put de big dough-pan up on a cheer, so when he harnds punch de meal it mos' like a bucket gwine down in a well ! {Hubbub within, 'Zekiel heard crying '' Judy ! Judy ! Massa Gerrit ! " after ivhich he appears at the door covered with meal and with dough- smeared fingers^ Gerrit Van Alst. Ah ! Ambition gone astray ! (Capt. Glen sits dozvn to stare at 'Zekiel and rub his eyes.) Curtain. [ The following plays were written for college actors.] A TRILOGY IN MINIATURE. I. My Youngster's Love Affair, Comedy; IL The Guardian Angel, Melodrama ; IIL The Mild Monomaniac, Farce. " I cannot blame his conscience." Henry VIII. I. MY YOUNGSTER'S LOVE AFFAIR. CHARACTERS. Mr. Arkwright, a practical business man ; Henry Arkwright, his four-year-old son ; Mr. Graham, his old clerk ; Thomas, his butler. I. MY YOUNGSTER'S LOVE AFFAIR. Scene — Parlor ; mantel over bright grate fire, L ; lamp on table in middle of stage ; doors, LUK and RC ; large arm-chair before fire. {Enter Arkwright, taking off ulster and giving it to THOMAS in doorway^ Rcy Arkwright. Thomas, hang my coat where it will dry ; quick, quick ! Thomas. Yes, sir ; it*s a bad storm, sir, but how much worse it is for old people that have to go out in it, sir. Arkwright. Thomas, that's suffi- cient ; run away. ( Exit Thomas.) Goodness, this weather is enough to 57 58 MY youngster's love affair. kill an Esquimaux ! Sleet, rain, snow, wind, slush, ice,— three blocks* walk from the station fits you for three days in bed! {Takes off spectacles and ex- amines them by the lamp, the^t lays them on mantel^ Spoils glasses, too ; and my eyes feel as if they had been whipped. Thomas ! — Thomas ! ( Re- enter T.) Where's Mrs. Arkwright ? Thomas. She went next door, sir, to take some flowers to Mrs. Graham, and she's not returned yet. Arkwright. Always attending that sick woman instead of staying at home and taking care of herself ! Where's Henry? Thomas. She took the little boy with her, sir. He pleaded so hard to visit Mr. Graham's little girl, Prudence, that she had to take him. The two little tots were out just now in the cov- ered alleyway {poi7itmg over his shoul- der.) They cleave to each other, sir, MY YOUNGSTER'S LOVE AFFAIR. 59 like David and Goliah, and when their yellow curly heads are gossipin* away they look for all the world like two little angels flown down from the same star. Sure, their voices tinkle just as one, sir, and their darlin' faces look so much alike that — when they *re together I can't tell them apart ! But now Prudence has a big red cloak with a hood to it ; it must have cost her old father some pinching to get it, sir. (Henry heard behind the scenes: ^^Henry ! Henry ! " '' Well, Prudence ? " *^ Your mamma says you must put this cloak on, or else come right into the house again ! " Sufficient difference in his voice zvill be made if he faces in opposite directions for the call and re- sponse^ They tell me, sir, you *ve dis- charged old Mr. Graham from his posi- tion, and Arkwright, (impatiently). Thomas, that's sufficient ; run away. 6o MY YOUNGSTER*S LOVE AFFAIR. Thomas, {retiring^ but turning again to speak^. You know he*s getting hard of hearing, sir, and he's none too strong. Arkwright, {annoyed), Thomas, will you run away^ or must I discharge you too? Thomas. Ah, Mr. Arkwright, you can't frighten your old Thomas that way. He knows your heart better than you do yourself, sir. Sure, he studied it before you ever knew you had one ! Who was it dandled you on his knee ? Who was it gave you the spoon and the bowl and let you have your own way with the bread and milk when they wanted to tie a bib around your neck? No,, you Ve a good, kind heart, sir, and it grieves me to see you false to it with poor old Mr. Graham. Arkwright, {despairingly). Will you run away, or must / leave the room? MY YOUNGSTER^S LOVE AFFAIR. 