Book.__ : r Copyright N^ 1_l CQEOUCKT DEPOSIT. THE GIPSY TRAD. By ROBERT HOUSUM SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-30 West 38th Su, New Yofk I THE GIPSY TRAIL A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS BY ROBERT HOUSUM Copyright, 1917, by Robert Housum Copyright, 19:i0, by Samuel French All Rights Rcscrz'cd CAUTION : Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that "THE GIPSY TRAIL," being fully pro- tected under the copyright laws of the United States, is subject to royalty, and any one presenting the play without the consent of the author or his authorized • agents will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Applications for the amateur acting rights must be made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th St., New York. Applications for the professional acting rights must be made to The American Play Company, 33 West 42nd St., New York. New York : SAMUEL FRENCH Publisher 28-30 West 38th Street London : SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd 26 Southampton Street Strand J^ ■e Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this book without a valid contract for production first hav- ing been obtained from the publisher confers no right or license to professionals or amateurs to produce the play publicly or in private for gain or charity. In its present form this play is dedicated to the reading public only and no performance of it may be given except by special arrangement with Samuel French, 28-30 West Thirty-eighth Street, New York City. Section 28 — That any person who wilfully or for profit shall infringe any copyright secured by this act, or who shall knowingly and wilfully aid or abet such in- fringement, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction shall be punished by imprison- ment for not exceeding one year, or by a fine or not less than one hundred nor more than one thousand dollars, or both, in the discretion of the court. Act of March 4, 1909. JUL 30 1920 ©uLu 551 41 TO MY FATHER ARTHUR HOPKINS presents "THE GIPSY TRAIL" A 191 7 Romance By RORKRT IIOUSUM Staged by Arthur Hopkins CAST (in order of appearance) Frank Raymond Robert Cummings Miss Janet Raymond Katharivr Emmet John Ra^'mond Frank Longacre Stiles Charles 1 1 anna Frances RA^'MO^•D Phoebe Foster Edward Andrews Roland Young Michael Ernest Glendenning Mrs. Widdimore Ejfie Ellsler Ellen Loretta Wells Act I. The Raymond Place Act it. The Andrews Place Act hi. The Raymond Place CAST Michael Rudder Edward Andrews Frank Raymond John Raymond Stiles Frances Raymond Mrs. Widdimore Miss Janet Raymond Ellen SYNOPSIS Act I. Veranda of Frank Raymond's summer home at Kirtland, Ohio. An evening in early June. Act II. Room in Edward Andrews' summer cot- tage, "The Breakers," on the Lake Shore Boulevard. An hour and a half later. Act III. Same as Act I. A month later. The following is a copy of the playbill of the first performance of "The Gipsy Trail" at the Plymouth Theatre, New York City, December 4, 1917. The Gipsy Trail ACT I *ScENE : The scene represents the side veranda of Mr. Raymond's summer home at Kirtland, a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, on a moonlit even- ing in early June. The veranda is formed by a platform, raised some four inches alwve the level of the stage. Betzveen this platform and the proscenium is a space about three feet wide, representing a path- way. At the rear of the veranda ri.ses the wall of the house, which is of pink stucco, zvith ivhite trim. Tins wall is pierced in the center by a wide doorway, open, with double screen doors that swing outward. Through this doorzvay may be seen the plain brown wall of the hall, which is brightly illuminated ; a chair and table on the right; and a telephone on a small stand on the left. In this 7vall there are, to the right of the cen- ter door, three ivindows; and, to its left, tzvo — all hung inside with thick lace curtains. A dim light may be seen, through these curtained zi'indozvs, inside the house, but it is impossible to distinguish figures. The right and left side-walls of the veranda are formed by zvhite lattices, covered zvith vines. At the point zvhere these reach the edge of the * See "Notes on Production," on Page 94. 7 8 THE GIPSY TRAIL veranda, tlicy turn at right angles and extend off to right and left. The roof of the veranda is supported by two large zvhite pillars, zvhich are set dozvnstage, to right and left. A large dome-light in the center of the veranda ceiling casts a soft glow. Against the rear wall, to the right of the center door, is a settee, and to the left of this, a tahor- ette. There is a similar settee to the left of the center door. A small round table stands up left. Dozi'ii center is an ottoman, and, to the left of it, a small divan, placed irregularly. A chair, facing left, stands at the left of the right pillar. All the furniture is made of gray wick- erzvork, upholstered in gay cretonnes. Note: "Right" and "left" are throughout "right" and "left" of the actors, not of the audi- ence. Before the curtain rises, a few introductory bars are played upon the- piano, and then the voice of Frances is heard inside the house singing "The Gypsy Trail." Frances. (In right) "The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky. The deer to the wholesome wold, And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, As it was in the days of old." (The curtain rises slozvly. Mr. Raymond stands in front of the doorzvay center, enjoying his after- dinner cigar. He is an efficient-looking man of about forty-eight, dressed in a dark business suit; and he is bareheaded. Frances sings on) "The heart of a man to the heart of a maid — Light of my tents, be fleet ! THE GIPSY TRAIL 9 Morning waits at the end of the world, And the world is all at our feet !" Mr. Raymond. (Calling) Frances! Frances. (In right) Yes, Father? Mr. Raymond. If you're going to that wedding, don't you think you ought to be dressing ? Frances. (In right) I've plenty of time. (She begins to sing again. "The white moth to the closing vine, The bee to the open clover, And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood, Ever the wide world over." (Mr. Raymond sighs and, walking over to the settee on the right, seats himself and takes front his pocket a legal document of many pages, which he begins to study) "Ever the wide world over, lass, Ever the trail held true, Over the world and under the world (Miss Janet Raymond and John Raymond enter along the pathway from the left. Mtss Ray- mond is a pleasant zvoman of about thirty- seven, simply dressed. John is thirteen and is known to his intimates as "Skinny" Raymond. Miss Raymond, 7i'ho has her arm about him, speaks as she enters. Frances continues to sing "The Gipsy Trail" throughout the follow- ing scene) Miss Raymond. Will you do that for me, John- nie John. Yes, Aunt Janet. (He runs along the pathway and disappears to the right) Mr. Raymond. (Looking up, as Miss Ray- lo THE GIPSY TRAIL MOND comes up on the veranda and goes to tJie settee on the left, where she seats herself) Janet, I've got to go to town this evening. Miss Raymond. Oh, Frank, what a shame! And you've hardly been home two hours. What is it? Mr. Raymond. Simpson just got in from Chi- cago. He 'phoned me to meet him Miss Raymond. Oh, about the merger? (Mr. Raymond nods) Will the papers be signed tonight? Mr. Raymond. Probably. Unless Simpson and I split on details, and that I don't anticipate. (He looks off to the right and calls) Don't balance about there on the railing, John. You'll fall. John. (Off right) No, I won't. Miss Raymond. What time are you leaving? Mr. Raymond. A little before eight, I think. (The sound of a heavy fall is heard off right. Miss Raymond. (Starting to her feet zvith a cry ) Oh, Johnnie ! Mr. Raymond. What did I tell him? (John zvalks on from the right) I told you you'd hurt yourself ! John. But I didn't! (He walks to the chair to tJie left of the right pillar, leans against its back and begins to teeter back and forth) Takes more than that to hurt m.e. Why, the other day a red-hot liner caught me on the end of the finger and just smashed the nail all up. It was awful bloody. It would have bowled most fellows over — but not me ! I slammed it over to first and put the man out — easy. (The chair slips from under him and he avoids a fall by a miracle of agility) Miss Raymond. (With a nervous start) John- nie, dear, you make Aunt Janet so nervous. You don't want to do that when .she's come all the way from Minneapolis to pay you a visit? John. Aw, gee. Aunt Janet THE GIPSY TRAIL ii Mr. Raymond. (Sternly) John! John. Yes, sir. (Mr. Raymond returns to the study of the document ) Miss Raymond. Now, sit down quietly, dear, and don't worry Father. Have you learned the piece you're going to speak at Commencement to- morrow ? John. Yessum. (Miss Raymond rises, picks up the school-book from the table up left, and returns to the settee, zvhere she seats herself and o peris it) Miss Raymond. Then let me hear you say it. John. (With distaste, in a rapid sing-song ) "Oh, young Lochinvar has come out of the West, Through all the wide border his steed is the best, And save his good broadsword he zveapons had none. He rode — he rode " Miss Raymond. (Prompting him) "All un- armed " John. "He rode all unarmed and he rode — he rode He rode all unarmed and he rode — he rode " Darn it! (The telephone rings in the hall. Miss Raymond. You see, dear, you don't know it. John. I did — said it straight through to Frances before dinner. And I could do it now, too, if she'd only keep still a minute. Hi ! Frances ! Cut it out! (Frances continues to sing defiantly. John takes the book from Miss Raymond, goes to the chair to the left of the right pillar, sits down and begins to study it. Then, as Frances continues to sing) Aw, gee, have a heart ! (The telephone rings in the hall. Stiles, the house man, comes into the hall from the left and answers the telephone. Mr. Raymond looks up and listens) Stiles. (In the hall) Mr. Frank A. Raymond's 12 THE GIPSY TRAIL residence. Yes, sir. Who is speaking, please? (Then with great contempt) Oh ! (He comes through the door center, and out upon the veranda) The nev/spaper office, sir. The Chronicle. Mr. Raymond. Thought so. Just hang up the receiver. Stiles. (Stiles starts to go in) Er, no — wait a minute. I'd better talk to them, after all. (Stiles opens the door for him, follows him in center, and goes out to the left. Mr. Raymond goes to the telephone) John. Darn it all, I don't see why I've got to learn this. Mr. Raymond. (In the hall, at the telephone) Frank A. Raymond speaking. No ! I told one of your reporters this afternoon that there