6l Thomas. Every one of us is sorry for him, sir. Arkwright, {rising). Thomas, I'm not going to let you talk me into things any more ! You forget that I am a grown man with a family. Thomas. He seems even more fee- ble since you told him Arkwright. Do you think I have only other people's welfare to look out for ? Do you think my business would last a year if I answered every call upon my sympathy ? Do you think Thomas. And oh, the darlin' little girl, too, sir. Arkwright. Do you Thomas. And the poor sick mother. {Exeunt ARKWRIGHT, Z., and Thomas, with a gesture of despair, RC.) Arkwright, {re-entering cautiously). That man would talk down a cyclone ! He seems to have no idea how business 62 MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. matters are managed. Mercantile life is not a colossal philanthropy. Busi- ness is business. I can't afford to have a clerk that is growing deafer every- day, and so old that he makes me look like an office boy. No, as Thomas says, my heart is all right, but this is no case for interference from the heart. For once I'll stand firm. Not all the persuasion or appeals under Heaven shall move me this time. I'll not change my mind ! I'll nevei" change my mind ! {Door bell rings ; re-enter THOMAS.) Thomas. Mr. Graham would see you, sir. Arkwright, {in disgust). Tell him I'm out. ^ Thomas. Sure, sir, he knows you 're in ; and, besides, I've already told him so myself. Arkwright, ( with resignation ). Well, show him in. MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. 63 {Enter Graham, a dignified old man, plainly but neatly clothed in old-fash- ioned style) Graham. Mr. Arkwright, I beg you to excuse me for intruding. Arkwright, {in a business4ike tone). No intrusion at all, Mr. Graham. Graham, ( without hearing him ). Especially at a time when we are both worn out with the day's work. ^ Arkwright. I trust you are not— Graham. But I could not meet my wife Arkwright, {loudly). I trust you are not so very worn out. Graham. Eh ? Arkwright. I trust you are not so very worn out ? Graham. Very warm out? Oh, no, — very cold indeed, sir. And I feel the cold more the last few years. When a man passes sixty-five, no mat- ter how hale he was as a boy, he's 64 MY youngster's love affair. bound to feel the cold. And it is this growing old that makes my discharge all the harder to bear, sir. ( Keeps his hand at his ear throughout the rest of the interview^ Arkwright. Mr. Graham, I am sorry, but I have determined, once and for all, not to reconsider that subject. It is purely a matter of business expe- diency into which I have resolved no other consideration shall enter, sir. Graham. But, Mr. Arkwright, if I must lose the position, think of the hardship it will bring my wife and child. You have professed to love my little girl; you would not have her suffer ? Arkwright. She shall not suffer, sir, — but that is entirely aside from business matters. Graham. And your own child, — you would not make him unhappy. He will lose his playmate, for we can- MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. 65 not longer afford our modest home. The children love each other, sir, and a separation would mean the first genuine sorrow of their little lives. Arkwright, {impatiently), Mr. Graham, I can't let my youngster's love affairs interfere in a purely busi- ness question. — And anyway, it strikes me you assume a good deal in believing that Henry will not find another play- mate as attractive as Prudence. Graham, {stung to the quick). Sir, there is not one child in a hundred as amiable and sweet-tempered as my wee daughter ; and far from your little boy's fellowship being a condescension, sir, I would have you understand that our Prudence has more good qualities in a single day than Henry has from Christmas to Christmas ! Arkwright, {angry). How dare you say that, sir ? It is not true, and you know it ! 5 66 MY YOUNGSTER'S LOVE AFFAIR. Graham, {hotly). Our little girl has never in her short life given us the least anxiety or displeasure, sir. We have not had to punish her even once ; she knows how to act according to our wishes, sir ; she has a conscience, while your boy — Arkwright, (emphatically), I am that boy's conscience, sir ! Graham. Then that proves what I would say ! I bid you good evening, Mr. Arkwright, and before leaving I desire to assure you that I have posi- tively forbidden my child to cross your threshold hereafter, and I shall look to it that the children never again have occasion to meet. {Exit, RC) Arkwright. What insolence ! That child better than Henrv ! More amiable and sweet-tempered, eh, — just as if that was everything ! Henry is worth a dozen of her ! {Walks about the room. MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. 