was no truth in that merger rumor. No, I tell you — posi- tively, no! What was that? (Frances stops sing- ing) Hello! I've got nothing to say. If you send a reporter out, I won't see him. (He slams up the receiver, then comes angrily out on the veranda) Confound those newspapers! Miss Raymond. You don't want the merger . known ? Mr. Raymond. Not until the papers are signed. John. I thought you said over the telephone there wasn't any merger. Mr. Raymond. (Angrily) Learn your piece! (He returns to the settee right and picks up his copy of the merger. John subsides into his book. Fran- ces begins to sing again ) Miss Raymond. (Calling) Frances! Frances. (In right, stopping her playing) Y^es? Miss Raymond. Do you know it's seven o'clock ? If you're going to Elinor's wedding, you ought to begin to dress. Do stop plaving ! Frances. (In. right) Very well, Aunt Janet, (Frances appears in the hall from the right and comes throunh th^ center door out upon the THE GIPSY TRAIL 13 veranda. She is ahoitt Hventx years old, and wears white tennis shoes a zcliifc skirt and a white middy blouse) Mt?s Raymond. Hasn't it cleared up beauti- fully? I'm so g^acl. for Elinor's sake. There's something; so n^essy about a rainy wedding. Frances. (Meditat'vely) I hope that on my wedding- day — if I ever have one — it will simply pour. Miss Raymond. Good gracious ! Why? Frances. Because then no one will come to the wedding — except, of course, the groom. At least, I hope he'll come. Miss Raymond. I think that's very selfish of you. People love to go to weddings. Frances. Then let them have weddings of their own and go to them. Miss Raymond. But when it gives your friends so much pleasure Frances. I shan't be getting married to give theiu pleasure, Aunt Janet. Mr. Raymond. (Looking tip with a smile) I hope you'll let me come, Frances. Frances. Well — -yes. Father, I think \ou may come — if you'll promise to wear vour rubbers and a mackintosh. _ I can't have you taking cold. (She goes right to the settee, sits down to th.e left of Mr. Raymond and puts her arm around Jiis neck) Mr. Raymond. (Beaming ) My dear, how am I going to read? Frances. (Coaxingly ) But you don't want to read,' do you, when you can talk to me in'^tead? Mr. Raymond. (Tossing his copy of th.e merger dozvn on the settee beside him and putting his arm round Frances) Well, no, my dear. I don't be- lieve I do. Frances. And it's so wonderful just at twilight. 14 THE GIPSY TRAIL I'm vei-}- nice lo talk to in the twilight. I'm at mj •best then. John. Bill Jenkins had to wear a blue velvet suit when his sister got married. But he wouldn't put it on until they gave him fifty cents. I wouldn't have done it for that. Frances. Then we won't ask you to, John. Mine will be a very simple wedding — without even a blue velvet suit. Miss Raymond. When the time for it really comes, you'll want it big and fashionable — ^just like all the other girls. Frances. Oh, Aunt Janet, do you think I will? Miss Raymond. I do. Frances. Then I won't have any at all. John. But Frances, you've got to have a wed- ding. You can't get married without one. Frances. Then I won't get married. Miss Raymond. Nonsense! John. But you're going to marry Ned. Frances. Ned? Ned Andrews? Oh, am T? John. Well, that's what Father said. Frances. Oh, I didn't know that. And I don't think Ned does either. (She gets up from Mr. Raymond's side) Don't you think, Father, it might be just as well to wait until it's settled before you announce it? Of course I don't mind, but it might embarrass Ned to hear it first from someone else. Mr. Raymond. (Angrily) I never said any- thing of the kind. John. Oh, Father, you did so. You and Aunt Janet were talking in the upstairs sitting-room, and you thought I'd gone to bed, but I hadn't, and Mr. Raymond. (Angrily) Learn your piece! Miss Raymond. It was very naughty of you to listen to things that don't concern you. And besides, he didn't say it. John. (In an aggravating sing-song) Frances's THE GIPSY TRAIL 15 got a beau! Frances's got a beau! Oh, Frances! Frances. (Laughing ) Johnnie, you little wretch! Mr. Raymond. John, if I have to speak to you again John. Yes, sir. (He picks np iiis book and goes out right along the path) Mr. Raymond. Frances, dear, John was mis- taken. I didn't actually say you were going to marry Ned. I only said Frances. Never mind, Father. It isn't only you. Everybody says it. Aunt Janet says it Miss Raymond. Why, Frances, really Frances. Oh, yes, you do, dear. Ned says it. And last week T overheard Stiles telling it to Annie in the kitchen — and she said it was no news to her. The whole town seems to have made up its mind that I'm going to marr-y Ned Andrews. It's unani- mous. (With a sigh) Ah, well, I daresay you're all right. Very likely I shall, some day. (She goes dozvn to the ottoman and seats herself, facing up- stage) Miss Raymond. Ned is certainly a model young man. He has a real talent for always doing the proper thing. Frances. It isn't talent. It's* genius. Mr. Raymond. And he's one of the most suc- cessful young business men in this town. Frances. I'm sure he must be. Or he couldn't afiford to send me orchids three times a week. Oh, I do hope he orders them by the month and gets them at wholesale rates. Miss Raymond. / think you'll be a very lucky girl if you get Ned Andrews. Mr. Raymond. But of course, my dear, I shouldn't want anything / said to influence you. Frances. Then I'll try not to let it. Still, I don't think you ought to tell me quite so often how eligible he is. I don't think it's quite fair to him. lo THE GIPSY TRAIL Miss Raymond. I don't think it's quite fair to him to keep him waiting, and that you'll certainly do if you don't hurry. You can't possibly be ready in time. Frances. For Elinor's wedding? Oh, I'm not going. Miss Raymond. I thought Ned Avas coming for you in his car. Frances. I'm afraid he still is. Miss Raymond. Didn't you telephone him you'd changed your mind ? Frances. How could I, Aunt Janet? I've just changed it. And he must have started long ago. He was to be here at quarter past seven. Mr. Raymond. (Lookiruj at his watcJi) It's seven-twelve now. Really, Frances, to let him come all the way out from town for yovi, and then not go Miss Raymond. And after he sent you such beautiful flowers Frances. And such expensive ones! Mr. Raymond. If you hurry, you can still make it. Frances. Dress? In two minutes? Now, Father, stop flattering me. Miss Raymond. Oh, well, he'll probably be a little late. Frances. Ah. how little you know him. I'm sure he'd rather die than be one minute late for an engagement. Mr. Raymond. Well, that's an admirable quality. Frances. Admirable. But aggravating. Mr. Raymond. Well, if I were Ned, I'd be per- fectly furious ! Frances. Oh. no you wouldn't. Father. If you were, Ned, you'd think everything I did was perfect. Whenever I'm horrid, he takes all the blame on him- THE GIPSY TRAIL 17 self. It's very unfair of him. It makes me feel so guilty. Mr. Raymond. I should think it would. Frances. It does. I'm beginning to feel guilty already. It isn't nice of me to tease him, but you know I only tease people I'm fond of — and I'm awfully fond of Ned. Even if he is punctual. Mr. Raymond. (Looking at Jiis ivafch) Well, tonight he isn't punctual, for it's seven-fifteen now. Frances. But here he is — precisely on the sec- ond. (Ned 7valks on along tJie path from the left. He is in eveiiing dress, witli a linen automobile duster over his arm, and he ivears a soft hat) Ned. (Coming up on tlie veranda) Good even- ing. Miss Raymond. Miss Raymond. Good evening, Ned. (She shakes hands zvarmly zvifJi him. Mr. Ra^'mond. How are you, Ned ? Ned. (Walking over right and shaking hands with Mr. Raymond) First rate, thank you, sir. (He lays his duster and hat on the taborette right, and comes down to Frances ivith a pleased smile) Hello, Frances. Frances. Hello ! Ned. I think we'd better be starting for (He gazes at her blankly and stops) Why, Frances, you're not dressed! (Then, realising hozv this sounds, Jie hastois to add) For the wedding, I mean. Frances. No, Ned, I Ned. Great Scott! Did I tell you eight-fifteen? I meant seven-fifteen. Oh, Frances, I am sorry! Frances. Of course you said seven-fifteen. You never make mistakes. i8 THE GirSY TRAIL Ned. That's what I thought. But how does it come, then Frances. I'm not going to the .wedding, Ned. Ned. Why, what's the matter, Frances? Aren't you well? What a confounded shame you should be laid up tonight. Frances. Do you think I look ill, Ned? Am I very pale? Ned. You look awfully sweet. But — perhaps you are a trifle pale. I hope it's nothing serious. Frances. Ned, I am ashamed of myself. There's nothing the matter with me. I just decided I didn't want to go — and it was too late to telephone. You'll never forgive me — and I shan't blame you a bit ! Ned. Why, that's all right, Frances. I'm not very keen to go myself, now I come to think of it. Frances. Then don't. Stay here wnth me. It's a heavenly evening, and we'll walk down to the river and Ned. Oh, Frances, I wish I could. But I prom- ised Mrs. Cortright particularly I'd show up Frances (Dryly) Then of course you must. I'm sorry, too. Miss Raymond. Frances, you accepted Mrs. Cortright's invitation too, and I think you ought to go- Frances. It's too late now, Aunt Janet. It's 'way dowm at Trinity. Miss Raymond. (Rising) You'll be in plenty of time for the reception. I'll go upstairs and lay out your things. Ned, make her go. (She goes into the hall and out to the right) Mr. Raymond. (Rising) Yes, Ned, make her go. (He follozvs her into the hall and out to the right. There is a moment's pause, then Frances looks up at Ned with a smile) Frances. Well, Ned, are you going to make me go? . THE GIPSY TRAIL 19 Ned. Make yon go? No, I'm not. Frances. I think if yon insisted very, irrv hard, I might go — perhaps. Ned. Yon know I want yon to go. Bnt I shan't try to make yon. I want yon to realize, Frances, that if yon'll only marry me, I'll never insist on anything. I'll always let yon do jnst as yon please. I'll always Frances. Oh, please don't, dear. I know some girls like being proposed to, bnt I don't. I hate it. It makes me so unhappy to say "no." Ned. Can't yon sav "yes?" Frances. I can't. Oh, Ned, if T conld. T wonld — yon know I wonld. Bnt please don't ask me any- more. Ned. Yon like me, don't yon? Frances. Of conrse I like yon — yon know how mnch I like yon — and always have. Bnt yon're asking me for something more than that — and dif- ferent. Ned. I know I'm not good enough for yon. Frances. I won't have yon say that. It isn't true. That's not the reason. Ned. Then what is it ? I know it's my own fault, Frances, that there's something yon want I can't give you. Bnt I don't know what it is. Frances. And I can't tell you. Yon must find it out for yourself. Ned. All I can do is to give yon, now and then, a tiny hint. Ned. Have yon ever given me a hirit ? (Frances fiods) And I didn't see it? (SJir sJiakes her head slowly ) I wish I knew what it was. Frances. I wish you did, Ned. (She rises, looks at him- a moment, then goes over right and stands looking out through the lattiee) Ned. (After a pause) What are you looking at? Frances. Nothing. Just the moon peeping 20 THE GIPSY TRAIL out from behind the clouds. Come here. It's beau- tiful. (Ned joins her and tJicy stand together for a mo- ment in silence ) Ned. (At last) It looks a little as if it might rain, but I don't believe it will — not until after the wedding, anyhow. (Frances makes «■ slight hut hopeless gesture, and turns away. She zcalks slozvlv back to the left, hunnitiiig softly "The Gipsy Trail" ) Ned. ( I'ollozcijig her) That's pretty. Frances. What? Ned. What }ou're b.umming. Frances. Do you like it? Ned. Yes. What is it ? Frances. A song called "The Gipsy Trail." Ned. That's right. So it is. Frances. (Eagerly) Do you know it, too? Ned. Heard it a thousand times. Old Ham Phil- lips used to bellow it at college. Frances. Do you remember the words? Ned. (Knitting his forehead, then shakes Iiis head) Funny, but I can't recall 'em to save my life. (Turning to her abruptly) Frances, if you were to give me one of those hints tonight, I beheve I'd see it. Frances. (Shaking her head) I'm afraid you wouldn't, Ned. (John enters from the rigJit along the path. He holds the book in one hand and is reciting in a sing-song, zvithout looking at it. He zvalks very carefully in a straight line, his eyes bent on the ground) John. "So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, THE GIPSY TRAIL 21 Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all; Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word " Frances. Come here a minute, John. John. (Paying no attention to her and still look- ing at the ground) " 'Oh, come ye in peace here or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?' " Frances. Johnnie ! John. (Looking up) Huh? Oh, hello, Ned. Ned. Hello, Johnnie. John. We got your flowers, Ned. (He continues to recite to liimself during the next three speeches) "So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and Then spoke the bride's father, his hand " Frances. And I never even thanked you for them! They're beautiful. Ned. Oh, that's all right. Frances. Come over here a minute, John. John. L"^h-uh, I can't. I'm walking this crack, and I dassent get ofi^. Frances. Oh, I see. But can't you transfer? John. That's right, I can. Wait a sec. (He rings an imaginary bell) Ding! Ding! (He comes up on the I'eranda and joins them) Frances. Let me hear that verse you were hav- ing such trouble with before dinner. John. (Handing her the hook open at the place) All right. I got it down cold now. (Ned turns away, looking bored. Frances. Listen, Ned — he really does it very well. Now, John. "One touch " John. (With fine declamation) "One touch to her hand and one word in her ear. 22 THE GIPSY TRAIL When they reached the hall door and the charger stood near, So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung. She is won ! We are gone ! Over bank, bush and scaur. 'They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth Yovmg Lochinvar." Frances. Splendid! I think you've studied enough for tonight. John. Hurray! (He tosses tJie book doivn on the ottoman, goes dozvn on the path and faces right) Well, I'm going to start now. W^ill you crank the car, Sis? Frances. All right. (She goes dozvn, kneels in front of him. and goes through the motions of crank- ing an automobile ) John. (After a few preliminary zvheeccs) It's kinder cold. I must give it a richer mixture. Now ! (Frances cranks) R-r-r-r-r-r ! All right, good- bye. (He goes out to the right, making strange noises, in the character of an automobile. Frances joins Ned again on the veranda ) Ned. Johnnie recites that very well. Frances. Ned Ned. Yes ? Frances. If you want me to go to the wedding very much Ned. Oh, Frances, I wish you would ! Frances. Then I will. I shan't be ten minutes. (She goes into the hall and out to the right. Ned picks up the book John has left on the ottoman) Ned. (Reading) "So light to the croup the fair ladv he swung. So light to the saddle before her he sprung. She is won ! We are " (Ned stops, and considers a moment) She is won! THE GIPSY TRAIL 23 (Mr. Raymond comes into the hall from the right and out upon the veranda. He seems highly pleased) Mr. Raymond. So you persuaded Frances to go after all? Ned. Yes. She's getting' ready. Mr. Raymond. Just a little firmness, Ned — that's all she needs. She has notions, but then, all girls have. She'll outgrow them, and— she's a splendid girl ! Ned. Yes, she is. (He hesitates a moment ) Mr. Raymond, there's something T want to a'^k you. Mr. Raymond. (SmUing) Yes. Ned? Go on. Ned. You will probably be quite a little sur- prised Mr. Raymond. (Roguislily ) Perhaps I won't be quite so surprised as you think. Ned. Before I ask you, I want to say that I think you have known me long enough Mr. Raymond. My dear boy, Fve known you all your life — I'm very fond of you — there is no one I'd rather have — in fact, Fve been hoping for some time that- — Now, what is it you want to ask? Ned. Tf T hope to win Frances, Fve got to be a Lochinvar. Mr. Raymond, I want your permission to kidnap your daughter. Mr. Raymond. What ! Ned. I want to kidnap Frances. Mr. Raymond. Ned, are you crazy? Ned. (Rather pathetieally ) It isn't that I want to do it. She wants me to. Mr. Raymond. Wants you to kidnap her? Did she say so ? Ned. Oh, not in so manv -words. But she dropped a hint — and of course T got it immediately. Mr. Raymond. But what for? I don't see any sense in it. 24 THE GIPSY TRAIL Ned. Well, neither do I, if it conies to that, But you know Frances is sort of — I don't know — romantic Mr. Raymond. Oh, I know. Ned. And if she wants to be kidnapped, she shall be — if I can bring it about. Mr. Raymond. Ned, I'm surprised at you. I always thought you were so steady. Ned. I'm surprised at myself. I never knew I was so reckless and impulsive. But it's the only way for me to win her Mr. Raymond. And all this time I was hoping she'd really accepted you. Ned. You were? (Wr. Raymoiening zvrap, and comes to the door) Frances. Ned ! (She looks about, and sees that he is gone) Miss Raymond. (In right) Are you going, dear? Frances. Ned's getting the car. (She goes in to the right. She is presently heard at the piano and begins to sing ) "The wild hawk to the wind-swept skv. The deer to the wholesome woVI, And the heart of a mm to t'le heart of a maid," THE GIPSY TRAIL 39 (Michael walk.': d from the left, wearinci a linen duster. He ivalk.s up 07i the feranda. and stands listenhirj ) "As it was in the days of old. The heart of a man to the heart of a maid — Light of my tents, he fleet ! Morning waits at the end of the world And the world is all at our feet !" (The singing stops and Frances comes into the hall from right and out upon the veranda. She stops suddenly, as she sees Michael) Well, what is it? Michael. Mr. Andrews' chauffeur. Miss Ray- mond. Mr. Andrews has been suddenly called to town on important business, and borrowed Mr. Raymond's roadster. He wished me to give you his apologies. Frances. What a perfect shame ! Michael. He left instructions to drive you to Mrs. Cortright's, where he will join you himself very shortly. Frances. Oh, very well. Good night, Aunt Janet. Miss Rayjiond. (In right) Good night. Have a nice time. Frances. (Turning to Michael) By the way, has Mr. Andrews discharged Donald? Michael. Donald did not meet Mr. Andrews' present requirements. Frances. Oh. (She zvalks out left along the pathzvay. Michael follozcs her off. Just as !ie disappears to the left, John enters from the right along the pathzvay, reciting aloud ) John. "Oh, young Lochinvar has come out of the West, Through all the wide border his steed is the best, And save his good " The curtain falls ACT II Scene: The scene represents a room in Edward Andrezvs' summer cottage, "The Breakers," on the Lake Shore Boulevard. The entrance door- zvay is in the right zvall, ivell dozinistage. A portion of a small entrance-hall may be seen beyond it. There is a door in the rear wall and another in the left zvall, both very near the upper left corner of the room. When these doors are opened, a slight glimpse may be had of the rooms beyond. The upper right corner of the room is completely cut off by a large windozi', through zvhich one gets the effect of the sky on a moonligJit night. Near this zi'indozv is a table, zvith a fezu books upon it. A long table stands against the rear zvall, zvith tzvin lamps placed at each end. There is an armchair dozmi right and another one dozvn left ; and a long, lozv, upholstered seat is placed zvell dozvnstage, a little to the left of center. When the curtain rises the room and entrance- hall are brightly lighted. The stage is empty. Ned may be heard off right. Ned. Now, you see. grandma, it wasn't such a bad trip after all. (Ned comes in right, wearing his duster, and supporting Mrs. Widdimore, a slen- der and beautiful old lady, dressed in a heavy coat, ■with a veil about her head) Here we are and every- thing is all right. 40 THE GIPSY TRAIL 41 Mrs. Widdimore. Everything is not all right. The trip was frightful. You skidded four times, and I'm chilled to the marrow. Ned. There, there, there, grandma ! Mrs. Widdimore. Nothing but Ellen's illness could have induced me to venture out this damp evening. Ned. Now just a few steps more to that nice easy chair Mrs. Widdimore. Don't clutch my arm ! I'm not an invalid. Go away ! (She motions him azvav, 7ii'alks to the armchair dozvn right, settles herself, then turns to Ned) Now what's the matter with Ellen? Ned. (Hesitating) We-ell, grandma — I'll just run the car into the garage first ; then I'll explain. (He starts for the door right) Mrs. Widdimore. Does the doctor think it's serious? Ned. The doctor? Mrs. Widdimore. Edward Andrews, do you mean to tell me that you haven't had a doctor for that poor, faithful old creature, wdien she's so des- peratel)^ ill? (Ellen enters through the door in the rear — a hale and hearty old ivoman) Ellen. Oh, Mrs. Widdimore and Master Neddy. I thought I heard the automobile. How wonderful well you're looking. (Ned takes off his duster and places it, ivith his hat, on the table by the zvindozv up right) Mrs. Widdimore. Ellen, whv aren't vou in bed ? Ellen. In bed? Me? With you and Master Neddy coming? Mrs. Widdimore. (WHo has been scanninci her 42 THE GIPSY TRAIL face closely) Well, you don't look sick. Edward Andrews, what is the meaning of this deception? Ned. Now grandma, don't excite yourself. Mrs. Widd-imore. Look at her! (Pointing to Ellen) The very picture of health! And you tell me that she's desperately ill. Ellen. Mef Why, Master Neddy, where could you 'a-got such a notion ? Ned. (Feebly) It was just a joke, Ellen. Mrs. Widdimore. It was a bare-faced lie. Ned. Ellen, bring grandma a glass of sherry. Ellen. (Starting for the door in the rear) Well, some folks has odd ideas of jokes. Mrs. Widdimore. I quite agree with Ellen. Ellen. (Stopping at the door in the rear, and turning) Master Neddy, what time is the young lady coming? Mrs. Widdimore. Young lady ? Ah ! I begin to see a light. Ellen. I want to know, because of supper. Ned. I've been expecting her every minute. Ellen. I telephoned to the Country Club for some ice-cream (Ellen goes out through the door in the rear. Ned. Now, grandma — see here. Mrs. Widdimore. You need explain no further, Edward. 