6/ Extinguishes lampy and takes a seat in big arm-chair before the fir e^, — Fm glad I discharged him ; I'm only sorry I didn't do it ten years ago. More amiable! Humph! (Thomas appears at doorway, RC, with Henry ivrapped in PRUDENCE'S red cloak. Enter THOMAS, groping his way) Thomas. Mr. Arkwright. Arkwright. What do you want, Thomas? Thomas. Oh, did the light go out, sir? Arkwright. Yes, and let it stay out. I've worked myself nearly blind to-day, so I'll rest my eyes here in the dark. Thomas, {beckoning Henry in). Well, a little friend of yours has just come in at the back door to pay you a visit, sir. Arkwright. Who is it ? 68 MY youngster's love affair. Thomas. Just look at the cloak and hood, sir, and see if you can guess. {Bringing Henry in toward the light of the fire,) Arkwright. Prudence, eh ? Humph ! Father at the front door, daughter at the back door, — we*ll have the invalid mother coming down the chimney next. {Exit Thomas, RC. Henry seats himself, C, front, behind Arkwright.) YiY.'^YN, {demurely). My papa doesn't know Tm here. Arkwright, {ill-humoredly, without turning). He doesn't? Henry. No. — I've another fairy tale for you. Arkwright. Well, is it of the sort that Henry tells, or your variety, — all golden towers and elves with burning eyes in mountain caves? Henry. No. All the elves are little angels now. Arkwright. Indeed. MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. 69 Henry. Fm going to begin it. Arkwright. Well, Fm ready. Henry. Long, long time ago, when all the fences were of gingerbread, with candy flowers growing 'round them, — is that the kind of story you like best? Arkwright. Tis very sweet. Henry. Yes. Well, — long time ago, when all the flowers were gin- gerbread and sugar, two little angels ran away from Heaven. And all day long they fed the birds with crumbs, and chased the squirrels 'round the trees, and laughed, until 'twas time to go to bed, and then a big old mother hen made room for them under her wing. But when the moonlight came, a naughty rooster made a dreadful noise. — You see, he thought the moon- light was the sun. — And then the little angels laughed at him and he got mad and chased one right away ! 70 MY YOUNGSTER S LOVE AFFAIR. Arkwright, {amused). What a bad rooster ! Henry. Yes. That little angel got lost in the dark until the daylight came, and then the other little angels up in Heaven came down to look for him and took him home. Arkwright, {beginning to feel un- easy). And what about the angel that was left ? Did he go back to Heaven ? Henry. No, he couldn't; he didn't know the way alone. He cried and cried until he talked just like a chicken, and said ^' Peep ! Peep ! " and never tried to fly. So when the angels came to look for him, they found him just like any other chicken ; and he grew up to be a big bad rooster. — Perhaps they'll kill him and cook him and eat him up. Arkwright, {uncomfortable). It seems to me the angels up in Heaven would take him ; for he'd ask them to. MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. 71 Henry. Oh no. He isn't like an angel any more ; he doesn't want to go, for he's a chicken. And chickens can't see angels, anyhow. {A pause). Can you see angels? Arkwright, {startled). Oh,— -I never tried. Henry. You have to shut your eyes and look real hard, and then you'll see them flying all around. Just shut your eyes, — I'll show you. {Goes up behind the chair and puts his hands over his father s eyes,) Now can you see them ? Arkwright. Why, hardly. Henry, {reaching around farther,) Now can you see them ? Arkwright, {rising, and going to door, RC) Well, if not, I certainly hear one, and to good effect. — Thomas ! Thomas, {entering). Yes, sir. Arkwright. Tell Mr. Graham I should like to speak with him ; ask him 72 MY youngster's LOVE AFFAIR. to come at once. {Aside,) How could I think of parting those two children ? That little lady's influence for my boy makes amends for any sort of father. And, after all, old Graham is honest as the day, and competent. He is old and deaf, but certainly my behavior to the father of such a child has been heartless to say the least. I wish I had thought about the children. How- ever, ril try now to make amends. — {Raising his voice as Graham appears^ RC.) Oh, Graham, come right in. I want to ask your pardon for speaking as I did. Fatigue and worry made me forget your feelings. And, Graham, I want to ask as a favor that you'll not move from your little home next door, or raise any objection to the children's companionship. Graham. I thank you, Mr. Ark- wright, with all my heart, for these kindlier words. But now I must be- MY YOUNGSTER S LOVE AFFAIR. 73 gin my business life all over again ; we cannot afford to keep the house. Ark WRIGHT. Nonsense! Fve changed my mind ! You go right back to the office as usual to-morrow morn- ing and ril give you a small room all to yourself, where nobody will bother you, and I'll put a stove in there so that you will not feel the cold, and — Graham. Oh, Mr. Arkwright, this is too much ; I don't deserve this, sir ! I am not blind to my growing infirmity, and surely you must have seen it too, sir. Arkwright. Graham, I've kept my business eyes open too much. Sometimes we can see better with our eyes shut ! Give me your hand ; you have my friendship, henceforth un- changeable. And if you want to know why I have taken better counsel in this matter, ask your little seraph there. I never knew till now her four 74 MY YOUNGSTER S LOVE AFFAIR. small years had grown so inseparably into my life. Graham, {surprised and grieved). What! Prudence disobey me and come here ? Well, I must not blame the child until I know her motives. But to punish her now would make me cry as hard as ever in my life. Arkwright. Why, I forgot. Here we are in the dark, like a couple of bats ! Thomas ! Thomas, {entering). Yes, sir. Arkwright. Light the lamp again, Thomas. — And now, my little angel, where did you find that lovely fairy tale you entertained me with ? Henry. Thomas told it to me. Arkwright. Oho! Graham, Thomas is giving your little girl a course in angelic theology of a new order ! You had better inquire into it this evening. MY YOUNGSTER S LOVE AFFAIR. 75 Graham, [looking at Henry m sur- prise). My little girl? That's Henry! Arkwright. What? Thomas, bring me my glasses ! So it is ! Henry ! {Lifts Henry into his arms a7id shakes his finger reprovingly at THOMAS.) Curtain. II. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL, CHARACTERS. Henry, (alias Thompson), and Arthur, his wayward brother. u. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL, Scene — Poorly furnished room in a tenement; table, chair, and two candles, one of them burning. Mantel and grate, L. Door, R. Henry, in rags, at work painting a china vase. Steps heard on the stairway. Enter Arthur, dressed in the height of fashion. Arthur, {singing, and a little tipsy). Home again, home again, from a foreign shore! — No, Fm only half seas over ! Here, Thompson, Mister Thomp- son, what are you trying to hide there ? Have you bought another loaf of bread after getting one day before yesterday ? That's extravagance, man ; do you think we can afford an establishment like the Vanderbilts', or buy three 79 8o THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. loaves of bread in the same week? Besides, Tve had all my dinners and three breakfasts out this month, and to-morrow I'll sleep until the twelve o'clock whistles blow, so we can get along with just a dinner. Come, let'^ see the size of it. {Taking vase). Oho! A china vase — and a little paint. Now Thompson, this is the second time IVe caught you putting paint on these fine bits of crockery ; what do you do it for? Henry, {patiently), I hoped to sell it ; for you know we need money, Ar- thur. {Lights second candle), Arthur. Money! Why, I draw my twenty dollars regularly every week from the bank. That hasn't given out, — though I suppose it must be getting low. How much is there left ? You have the book. Henry. I fear there is very little left now. But let me take the vase ; THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 8 1 you may drop it. There was a lady here to-day who said she would buy it. Arthur, {chaffing). Aha ! So you have ladies calling upon you, eh, while Fm away ? Oh you gay rogue ! Oh you rascal ! Perhaps you're one of the boys, after all. And do they con- sider you a lady killer, with that frowzy head and those blase clothes ? Thomp- son, Thompson ! So you're only a carpet knight, — and r^^^ carpet at that ! {Singing ^' Buy a broom,'' mid dancing around with the vase,) Oh, my little flower-pot, little finger-bowl, little tooth-mug, {drops it ; HENRY starts to catch it and groans disheartened as it is shattered, ARTHUR becomes sober at once). Oh, Tm sorry, old man ; {re- gretfully) I