1 see you've been trying to make me a chaperone under protest. Oh, why did I leave my room? There I lay, comfortably propped up with pillows, enjoying the company of "The Three Mus- keteers " Ned. Who are they? Mrs. Widdimore. (Tartly) It's a book. Now take me home to my nice warm bed, and allow me to resume my interrupted adventures with D'Ar- tagnan. (She rises ) Ned But grandma ! This is serious. I'm in love THE GIPSY TRAIL 43 with Frances, I want to marry her. And if you don't stay Mrs. Widdimore. You want to marry zvhof Ned. Why, Frances Raymond. Mrs. Widdimore. Frances Raymond ! . Oh, that would never do — never in the world ! (She crosses over to the left) Ned. Don't you like her? Mrs. Widdimore. Of course I like her. She's a very sweet child. But no more fitted to be your wife — No, Edward, I most decidedly object to your marrying her. Ned. But why? Mrs. Widdimore. She's almost as conventional as yoii are. We'll find some nice, romantic boy for her — if such a thing- is to be found in these days, when all the young- men are playing the stock- market instead of the guitar. And yon shall marry a romantic girl. Ned. Well, Frances is romantic. She's the most romantic girl I ever saw. Mrs. Widdimore. Frances Raymond? Roman- tic? Edward, you're a fool. Ned. She is, too, romantic. Why, grandma — she wants to be kidnapped, — by some man. Mrs. Widdimore. Of course she does. Ned. Of course? Mrs. Widdimore. Every girl wants to be kid- napped some time in her life. / wanted to be kid- napped. Ned. You, grandma? Mrs. Widdimore. Don't gape at me, Edward. I wasn't born with spectacles and white hair. I was a headstrong girl once, and — I can say it now — a very lovely girl. I longed to be kidnapped Ned. By grandpa ? Mrs. Widdimore. Don't ask impertinent ques- tions. (She sits down in the armchair down left ) 44 THE GIPSY TRAIL Ned. Well, / have kidnapped Frances Ray- mond Mrs. Widdimore. Bravo, Edward ! I begin to entertain hopes of you. , Ned. Now you see you've got to stay. Mr. Ray- mond wouldn't let me kidnap her unless you came too. Mrs. Widdimore. Edward, you don't mean to tell me you went to Frank Raymond and asked his permission. Ned. Of course I did. I had to. Mrs. Widdimore. Edward, you will be the death of me yet — you really will. (She loosens her coat and takes off her veil) Ned. Ah, then you're going to stay? Mrs. Widdimore. Nothing could induce me to go. I wouldn't miss this for a million dollars. Ned. That's splendid. (Looks at his zvatch) It's nearly ten, and they must have left the Raymonds' before eight. I don't see what's keeping them. Mrs. Widdimore. Edward ! You didn't let someone else do your kidnapping for you ? Ned. I had to — a fellow named Jones I picked up there. Mr. Raymond knew him — he's a chauf- feur. Mrs. Widdimore. You entrusted the girl you love to a strange chauffeur? Ned. Well, not exactly a chauft'eur, either. He's one of those romantic chaps you're always talking about. He's sort of an adventurer. Mrs. Widdimore. An adventurer? Don't stand there blinking at me in that aggravating way ! Don't you realize that he's probably kidnapped her in good earnest ? Ned. Good heavens ! You don't think tJiat, do you? Mrs. Widdimore. They're probably half way to .Buffalo by this time. (Ned seizes his hat and duster THE GIPSY TRAIL 45 from fJic table 11 p right) Where are yon going? Ned. After them. Mrs. Widdimore. But, Edward, it's a wild-goose chase. Ned. Never mind. I'll get track of them some- how — I'll see the police. Mrs. Widdimore. I almost think you had better. Oh, Edward, w^-'y did you undertake this? It would be dreadful if Ned. And you're the one who wanted Frances to marry a romantic man. Well, I hope voii're satis- fied. ' Mrs. "\AAiddimore. Oh, Edward, hurry ! Ned. I'm off. I wish I'd never tried the thing. It's been more trouble than a dinner of twenty covers. (He goes out right. Presently tJie sound of an outomobile engine is heard, then it dies away) Mrs. Widdimore. (Calling) Ellen! (Ellen appears at the door in the rear, with a glass of sherry on a tray) Mrs. Widdimore. I don't want that. There won't by any supper party, Ellen. Ellen. And why not ? Mrs. Widdimore. There won't be anyone to eat it. Miss Frances is lost, and Edward is out search- ing the highways for her. Ellen. Oh, dear! And the supper all but cooked. Mrs. W^iddimore. Then you eat it. And you may as well go to bed, for there's no telling when Edward will be back. (Mrs. Widdimore goes out left, closing the door be- hind her. Ellen turns out all the lights in the room by a switch zvhich is at the left of the door in the rear. The room is now lighted only by the moonlight seen through the large zcindow 46 THE GIPSY TRAIL up right; and by a light from the small en-' trance-hall to the rights which falls upon the ' ortuch.air down r'ght. Ellrn goes out the door in the rear, closing it behind her. A brief pause. Tlicn the sound of an approaching au- tomobile is heard, and presently Michael en- ters th'^ doorway right, carrying Fran^ces in his arms) Frances. Let nie go ! How — how dare you? Put me down ! Michael. Certainly. (He places her in the arm- chair down right, zvhere the light from the entrance hall falls full upon her. Her opera cloak falls back ttpon the chair) I'm sorry I had to carry you, but since you wouldn't walk (He shrugs his shoul- ders)* Frances. Wh — where am I ? Michael. You are "somewhere in Cleveland." I can't be more definite. (He takes off his duster and places it, imth his hat, on the table by the win- dotv lip right) Frances. Just wait until Mr. Andrews hears of the disgraceful way you've acted ! Oh, I've never been on such a ride in my whole life — in and out of parks, back and forth across viaducts — oh, and when I think of the way you skidded around cor- ners ! No wonder I was dizzy ! No wonder I lost all sense of direction ! No wonder I haven't the remotest idea where I am ! Michael. I counted on that. Frances. I don't believe you went less than forty miles an hour from the time we started. I saw five policemen take your number. Michael. Never mind — it isn't my car. But wasn't it a glorious ride? Frances. I was frightened to death — and yet, * See "Notes on Production," on Page 94. THE GIPSY TRAIL 47 somehow — I wasn't, either. You drive wonder- fully. Michael. Thank you. Frances. It was a perfectly beastly ride. I'm furious about it. And as for Mr. Andrews — he'll discharge you, see that you lose your license — and I hope he'll have you arrested Michael. He can't. Frances. Why not? (Michael smiles btif does not answer) Why not? (Still Michael does not answer. Frances rises) Aren't you Mr. Andrews' chaufifeur ? Michael. I wondered how long it would be be- fore you guessed that. Frances. (Frightened) I want yots to take me to Mrs. Cortright's immediately. Michael. I regret more that I can say that my instructions forbid it. Frances. Who gave you these dreadful instruc- tions ? Michael. The gentleman who is employing me. Frances. Who is he ? Michael. That will develop in due course. For the present, I have no more to say. Frances. Well. I have a great deal more to say. I want you to go out and start that car and drive me to the Cortrights' imvnediately. (Michael does not move) Do you hear what I say? Michael. Yes. Frances. Will you do it? Michael. No ! Frances. Very well, then. (She takes a step tozvard the chair on zvhich her opera cloak is lying. As she does so Michael leans forivard and picks up the cloak) Michael. Are you going? Frances. Yes. You wouldn't dare keep me here by force. 48 THE GIPSY TRAIL Michael. Of course not. May I ask zvhcre you are going ? Frances. To Mrs. Cortright's. Michael. And where is that? Frances. Well, I — I don't exactly know. But I'll find it. If you won't tell me, others will. Michael. I'll tell you this — it's a long walk. Frances. I don't intend to walk. I've driven Mr. Andrews' car before — and I can drive it to- night. Michael. (Putting Jiis hand in his pocket and drawing out tzvo or three nuts which he sliows her) I don't think even / could drive it without these. Frances. Then I'll walk. Michael. I strongly advise you not to. The roads hereabouts are not only lonesome, they're muddy. They would be hard on high-heeled slip- pers — and I shouldn't like to see your charming frock all streaked with mud. Frances. Will you give me my things? Michael. No. Frances. \\'on't you please give them to me? Michael. No. (Again he sJiakes Jiis head. She sits down rather suddenly, in despair, and buries her face in her hands. Michael starts forzvard in consternation) You're not going to cry? Frances. (Sitting up angrily and stifling a sob) Certainly not ! I'm not that sort of girl. Michael. (Heartily and much relieved) I was sure you weren't. Frances. (Tr\ing very hard to keep her voice from trembling) Perhaps you'll have the goodness to explain Michael. Certainly. I've kidnapped you. Frances. W'hy? Michael. You asked me just now who had em- ploved me. I can't tell you his name. But this I will tell you : he is a man who adores you. THE GIPSY TRAIL 49 Frances. And yet he sends his chauffeur for me instead of coming himself, and is late to his own kidnapping. I don't think he sounds very promis- ing. Michael. You speak lightly of a man's devo- tion. Frances. Devotion ! He has chosen an odd way of showing it. AIiCHAEL. Does it really seem so strange to you that a man should grasp at any method — even this one — of meeting you, being with you Frances. But surely he might meet me without kidnapping me. There are so many simpler ways of obtaining an introduction. Michael. And if none of them were open to him? If this were his one opportunity? Are you