didn't mean to break it. But I'll get you another to-morrow, when I draw my twenty dollars for the coming week. That bill for cab hire 82 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. is not more than fifteen, and Til let the house charges at the club run for another month. — Come, you're not hurt at what I said about your clothes, are you ? It's only my way of teasing, and I know that under this old coat there is a heart that has proved a hun- dred times over that it loves me. Why, how could I have kept the pace these three years past if you had not guarded my expenses and provided a mouthful to eat and a poor substitute for a home when I chanced to be without a friend's hospitality for the night? Come, Thompson, old man, look up and tell me I have not wounded your feelings. Henry. Arthur, you know I have been a true friend to you, and true friendship does not seek offense. I have done my best for you, for I loved you, — perhaps some day you may know why. No ; it is something else that makes me sad to-night. But tell me THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 83 once more about your early life. ( Warming his hands at the grate.) Arthur. Oh, don't ask me to do that. Something has happened to-day to make the subject very painful to me. That's why I drank more than usual at the club before coming home, and, as a consequence, broke your vase. IVe told you how when father died my brother tried to keep me steady and self-respecting ; how I hated him and accused him of wanting my money, and at last ran off to seek pleasure in this city. Here Fve squandered nearly all the funds father put in the bank to my account, and if I had not met you three years ago the fellows at the club would have found me out before this. As it is, they still think I am a wealthy man of leisure — confound it all! Henry. And your brother — do you still hate him ? Arthur, {with mild surprise). Why 84 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. do you want to know ? You asked me that same question a long while ago, too. {Approaching him) I have al- ways made a confident of you, Thomp- son, for you never preach, — unless by example- — and, to be candid, I love you as the one true friend I have in this world, for you have proved it. {Returning) As to my brother, I must confess that up to this very day my hate for him and every memory of him has had all the stinging bitterness of a rebeFs. {Gravely) But I want to confide a secret to you, — something I learned this afternoon. First, tell me what has hap- pened to make you sad, and then FU tell you what is weighing upon my mind. Henry, {wearily). No, Arthur, you begin ; I feel tired to-night — FU make a better listener. Arthur. Not a bit of it ! Come over here and sit by the table, {rising) THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 85 and ril warm my hands while you talk. {¥Ly.^KY feebly seats himself in the chair at the table,) Henry. Well, shall I tell you my life story ? Arthur. Yes, do, old fellow. You know I've pressed you for it often enough; and Tm tired of hearing you say you're my guardian angel in disguise. Henry, (dubiously). Would you feel the same toward me after I had told you all ? Arthur, {taking his hand). Why, of course I should. Henry, {earnestly). You love me, Arthur? Arthur, {enthusiastically). Could I help loving a comrade that has borne with all my faults, saved me a dozen times from utterly ruining myself, helped me to economize in private that I might still cut a figure in the world — and done all this without any other 86 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. motive than blind devotion ? Thomp- son, dear old fellow, do you think I could be ungrateful ? Henry, {wistfully). But — you hate your brother ? Arthur, {conscience-stricken^ return- ing to fireplace). Go on; tell me your story ; I'll answer no more questions till you do. Begin. Henry, {sadly). No ; {straightening up)y but you shall hear a dream I had last night ; I thought I stood at Heaven's gate, watching the souls sent out into the world, like soldiers to a battle-field ; and every soul as it passed into the night received an angel for a guardian and helper in the battle. The angel carried a bright sunbeam for a sword and marched ahead to clear a path and meet the deadlier blows. But one warrior, thoughtless, as it seemed, of the long fight to come, refused to follow where his angel led the way, and THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 8/ turned aside to struggle in the dark. And when I looked at him I thought of one I loved — just such a soul — and joy flamed up within me when I saw his angel turn, accept his rash decision and follow in his footsteps, fighting for him. And now the blows hail heavier upon him, and, in the dark, enemies unseen before spring up. His angel battles with them, meeting the strokes the other could not parry, and every moment the conflict becomes fiercer. The soul I loved was moving on into a denser mass of enemies ; his angel warrior, following at his back, found it ever harder to guard and fight for him, and when I saw his sword-strokes cramped and hindered I turned away and fell upon my face to pray that God would spare him. {jOonvulsively buries his face in his hands?) Arthur, {astonished). Why, Thomp- son, my poor fellow, I never heard you 88 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. talk this way before. Why should a dream cause you to feel so deeply ? And you have grown pale and haggard during the week. Have those friends that used to invite you out to a square meal so often, as you told me, grown weary of your company ? Or, more likely, youVe been keeping late hours, old man, and that's what makes you so tired too. But now brace up, for I want you to approve of something I did this afternoon. {Returning to grate.) I wrote and mailed three letters — one to Julia Mason, that rich banker*s daughter, and the other two to the clubs. {With cold determination}) In those letters I stated plainly I had been acting a part, that I was poor and growing every day poorer ; that I lodged with a good-hearted tramp even needier than I, and that when we dined at home — we never brushed the crumbs from the table. And now, I suppose THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 89 you wonder at my making a clean breast of everything, but I learned to- day that Tve been a brute, and that my brother, instead of having squan- dered his money and gone to the bad, has reduced himself to penury in his efforts to find me and induce me to reform. To-day he is ahnost a beg- gar in this very town. (HENRY/^^^/y tries to speak ; ARTHUR does not see him,) Fm going to start right out to-morrow and find him, and tell him that I'll do anything for a brother that can love like that ! (YiE^'RY falls forward on the table. One of the candles, by a pre- arrangement^ burns 02it,) Don't go to sleep yet, old man ; I haven't told you how I heard about him. As I passed a church to-day, old Nellie Colgan, that benevolent crank father thought so much of, was just coming out. She knew me at once, in spite of the changes of ten years, and asked to 90 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. speak with me. Then I learned that in one of her slumming tours she had found Henry in abject poverty. He confided in her, it seems, but under a promise of secrecy as to his where- abouts. He is barely able to keep body and soul together by working early and late, because, for some reason, he has to put by a certain amount of money every week. With more del- icacy than I gave her credit for, she admired his work, and told him that to- morrow she would call and buy some- thing he was finishing, some decorative trifle — {with a vague inkling of the truthy) painting, I think, — on china ! {looking at broken vase^ then hastily ap- proaching table,) Are you listening, old fellow — do you hear what I say ? Wake up ! Speak to me ! ! Henry ! {Falls sobbing at his side.) Curtain. III. THE MILD MONOMANIAC. A SCENE OF DOMESTIC VICISSITUDE IN THE LIFE OF MR. WILKINS, AN AMIABLE LITTLE FAT MAN. in. THE MILD MONOMANIAC. Scene — A garret in disorder. Large sofa front, door, R, open dormer window with seat, c. A down comforter and a lot of old books in corner, L. A china jar near them. As the curtain rises a wo- man's dress is seen to swish out of the door, which closes with a bang. Mr. Wilkins, in profuse per- spiration is seated on the sofa and holding a bundle of clothes which he has just taken from a trunk. Mr. Wilkins, {alternately talking and fanning violently), Amanda, if you're not very careful, I'll lose com- mand of my temper ! I should have remained a bachelor all