going to blame him for seizing it when it means so much to him • Frances. (Rising) Who is this man you are speaking of? Not — not Michael. And if I zvcrc the man (He cliecks himself and assumes a lighter tone) But of course I'm not ! Alerely his agent. I should never have presumed to kidnap you on my own account. Frances. I don't think you w'ill perish for lack of presumption. Who are you? You don't talk like a chauffeur. Michael. At least I drive like one. You can't expect everything. Frances. And so this man I have never met Michael. And perhaps you have met him. Per- haps you have chatted with him often, lightly, of this and that. But how can you truly know a man whom you meet only in the stilted whirligig of con- ventional functions — with whom you merely dine and dance and golf? Don't you understand that he cannot display his deepest and most sacred feehngs at a tea — that he shrinks from baring h's soul 50 THE GIPSY TRAIL amidst the flighty chatter and tin-pan music of a modern ball-room — and that when he comes to lay his life at your feet, he seeks a time and place in keeping with his mood ? Frances, (hi a low tone) Yes. I do under- stand. Michael. That is why he has had you brought here — far from the feverish bustle of the city — here where the calm of perfect peace can sink into your heart — and where the low plashing of the waves may play a soft accompaniment to his words. Where he can speak to you of realities, not shams — of life and love, no longer stale with sordid custom, but fresh and vigorous and bracing — as they were m the morning of the world. Frances. Are there such men? Michael. Any moment he may be here. Listen ! Listen carefully. And when, far off on the road, you hear the muffled throbbing of an engine, like a fast-beating heart, think that your fate has come whirling out of the darkness upon you, with all the terror and splendor of a storm racing across the lake. (Ellen enters through the door in the rear and sivUches on the lights, illnnilnating the room brightly. Frances is half blinded by the sud- den light) Ellen. Miss Frances! So you got here after all? I thought I heard someone moving about. Frances. (Looking about her) \Miy, it's Ellen! And I'm at "The Breakers !" Why — why — why — then the man you were speaking of, the man who had me kidnapped — Ned? (Michael bozvs. She sinks into the armchair down right in great disap- pointment) Oh, dear ! Ned ! Oh — it must have been that wretched poem. The poor, blundersome old THE GIPSY TRAIL 51 darling. (SJie begins to laugh, and continues, grozv- ing almost hysterical. Michael joins her) But where is he? Ellen. His grandma will explain. Frances. His — grandma? (SJie begins to laugh again) Ellen. Mrs. Widdimore, Miss. She's just in- side, and it will be a blessed relief to her to set eyes on you. Your poor pa, too — he's been so worried he's telephoned twice for news of you. Frances. Father! How did he know? Ellen. Oh, he was in it, too, Miss. Master Neddy would never have taken such a libe^-ty with- out his consent. (Ellen goes out through the door in the rear) Frances. But imagine him conspiring with Ned to have me kidnapped. Michael. You see. Miss Raymond, you need have no fear. It is a perfectly proper and domestic kidnapping, with all the comforts of home. Frances. (She rises, taking her cloak zvith her, and speaks angrily and reproachfully ) Was it really such fun to make me believe that wonderful story you told me? Oh, you did it very well, and if it's any satisfaction to you to know that I be- lieved it — I did. Michael. Why are you angry? Frances. You dragged all my foolish, secret fancies out of their hiding-place, and made fun of them. You built up before me a lovely, impossible dream — and laughed when it was broken. And yet you ask why I am angry. I think that's dull of you. (She goes out door left. Michael smiles, hums "The Gipsy Trail," zvalks tozvards door. Mrs. 52 THE GIPSY TRAIL WiDDiMORE comes into the room. She has re~ moved her coat and veil) Mrs. Widdimore. So you're Edward's adven- turer ? Michael. (Bozving) Good evening-, ma'am. Mrs. Widdimore. Let me look at you. (Mrrn- AEL comes over to her) H'm. Do know that Ed- ward's out scouring the countryside for you? Michael. (Placing tJie armcha'r dozvn left for her) Allow me ! ]\Trs. ^^■TnDm^RE. (Looking at him ctirioiisix and sitting dozvn) Thank you. Do you know that we had made up our minds that you had carried Miss Raymond off to parts unknown ? Michael. That would be a strange thin.g for a chaufifeur to do. Mrs. WinnnrnRE. You a chaufifeur? Nonsense. Michael. Yes — a chaufifeur — hired bv your grandson for the evening. But since I've pbced the young lady safely in your hands, my work is over. I'll be going. Mrs. \\'iddimore. You'll remain — to entertain an old woman who hasn't talked to your I'ke for many a long year. Michael. You're very kind, and no one is more suscejitible to flattery than I am, but T must leave this place (He glances apprehensively tozvard. the door left through zvhicli Frances disappeared ) The sooner the better. Mrs. Widdimore. You'll rot be so rude as to disappoint a lady, Mr. Jones. Your name is Jones? Michael. Yes, ma'am — Davy Jones. Mrs. \\'iddtmore. Rubbish ! That's not your name, and nothing like it — and you can put that in your locker, Mr. Davy Jones. Michael. (With a suspicion of Irish accent) Sure, ma'am, you have the discernin' eye. THE GIPSY TRAIL 53 Mrs. \\'iddimore. I have. You're Irish? Michael. (Lapsing into broad brogue) I am that! My grandfather, God rest his soul, came over from County Clare in the days gone by. Mrs. Widdimore. I know he did. And I'll tell you his name. (SJic leans over and n'hispers in his car. He starts back in great astonishment) MiCTTAEL. Sure, 'tis a witch y'are ! (He sits down on the long, low seat) Mrs. \\''iddimore. I was sure of it ! You come like an answer to a prayer. For while I never knew until now that you existed, you are the one person in the world I most wanted at this particular minute. Michael. But how in the world did you ever Mrs. Widdimore. I knew him. And I recog- nized you — let me see — one-third by your voice, one-third by your smile, one-third by instinct — and one-third ]\I:CHAEL. \\'hat ! Four thirds? Mr . \ViDDiMORE. Nonsense, ^^'hat do people like you and me care for the mathematics ? We live in a sort of fourth dimension, and know that the impossible is true. Michael. God be good to you, ma'am, but sure 'tis a luxurious feelin' it gives yc 1 to be meetin' someone who speaks your own language. 'Tis like seein'the Stars and Stripes floatin' on a whaler in Bering Sea, after many wearyin' days of waste ice and green water. Mrs. Widdimore. You don't find many who speak that language. Michael. It's precious few of us there are, ma'am, and we scattered here and there over the mighty surface of the revolvin' world. IVIrs. Widdimore. That's because it is a dead language — as dead as Greek or Sanskrit — the lan- guage of romance. Are you quite sure you are not 54 THE GIPSY TRAIL your own grandfather, wandered back from the long" ago? Michael. I'm not sayin' I'm not, for there do be many things hid in the heart of the world that are past man's findin' out. Mel)be you're right, an' I wish it were so, for I'm thinkin', from the gh'nt in your eye, you had a kindness for him Mrs. Widdimoke. You're very like him. I was fond of him, and at one time it seemed as if he and I Michael. (After a pause) An' now it's him I'm pityin' from the depths of my heart, for you must have been a grand woman entirely when the youth was in you, an' he must have had black hours a-plenty — an' him losin' you. Mrs. Widdimore. The black b.ours were not all his. Like you, he went walking the world — and oh, my friend, the world was worth walking, in those day.s — not bleak and grey as it is today. Michael. (Impatiently ) Never was an age so full of romance as our own. For now we can wan- der in a year over the whole wide world. The earth's a playground so full of bright nc" toys that you can play from early morning until you drop asleep from very weariness — -and the shelves still full, beyond your power to ransack. Mrs. Widdimore. Is it never lonely in your play- ground ? Michael. Yes — sometimes — at dusk, or when the sun goes down crimson and the sky is flecked with little pufify clouds. Mrs. Widdimore. Ah ! Then you haven't found your playmate ? Michael. (Harshly) I'm not looking for her, I don't want her. Mrs. Widdimore. I don't believe you. Michael. There are no girls nowadays who could lead the l.'fe / love. Now von (With a THE GIPSY TRAIL 55 quick change to Irish hlariiey) Ah, ma'am, sure ^n' had I but known you when yoti were young-. (He rises ) Mrs. WinDTMORE. Stop flattering an old woman when there's a young one in the house. Michael. An' I'm more in love with you this minute than any woman ever I clapped eyes on. Sure, 'tis only the deep an' fearful respect I have for ye keeps me from pickin' yovi up in my arms this minute an' runnin' away with you. Mrs. Widdtmore. (Her eyes tzvinklhu/) Well, don't ask your grandmother to chaperone us. Michael. (Laughing } I will not. then. (He sits down again ) Mrs. Widdimore. And don't tell me you are not hunting for the girl who Micpiael. I tell you the girl I want doesn't exist. Time and again I've thov:ght I've found her — but I've been mistaken — always. Mrs. Vv'iddtmore. But still you keep on search- ing. And that's what brought you into poor Edward's tea-and-toast adventure — because you thought that Frances Raymond Micpiael. Mrs. \\'iddimore ! I assure you that such an idea never once occurred to me! Mrs. Widdimore. Go on with vour conventional phrases! You talk like a cotillion leader. Then what did bring you into it? Michael. Curiosity. Mrs. Widdimore. In the spring a young man's fancy lightlv turns to thoughts of — curiositv? Rubbish ! ' Michael. Sure, now I k}iozi.' 