my life if it had not been for Henry, that dear saintly brother of mine. And yet you find fault with me for talking about his 94 THE MILD MONOMANIAC. missionary labors in China, and for trying to conform our conduct to his high ideals. Do you realize that I should not have embraced the married state except to imitate his self-sacri- fice ? And then where would you have been, — and our three children, to say nothing of the baby? No, Amanda; I am mild, for Henry was mildness it- self, but now I must put my foot down, just as I am sure Henry, if he were in my shoes, — yes, would put his foot down. I must — and I will go with you and the children to the circus ! There ! — {Propitiatorily^ You couldn't take care of those four young ones, Amanda, all by yourself ; and for Tommy, a boy nine years old, to look after his two sisters while you carry the baby, why, — Henry would say it was downright imprudence. Suppose they should go too near the monkeys, or the giraffe, or the elephant ! Now, as for THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 95 my talking so much that you couldn't hear the clown, — I should think you would blush to acknowledge any liking for such talk as his. Anyway, he is a perfect stranger, and 1 am your hus- band. — Oh no ; if I had suspected that under pretext of getting these clothes you brought me all the way up here to the garret just to talk me into staying at home, — I should have remained down in the kitchen just as long as it suited me. Do you realize that you have practiced a deception upon me ? What would your saintly brother-in-law say to such an equivo- cation ? — But I shall control my in- dignation, Amanda. Henry was mild, even under great annoyance, and I believe you are sorry, — though I think you ought to say so and not stay there silent so long. {Soothingly^ I shall not say another word about it if you promise to be more considerate in 96 THE MILD MONOMANIAC. future. Try to conform your ideas of right and wrong to Henry's standard in such matters. I did not appreciate him properly until he left us for his mission- ary work in China, but since then I have tried to make amends. I gave up the club, I gave up smoking. I rose every morning at six and I went to house- keeping and got married. Oh Henry, my dear brother, I am trying now to imitate your self-sacrifice, but I hope you will soon come home to us from those barbarous lands, — that you will not be a martyr ! — No, Amanda, I shall not rebuke you any farther, although you caused me to lose my breath climb- ing up those three flights of stairs on a hot day in August. — I say I shall not refer to the matter again. — Amanda, are you listening ? {Turns Z, then R ; looks back of sofa,) What! Did you go out that time when you slammed the door. {Angry,) And have I been THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 97 talking to deaf ears, or rather, to no ears at all ? Amanda, if you're standing out there on the stairs come in. {Approaches door) Do you hear me? {Tries the knob,) Locked! The undutiful saucebox has locked her hus- band in the garret ! {Peremptorily, at door) Amanda! — {At window, casu- ally) Amanda ! — Nothing in sight but Mrs. Johnson's calf. I wish they'd keep that calf down at their own farm and not let it stray up here around our back door. {Indifferently) Amanda! {Leaves window) Well, I must get out of here some way. I said I was going to that circus, and when I say a thing — although Fm as mild as a Iamb under or- dinary circumstances,— just like Henry, my dear, amiable brother ! Oh, Henry, if you could only walk in here now and see how agitated I am, — and all be- cause I took your advice to settle down. — I know what Til do ; — I'll pick the 7 98 THE MILD MONOMANIAC. lock With my pen-knife. {Approaches door) Stop ! Is it right to pick a lock? Did Henry ever pick a lock? But then he was never shut up in a garret, — because he was never married. {Reassured, resumes the picking. Then, despairingly, after looking through key- hole) She*s left the key in the key- hole ! — {Loftily, retiriiig,) Henry would never pick a lock ; it would be beneath him ; his conscience was too sensitive. —If it wasn't so far to the ground I'd jump out the window. {Looks out.) There's little Helen Johnson. Her folks might come and let me out. How did she come to stray so far from home ? I suppose her people have gone to the circus, or her mother's cooking dinner. I wish she would wander over this way. {Calling) Helen ! Helen ! Come, I want to speak to you ! Helen ! That's a nice little girl ! Now, don't be afraid of the calf. The calf won't hurt you. THE MILD MONOMANIAC. 99 Oh, if I had something to fire at that monster ! (^Jiimps down and hints about the roorn). Here ; Plut arches Lives, — I'd give all he ever had for that calf's ! {Returns to windozv with armful of books and fires them out, first reading the titles^ Alcibiades ! Numa Pompilius ! Caius Marius ! {Persua- sively^ Helen ! Hel — Go av/ay, you exasperating brute ! Shoo ! Come over nearer, Helen ; I have some candy for you. — {Aside .^ No, that's a lie; I haven't a bit of candy. Well, I'll correct that statement. — I haven't — that's right, come right along. {With embarrassment .) I was just going to tell you that I haven't any candy, but you go home and tell mamma to come and unlock my garret door, because I'm locked in and everybody's gone to the circus. Do you understand ? — gone to the circus, where the monkeys are, and the elephant and the camels lOO THE MILD MONOMANIAC. and the horseback riders. {Dances up and down by way of illustration}) Now won*t you go and tell her, like a good little girl ? Run along and tell mamma — wait a minute, I'll give you some- thing for being a good little girl. (Jumps down^ finds a rag doll and throws it out of the windozv.) There's Tom- my's old doll, Sophronia, and you can have her to keep. Now go and tell mamma. Here ! Don't go that way ! Go to mamma, — this way ! This way ! Oh, you tantalizing little imp ! Stroll- ing along in the other direction as if I had been merely playing Punch and Judy ! Yes, now look around at me to make sure the show is all over ! Never mind, I'll tell your mamma on you, and you'll get a good spanking, just like you got yesterday after dinner ! We heard you ! {Throwing himself upon sofa and fanning violently^ If I had a three year old child as stupid as THE MILD MONOMANIAC. lOI that one Fd give it an education abroad. — But there, I have sacrificed my equa- nimity, lost my temper over a calf, told a lie, and abused my wife. Oh Henry, I am not mild yet ; — I am nowhere near your gentleness ! What would you do now if you had forgotten your- self as I have? I know, — you'd follow your old rule and punish yourself in- some way ; but what can I do ? I am already suffering imprisonment and perspiration. I suppose, if I had the courage, — I could intensify the heat a little. {Looks hesitatingly at a pile of down comforters ^etc^ Henry, I WILL ! {Wraps himself in comforter and resumes his seat ^ No one shall say I lacked the courage of our convictions and I'll imitate you, Henry, in every- thing, — as far as Amanda is willing. Oh, Henry, if you could only walk in here now and see me following your example, you would know then how 102 THE MILD MONOMANIAC. sincerely your gentle goodness is es- teemed ! But you are far away in China, perhaps martyred, for no letter has come in six months ; and I am home here in the garret, — hush ! what step is that ? I hear someone walking about down-stairs. {Goes to window^ Of course ! Amanda has gone off and left the back door open. — It*s a man's step ! It's a burglar ! He*s going through all the rooms, one after the other ! {Foot- steps heard indistinctly^ Burglars are dangerous, and always kill when they are detected ! If I should call out he would come up here and kill me, — so I won't. He's on the floor below ! Oh, — if he should find the garret stairs and come up ! I'll arm myself and be pre- pared for the worst. If he comes in here I must defend myself. I'll hit him with this poker ! It will do very well, provided he has no firearms. Let me get something to throw at him first ; THE MILD MONOMANIAC. IO3 — here, this jug is heavy. He might die from a blow with such a big piece of china, — China, — where Henry is ! Good-by, Henry ! — {^Steps become dis- tinct and groiv louder^ He*s found the garret stairs!— HE'S COMING UP! {Hysterically standing on the sofa, with the comforter still about him, and brand- ishing the poker and the china jar . ) COME ON, VILLAIN, FM READY FOR YOU ! {Key turits and door opens. Enter a long-faced dominie^ H ENRY ! Curtain. 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