'tis a witch y'are, an' if I had holy water by me I'd sprinkle it on you, the way I'd cee you turn into a lovelv, proud queen, wid a cruel heart and sea-cold eyes. Mrs. Widdimore. Ah, it would take more thr-i holy water, my friend, to do that. And so ,v • 56 THE GIPSY TRAIL think Frances Raymond is the girl to share your glorious pilgrimage? Michael. She comes nearer it than any girl I've ever seen. (He rises. Mrs. Widdimore. (Accusingly) You're in love with her. AIiCHAEL. No, I'm not — not yet. But if I stay here — if I see much more of her — oh, I must get away at once ! Mrs. Widdimore. (Taunting him) You're afraid to stay. Michael. I admit it. I'm afraid of her — and I'm beginning to be afraid of you. Mrs. Widdimore. Of me? Why? Michael. Even the best of women are born matchmakers. Mrs. Widdimore. Of course we are ! But the match / am bent on making is between Frances and my grandson. Have you forgotten that he wants to marry her? Michael. I wish he would ! Then / couldn't. Mrs. Widdimore. Then stay pnd help me bring it about. Poor Edward, he would a-wooing go, but heighho, says Rowley — he'll lose her if we don't help him. AIichael. How could I help? Mrs. Widdimore. Stay and see. Michael. (Weakening ) Of course I should like to — and I'd feel much safer with that girl securely married and out of my reach, but (He looks apprehensively off towards the door left) No, no! I think I'd better go. (H'^ starts to the right) Mrs. "V\'iddimore. (Softly) Oh, but you're not a bit like your grandfather. Michael. (Stopping) All right, I'll stay. But on one condition. Mrs. Widdimore. Are you going to disappoint THE GIPSY TRAIL 57 me? Am I a huckster, that you should start bar- gaining ? (The sound of on approaching automobile is heard. Michael. (Firmly) On one condition. (With a return of his blarneying manner) That I may sit next you at table. Mrs. Widdimore. (With a smile) Irish! Is that a compliment to me — or are you only trying to escape temptation ? Michael. Sure, an' it's both. (Ned hastens in through the doorway right) Ned. (As he sees Michael) Oh, you're here, are you? What have you done with Miss Ray- mond ? Mrs. Widdimore. She's here, safe and sound, making herself tidy in my room. Ned. Then everything's all right? Mrs. Widdimore. Absolutely. Ned. Thank heaven for that ! I've been so worried — and all the time the kidnapping was a success after all. What did she say? Was she thrilled ? Mrs. Widdimore. Frightfully. Ned. That's good. \\'hew ! I'm dead to the world. (He takes off his duster and places it, xtnth his hat, on the table by the window up rigJit. Then he comes doium to IMichael) Say, Avhere did you go? Michael. Weil, pretty nearly everywhere, I think. Ned. I should say you did. Every policeman I stopped had a story of a car tearing through town at about sixty miles an hour, and they all had my number, too. That's how I traced you back here. W^hat did you do that for? Michael. Surely you did not wish ]\Iiss Ray- mond to know where she was being taken ? 58 THE GIPSY TRAIL Ned. Well — no. I suppose not. Michael. Exactly. So it was necessary to con- fuse her. I did it. That's all. Ned. Yes, but see here. I've four summonses to appear in court tomorrow morning. Michael. I didn't think you would wish me to spare any expense in carrying out your orders. Ned. Well, I guess it's worth it. And you did a good job, though you gave me a fearful fright. (He takes money from his pocket) Here's your fifty dollars. Michael. Oh, no, thanks, I couldn't. (He glances toward the door left) I've been paid al- ready — more than I bargained for — far, far more than I expected. Ned. I don't know what you mean. But I prom- ised you the money, and I insist Michael. Then present it, in my name, to the Society for the Relief of the Incurably Conven- tional. (He starts for the table up right to get his hat) Good night. Mrs. Widdimore. Edward, invite Mr. Jones to stay to supper with us. Ned. (In a ivhisper) Why, grandma, he's — he's Mrs. Widdimore. If I've got to stay here, I must have entertainment. And it's been long since I've seen anyone who has fascinating tales of adven- ture to tell. Invite him ! Ned. Mr. Jones, please do stay. We shall be delighted. Michael. Thank you. I really ought to be go- ing, but (Y'RAi^iC'ES enters through the door left) Ned. (Rushing tozvards Frances, in the highest spirits) Hello, Frances! Awfully glad to .see you. Awfully glad you came. THE GIPSY TRAIL 59 Frances. (Smiling and shaking her head at him) Oh Ned ' Ned ! What will you do next ? Ned You can't say I didn't see this hint, Frances. Tust Uke that fellow in the poem— Lochmvar— or i hatever his name is. Now you're here, let's have runner. I'm famished. (Frances begms o laugh ^fdl joined by Mrs. Widdimore and^ Michael) I don't see anything so darned funny about it. Frances. Oh, don't you, Ned? When I thmk of vour asking father's permission — - (^^e oe- ;i/sZla"cgh%ain) Poor darling! Did he really sav vou might? . , . , Ned Yes, he did. When I promised to provide chaperones. Ellen's out here too, you know. Frances. Oh, Ned, you've been lavish ! Ned. (Disappointed) You don't care for it, do ^°Fr^nces. I think it was very sweet of you to kidnap me, Ned. But if we expect to throw rice at the iSde and groom, we ought to leave at once for Mrs Cortright's. , . , r -i Ned. (Inadiscoiiragedtone) The thing s a fai - ure-oh, yes it is. I suppose we might as well call it °^MiCHAEL. Surely you're not going to surrender at the first repulse. That's not the way to win a tirl If you let her go now, you'll lose her forever Frances. Ned, surely you're not going to let that man interfere in our affairs with his ridiculous susfsrestions. . , , , Mrs Widdimore. I think he's said the only sen- sible words I've heard tonight^ MrrTTAFi ^ Ned. Do you really, grandma? f To Michael) What do you think I ought to do? Michael. See the game through to a finish. Show her that you are the stronger— if you are. ^ Frances. Ned, are you going to disobey me? 6o THE GIPSY TRAIL Michael. You've never disobeyed her in your life, have you ? Ned. No — I don't think I have. Michael. Well, you see the result. Try firm- ness. Ned. (A smile slowly coming oz'cr his face) By Jove, I have a good mind to. (He turns to France's with an assumption of authority) Frances, you can't go. Frances. Do you really mean, Ned, that you are going to refuse to take me ? Ned. (Obviously frightened at his daring) I — I — yes. Frances. Ned, it's impossible to be really angry with you — but this makes me wish I could. Ned. (Protesting) Oh, Frances ! Michael. Don't be so down ! She doesn't mean it. Ned. Oh, I hope not. I'm sure you'll feel dif- ferently when you've had some supper, Frances. Mrs. Widdtmore. Then you'd better tell El- len Ned. All right. I will. Just a lamb cutlet, and a little salad, or something — I'm rather peevish my- self when I'm hungry. (He goes out through the door in the rear. Mrs. Widdimore. ]\Iy dear, let me present the most charming man I've met in— forty years. Mr. Davy Jones. I think I can depend upon him to keep you amused. Michael. I really ought to go. Mrs. Widdimore. But you won't. (She goes out the door left) Michael. (After a moment's pause) Miss Ray- mond Frances. (IVithout looking around) Yes? Michael. I know you're angry with me. And^ I don't blame vou if vou believe — but on mv honor THE GIPSY TRAIL 6i I never, for a siiii^jle histant, had the sh'g^htest inten- tion of making fun of you — ^or of what you call your fancies. Frances. But- that romantic story you told me — it wasn't true, yoti know. Michael. It was true — every word of it. It may have been a litt''e confused, for half the time I was speaking of Andrews Fraxces. It didn't sound a bit like Ned. Michael. — and half the time of myself. I did seize this method — the only one open to me — of getting to know you — of speaking with you Frances. And v\diy did you make Xed keep me here? Michael. Because I didn't want you to go. Frances. Please don't be polite to me. I'm so tired of polite men. Michael. You shouldn't have sung "The Gipsy Trail." Frances. "The Gipsy Trail?" Michael. Yes, — the trail I've followed for eight happy years — years so short that they've slipped by me like a summer's afternoon — years packed to the full with joy and freedom and adventure. And when you sang, I heard it all in your voice — your longing and homesickness for that same trail Frances. You guessed all that? Michael. I knew then that you were thirsting for the clear stars over your head — the fresh wind blowing keen into your face — the smell of earth in the sc|uashy spring-time, when you splash ankle- deep through wet fields — all those old, pagan joys that dwellers in the city have forgotten. Frances. No one ever guessed before. Michael. You see we two belong to that small, happy company who love life and the open better than the stuffiness of modern convention. And so I couldn't pass you by as if we were strangers, with- 62 THE GIPSY TRAFL out n word — without at least calling; out to your ■"Hail, brother !" — before the road divides and we lose each other on our separate ways. Frances. And have you really wandered all over the world — perfectly free — whenever and wherever your fancy called you? Michael. ^'Pay couldn't 'old me when my time was done, For something' in my 'ead upset me all, Till I 'ad dropped whatever 'twas for good " Frances. (Capping the quofation eagerly) "An', out at sea, be'eld the dock lights die, An' met my mate — the wind that tramps the world." (A little pause. Oh, tell me what it's really like to be a wanderer! (She sits in the armchair down left) Michael. Early some morning, with the damp mist clinging to your clothes, you slip out of har- bor in a trim little trading schooner, to plow your path southwestward toward the islands of the sun- set. Then follows day after day of heavenly mo- notony, broken now and then by sudden, violent squalls. And it seems as if you'd been born on the deck of that schooner, and would die there in a thou- sand years or so — and you don't care — you don't care for anything, so long as you can lie there, and breathe the soft, warm air, and watch the mongrel crew, and the Chinese cook, with his yellow face pasted on the pale blue background of the sky. And the languor of the tropics sweeps over you like a great wave Frances. I've always wanted to go there ! Michael. At night, you gaze upward, and watch the march of strange constellations across the alien sky. Until at dawn there comes up out of the sea a fairy ring of waving palm-trees, where child-like natives greet you with unfamiliar fruits, and civili- zation falls from you like a useless garment. THE GIPSY TRAIL 63 Frances. I could spend my life there! Michael. Ah, but unless you break the flowery chain that binds you, you will float the rest of your life away in listless ecstacy. And so, one day, you strike north ! — half a world away, where energy creeps back to you, and the muscles ache for action — where great, bare mountains of jagged rock tower upward, until they seem to pierce the sky. And long ere daylight, while the world still lies asleep under its coverlid of snow, we venture out, shivering, and begin the long ascent. And as we wind upward, still in darkness, morning strikes the mighty crags above us, and they flash and glitter in the sunlight like the fabled castle of Valhalla, where the old Norse gods sit feasting. Then we rope ourselves together for the climbing — just we two in the huge, empty world — bound together irrevocably — trusting ourselves utterly to each other's courage. Frances. I don't think I should be afraid — with you. Michael. (Coming close to her) Or we're gal- loping, side by side, through rugged, broken country, with night coming on fast behind us. I can hear the thud of your horse's hoofs by mine, can see your face fade into darkness beneath your broad-brimmed hat, and our shadows scampering ahead of us in a mad, fantastic dance. Then we pitch our camp on the edge of a little wood, and heap the crackling branches high upon the fire against the cold. And we sit there, listening to the strange noises of the night, until there is left only a heap of glowing coals — and your face above them. Oh, so many, many nights I've sat like this alone — and missed the face that should have been beside me, the face of the comrade I've always wanted and never known — your face — For it's you I've been wanting all these years. It .is your voice I have heard calling to me in the winds. All my life has been one long pil- 64 THE GIPSY TRAIL grima£je in search of you — and suddenly tonight — one moment of twihght — a girl in a doorway — and I knew that it was ended — that I had found you at last — I'll never let you go — you are mine. (Mich- ael's zvords die azi'ay. He looks at Frances, she at him. There is a long moment of silence. Her eyes slowly drop) Comrade! (She rises, looks at him, drops her eyes and sways slightly toward him. He takes her in his arms) Frances. (After a moment) I don't even know, your name. Michael. It doesn't matter. Frances. No. Michael. Nothing matters — l)ut that we have found each otlier ! (He releases Jier and she sits down) Frances. I always knew there was you some- where. And to think that this very evening — when they were all badgering me to marry Ned — coming closer and closer to me — and I never suspected — was the man I am really going to marry. Michael. (Brought back to earth by the shock of the word ''marry" ) You're going to — marry me? Frances. Of course I'll marry you, dear. But do you know, you have forgotten to ask me when ? Michael. Have I ? Frances. (With tender playfulness) You have. And I shan't tell you until you do. Michael. (After a pause, bravely) When? Frances. (Softly) As soon as you want — you do love me, don't you? Michael. (Carried away) Love you? Yes! I never dared let myself believe there was a girl in the world who saw^life as I did — who could sympa- thize with me in all I cared for. If I had, I should have gone mad for very loneliness before I found her. , Frances. I did so want to be found. THE GIPSY TRAIL 65 Michael. But now — Frances, will you marry me tonis^ht? Frances. Tonight? iiliCTiAEL. Yes. I can get a special license — l.row t'-e derk. And there's an old Catholic priest — charming old soul — he'll marry us Frances. You're not a Catholic? Michael. I'm not anything. But a priest — well, doii't you rather like the idea? Frances. I'm a Baptist, and of course I must be married by our own minister. Michael. (Somewhat dashed) Oh — all right. I did like the idea of a priest, somehow, but — a Bap- tist by all means. Well, come on. We'll find him. Frances. But I can't marry you tonight. Michael. \Miy not? Frances. A runaway marriage? To rush ofif right away — and after all. I've just met you, really — what would all my friends think? Michael. \\'hat do you care what they think? Frances. "V\'ell, I do. And there's my family to be considered. Michael. Your family? Yes, that's so; I sup- pose there is. Frances. Of course there is. You'll have to see Father — but he's an old darling! He's bought a lot for me right across the road from where we live — and he's ahvays promised to build on it for me when I'm married. Michael. A house ? What'll we do with it ? Frances. (Laughing ) Why, live in it. of course. You mustn't mind Father — he'll probably bluster and storm at first, because you see he doesn't know you yet, and say we can't be married for ever so long ■ Michael. Will he say that? Frances. (Rising) Yes, but he won't mean it. (Mrs. Widdimore enters througJi tlie door left) 66 THE GIPSY TRAIL Oh, Mrs. Widdimore, I'm so awfully, awfully happy ! Mrs. Widdimore. My dear child, what is it? Frances. (To Michael) Shall we tell her? Oh, yes, let's ! Mrs. Widdimore (Suddenly stricken shy, she turns to Michael) You tell her. Mrs. Widdimore. It isn't necessary. I can't tell you how pleased I am, and I think — I knozv you're going to be absurdly happy. Fr.^nces. (Goes to her and kisses her) Thank you. (She turns to Michael) I'm going in to put my things on. I want you to take me right home and we'll tell Father. I won't be long. (^Michael takes both her hands, and looks gravelv into her face) What's the matter, dear? (With a sudden impulse, he lifts both her hands to his lips and kisses them. She smiles radiantly at him, and leaning to- wards him zvhispers) Goodbye — for a minute. (And then turns and goes out through door left. Michael stands looking after her gravely, shaking his head slightly. Then suddenly he turns to Mrs. Widdimore almost ivith a groan) Michael. Good Lord ! \\'hat have I done ? Mrs. W'iddimore. You've got yourself engaged — and very quickly, too. How did it happen ? Michael. I don't know. How do those things happen? I had no more idea of marriage — I was dreaming, that was all — dreaming aloud, of an ideal girl-comrade who — and then I woke up. W^oke up and found myself engaged to be married. \\ hy, I'm as surprised as you are! (^Irs. W'iddimore turns aside to hide a sly and triumphant smile, but Michael sees it and starts ) You're not surprised ! You knew it was coming all along. Didnt you ? Mrs. Widdimore. I had my suspicions. (She sits do"iVn at the left end of the long, lon' seat) Michael. I see it now : you kept me here on THE GIPSY TRAIL 67 purpose. And I, like a blind idiot, thought that — - Yes, you planned it ! But why ? Why ? Mrs. Widdimore. Frances and Edward w'ould have been w^retched together. Michael. She'd be a thousand times happier with him than with a vagabond like me. (He sits dozvii on the right end of the long, Jozv seat) Mrs. Widdimore. Nonsense ! You'll be ideally happy ; because you are different. There are two kinds of people in the world, my friend. I always call them after the poem in "Alice in Wonderland" — "The Walrus and the Carpenter." The Walruses are you and I, and the Carpenters are the plain, practical, conventional people. Frances is one. Edward is another. That's why they must not marry. But -xou—do you remember how the poem goes? "The Walrus and the Carpenter were walk- ing hand in hand." Michael. But it doesn't. Mrs. Widdimore. Oh, well, of course it doesn't. But it ought to. The only happy marriages are where a Walrus and a Carpenter walk hand in hand. Your grandfather and I were Walruses — and we both married Carpenters. That is the Law. Michael. I am an anarchist. I hate laws. And besides, this law of yours is not true. Think what a sheltered life she's always led. Think for a mo- ment what my life is like — and then imagine her sharing it. Mrs. Widdimore. You could give it up. Michael. Give up my life? — Do you suppose I could? (Mrs. W^iddimore nods) Can you imagine me settled down? (Mrs. Widdimore nods) Tak- ing her to church every Sunday morning? In a frock coat? (Mrs. Widdimore nods) Spending my evenings quietly at home — playing checkers — lis- tening to the Victrola — reading the Atlantie Monthly?' (Mrs. Widdimore nods) Going down •63 THR GIPSY TRAIL to business every single morning- of my life at half- past nine ? Mrs. Widdimore. Only here they go down at half-past eight. Michael. I wonder if I could! Mrs. Widdimore. Love can do wonderful things. AliCHAEL. (Rising) Can it make a man over? And if I tried — and failed? You don't know what it's like when the longing seizes you — the bitter homesickness for some place — any place but the place you're in. It's in my blood — you said it your- self : I'm like my grandfather. Mrs. \\'iddimore. ]\Iy friend, you are only mak- ing excuses ; for in spite of your boldness and ad- ventures you are afraid to marry. Michael. I wonder if I am? Mrs. Widdimore. You don't love her. Michael. (With deep sincerity) Yes, I do love her. There will never be anyone else for me — I've been dreaming of her. for years — and now I know that dreaming isn't enough. I want her — her hands to hold, her lips to kiss Frances. (Off left) I'll be right in. Are you ready ? Michael. (After a pause) Yes. Mrs. Widdimore. (After a moment) Are you going to start the machine? Michael. I guess I'd better. (He goes to the table up right, picks up his hat and duster and goes out the doorway right. After a moment Ned enters th.rough the door in the rear) Ned. Where's Frances ? Mrs. Widdimore. (Nodding toward room to the left) In there. THE GIPSY TRAIL 69 Ned. Supper's almost ready. (Frances enters tJiroiigh the door left, with her opera cloak on ) Fr.-\nces. Where is lie? Ned. Here I am. Frances. I don't mean you, Ned. Mrs. Widdimore. He's getting the car ready. Ned. Why, Frances, where are you going? Frances. Home. Ned. With Jones?. Why. if you're really so set on going, I'll take you. Frances. Ned, I hardly know how to tell you: w^e're engaged to each other. Ned. (Astonished) You and Jones? (She nods) Why, Frances, you can't be. I never heard of such a thing. You hardly know him — and I've been in love with you for years Frances. He's w^aiting for me. (She starts for the door right, then turns back ) I'm awfully sorry, Ned. Ned. It seems awfully unfair, somehow, that he .should do in two hours what I've been trying to do for years. And it isn't because I haven't tried, either. Do you think that I ought to congratulate him, Frances? Frances. Well, I Jiope you can, Ned. Ned. All right, then. If you say so, I will. (The sound of an automohile engine starting is heard outside. Ned goes to the zvindow up right and looks out) Why, he's going ! Frances. (Laughing) Of course he's not going! He's coming right back. (She joins Ned at the zvindozv) Ned. No, he's not. He's turned the corner! Confound him! He's got my car, too. (The sound of tJie engine gradually dies away) 70 THE GIPSY TRAI] Frances. He isn't coming back ! He's gone away for good ! But I don't understand — what does it mean ? Ned. It means he's no good — Take one of these chaps who can talk as well as he can, and ninety- nine times out of a hundred, they're no good. Frances. (Heartbroken, to Mrs. Widdimore) But — he cared for me — I knozv he cared for me ! Ned. (Angrily) Cares for himself, he does — and no one else. Mrs. Widdimore. ]\Iy dear, he did care for you — as far as people like him can care. For he's not like Edward Ned. No, thank God ! Mrs. Widdimore. But he saw what marriage would mean to a man like him — how it would tie him down — and ran away from it — as his grand- father did before him. Frances. Did his grandfather run away from the girl he loved ? Mrs. Widdimore. He ran away from nie. Ned. (Shocked) Grandma! Frances. And did he never come back ? Mrs. W^iddimore. Yes — he came back — as this boy will come back to you. But by that time I had married Edward's grandfather. Ned. Why don't you do the same thing? Marry me — I won't run away. Frances. (Half cr\ing, she turns away from him) Oh, Ned, don't ask me — not just now. I can't think of anything now — except that T hate him ! He never cared for me — and I — I didn't really care for him. I was just swept off my feet. Ned. I wonder how he did it? You wouldn't think that just a few stories of adventure would make such a difference to a girl. (He looks at Frances, very much pusded. Suddenly an idea strikes him and his face ligJits up zvith satisfaction. THE GIPSY TRAIL 71 He clears his throat slightly and bravely begins his recital)"^ It was in the August of nineteen twelve that I was fishing up in Canada, on Spider Lake, near Muskoka — no, it wasn't Muskoka, either, it was Georgian Bay. I had forgotten to provide my- self with one of those fishmg licenses — you know? — ])ure carelessness. Of course I wasn't trying to cheat the government — and they're only two dollars anyhow. And just as I hooked a fish, I looked up, and there was the government inspector watching me. Well, of course I lost the fish — it was very awkward for me — not having a license. And there was the Inspector looking at me very fiercely — and I suppose he had a gun about him somewhere. So he said to me: "Have you a license?" And of course I had to confess I didn't — and he said I'd better buy one of him. And so I did — it was the only thing to do — and then I'd really intended to get one all the time. But he overcharged me, having me, so to speak, in a hole (But loucj ere this point is reached, the curtain has UH-rcifuUy hidden Ned's unfortunate effort) * See "Notes on Production," on Page 94. ACT III Scene : The scene is the same as in Act I — the veranda of Mr. Raymond's summer home at Kirtland. It is a moonlit evening about a month later than Act II. At tlie rise of the curtain TvIr. Raymond and Ned, both zvearing dinner-coats, are seated to- gether in the settee to the right, Mr. Raymond to the riglit of Ned. Miss Raymond and Mrs. Widdimore are seated together in the settee to the left, Miss Raymond to the right of Mrs. Widdimore. Frances, in an evening frock, stands leaning against the right pillar, on the upstage side, looking off through the right lat- tice, paying no attention whatever to the con- versation. j\Ir. R.\^'mond. The reduction in operating' ex- penses — well, bet\veen you and me, the accountants figure it \\\\\ be not much under twenty-five per cent. We shall be able to scale down our combined office force somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty thousand dollars Ned. By Jove. I wouldn't have believed it ! I suppose eventually you'll tpke in the Foster plant? ]\Ir. Raymond. Yes, they've been on the down g-rade for several years, and wlun the time's ripe, they'll be glad enough to come in. And then there are the Willetts people. . . . Miss Raymond. Aren't you men ever going to stop talking business? Ned. Oh, Miss Raymond, I am sorry.^ But '72 THE GIPSY TRAIL 73 really, what Mr. Raymond was just tellin,^ me Avas so extraordinarily interesting — and then I thought that you and grandma were probably discussing gowns or music or literature or — something like that. Mrs. Widdimore. As a matter of fact, we were. You see what happens Avhen you men leave us to our own base devices. Ned. (To Mr. Raymond) I'm afraid we've been remiss. (Turning to Miss Raymond) Tell me, Miss Raymond, did you get in town to the ten- nis tournament this week? Miss Raymond. Xo, I didn't. Frank has never cared for tennis, and as I didn't want to go alone Ned. Oh, why didn't I think to ask you? That was thoughtless of me. You and I and Frances might have gone together. I'll tell you what we'll do — we'll go on INIonday. I'll call for you Mrs. Widdimore. I wouldn't — they played the finals this afternoon. Ned. Did they? What a shame ! Well. I'll tell you : Ave'll go next year. Remember now — that's an engagement. Miss Raymond. Thank you. And now — (She rises) Ned, won't you sing for us? Frances has some new songs, and there is one that I'm sure would suit your voice splendidly. Ned. (Rising also) Well, t don't know that I am in ver\' good voice tonight — (He clears his throat) But, of course, I shall be delighted to try if you really want me to. Mrs. Widdimore. Yes, Ned, sing. (She and Mr. Raymond rise) Miss Raymond. (At the center door) Do you know d'Hardelot's 'T Hid My Love?" *Ned. No — No, I don't think so. That isn't in * See "Notes en Production," on Page 94. 74 THE GIPSY TRAIL my repertoire. But I will sing "The Bandolero" for you. (He opens the screen doors center for her, and follozvs her in. Both go out from the hall to the rig lit) Mr. Raymond. (At center door) Aren't you coming, Mrs. Widdimore? Mrs. Widdimore. In a moment, Frank. (Mr. Raymond goes into the hall and out to the right. Mrs. Widdimore looks at Frances a moment, then goes up to her) My dear, what's the matter? Frances. Nothing. Nothing, except — it hasn't any right to be such a glorious evening. Mrs. Widdimore. I know you're unhappy^ — and I know why. I wish you understood him as well as I do. Frances. Him ? Who ? Mrs. Widdimore. Our truant adventurer. Frances. Yoiir truant adventurer, if you like — but oh, not mine. I understand all I want to about him — and more. Mrs. Widdimore. You see, I know his kind so well. He's never grown up, that's all. He's just a little boy, like your brother Johnnie — playing around the world. You wouldn't expect Johnnie to think of serious things yet. But some day he'll tire of play — he'll grow up — and then Frances. I don't care what he does. I'd — rather you wouldn't talk about him, please. Mrs. Widdimore. All right, my dear. I'll stop. But that won't stop you thinking about him. (She goes into the hall and out to the right. Frances remains. Presently John enters left along the path. He has an air rifle, and backs on, shoot- ing off left with it) THE GIPSY TRAIL 75 Frances. What are you doino^? John. Firin.^ at the enemy. Their trenches are rio^ht over there the other side of the flower beds. (He points off left and shoots again) I just led a charo-e against them. (He mops his forehead tvith his sleeve) It's hot work. I hope they give me a war cross. What do you have to do to win it? Frances. I don't know exactly. But they are given only to the very bravest men — those who are absolutely fearless. John. Did you ever see one? Frances. No — but I knew a man once who had one. John. Gee! He must have been a bear! Frances. (In a loiv tone) He was. John. When I get bigger I'm going to join the aeroplane service. And I bet you I win a cross. What will you bet, Frances? I'll bet you a dime I do. Will you bet? (Frances nods zvith a smile) All right. You'll lose your bet. I'm not afraid of anything. (Ned comes into the hall from the right and out upon the veranda) Ned. Frances Frances. What is it, Ned? Ned. Aren't you going to play my accompani- ment? Frances. I thought Aunt Janet would play it for you. Ned. (He looks at Frances, zuho is not looking at him, for a time in silence) Perhaps I'd better not sing "The Bandolero." Frances. (Rousing herself) Oh, do ! Ned. (Taking her arm and leading her to the center door) You know, there's no one in_the world who can accompany me quite as well as you can. Frances. Come on. 76 THE GIPSY TRAIL (She goes into the hall and out to the right, Ned following her off. John, left alone, starts off left in the stealthy manner of a skirmisher and disappears from view. Then the piano is heard in right and Ned begins to sing) Ned. (In right) "I am the Bandolero, The gallant Bandolero ! I rule the mountains, and T claim As contraband what comes this way. I am the Bandolero, King, with the sward for pillow ! I am an outlaw, but have a kingdom beneath my sway." *( Michael rides on along the pathwav, from left to right, on a tandem bicycle, and off right. He wears a heav\\ loose coat and a cap ) "An outlaw with kingdom T)eneath my sway ! I make mv castle of mv tent, ■My court T hold in lonely spot," (Michael comes along the path from the right and up upon the veranda. He is very stealthy in his mo7'cments and evidently desires not to be seen. He tiptoes to the open doorway center and peeps in. At the same time John comes tiptoeing in from the left along the path, catches sight of him, sneaks up behind him. and, shoul- dering his air-rifle and pohiting it at Michael, holds hint up. In the meantime, Ned sings ou) "My army is my gallant band. My law enforced by carbine shot ! il am the Bandolero ! * See "Notes on Production," on Page 94. THE GIPSY TRAIL yj I am the Bandolero ! I am waiting and watching For ransom or outpost, A welcome for captive ! A carhine for spy ! Roaming the mountains John. Halt! Or I fire ! (^Tichael .^''''^^';V(r It is not essential that the first act be set exactly as described in the stage directions. It will be sufficient if the entrances, windows and furniture be placed as shown in the scene-plot. The stock scenery of any theatre can be lashed together for the house wall, and the ends of the porch can be masked with shrubbery. It is not essential that the porch be elevated by a platform, although if this is available it will add considerably to the effect. "The Gipsy Trail," words by Rudyard Kipling, music by Tod B. Galloway, is published by Theodore Fresser Co., 1712 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. "The Bandolero," words and music by Leslie Stuart, is published by G. Schirmer, New York City. Both can be obtained from any good music store. A spotlight should be placed in the entrance-hall right, in Act II, and trained upon the armchair down right, so that, in the dark scene, it will fall upon Frances and Michael. But where a spot- light cannot be obtained, a small table may be placed beside the armchair down right, with a small table- lamp on it, which can be turned on by AIichael immediately after his entrance and will throw its light upon Frances' face during this scene. At the end of Act II it will be found best to drop the curtain the moment Ned's idea has reg- istered with the audience and they begin to laugh. "On Spider Lake" has generally been found the most effective cue for the curtain. If a tandem bicycle is not obtainable for use in Act III, a seat can be attached to the front of an ordinary bicycle.