PS 635 .Z9 M2336 Copy 1 fHAT GIRL" By Lillie Nolting Walker ii THAT GIRL" By Lillie Nolting Walker Denver, Colorado 1560 York Street 1916 (Copyright, February 24, 1916.) #/. <>« iHHi -8 1916 'G\.0 43949 To my daughter RUTH whose love and devotion were my inspiration is this play lovingly dedicated "THAT GIRL" THREE ACTS PERSONS Ruth Bonelle, an orphan — "That Girl." Mr. and Mrs. Park, social climbers. John Park. Alice Park. Robert Park. Mildred Park. Jane Adams Helen Brown EliJ.abeth Grey Mr. Mintnier, eccentric uncle of Ruth. Leigh O'Doud, maid. Mrs. Wild, poor woman. Jack Wild. Daniel, Preacher, Doctor, Nurse, Lena Lewis, Small Child. ACT I. Scene 1. Room in Mr. Park's house, Mrs. Park reading. Child playing. Enter Mr. Park. Child greets him. Mr. Park: Well, Lena, what does that frown mean on your fair brow? Mrs. Park: George, I've never been more annoyed in my life. Yesterday I received this letter from Mrs. Clifton, and what do you think she has asked us to do? Mildred: Papa, why won't my dolly cry any more? Mr. Park: What do you generally do to make her cry? Mildred: Punch her in the stomach. Mr. Park: Well, if that won't work, we shall have to buy a new one. What has she asked you to do, Lena? Didn't knov/ that you corresponded. Mrs. P.: Well, we do occasionally, and I am sure that the mention in my last letter of the fact that I am now serving on the Charity Board prompted her to make this ■absurd request. Mr. P.: Well, out with it — -what does she want you to do? Mrs. P.: She wants us to take into our home for a year a poor orphan girl. 5 Mr. P. : Tell her that you can't do it if you don't want her— that's easy. (.Takes up paper.) Mrs. P.: It's not so easy as you think. You haven't a particle of foresight. Don't you know that Mr. Clifton, with his great wealth and influence, can be of immeasur- able assistance to you in the coming election? Mr. P.: This currying favor with the rich, and this pretense sicken me! Who is this girl, and why doesn't Mrs. Clifton play the good Samaritan herself? Mrs. P.: (Reads) "Ruth Bonelle is the daughter of an old friend who attended college with me. Her parents were drowned a few months ago while out boating. She has no living relatives, save an old eccentric uncle who has taken her into his home. He loves her dearly, but a young girl should have an environment different from that established by a queer old man and a careless housekeeper. I have not seen her, but her uncle described her as being 'plain, gentle and good.' Her parents had been in very comfortable circumstances, but owing to some unfortunate investments, the girl is penniless." Mrs. P. (Tossing aside letter): There you have it! Encouraging, isn't it? "Plain," "gentle," "good," "poor!" I never shall understand why people like Mrs. Clifton can do such impossible things! Mr. P.: Stop your fussing and write and say NO if it doesn't suit you! Mrs. P.: George Park, haven't you a vestige of sense? Don't you see that it is policy to accede to her request? Mr. P.: Will you be still and let me read? Mildred: Papa, why do you read all the time? Mr. P.: To find out what's going on. Mildred: Well, what's going on? Mr. P.: Oh, nothing much. Mildred: What do you keep on reading for, then? Mr. P.: There may not be much in this paper (to Mrs. Park), but I should like to read what there is. Mrs. P.: You read while I have such a momentous question to settle! You heartless wretch! Mr. P.: What is the use of my advising you; you will do just as you please anyway. 6 Mrs. P.: Mr. Park, you know that I always listen to you. Mr. P.: You listen all right— then do as you please. Mrs. P.: What alternative is there except to act on my own judgment when your advice is so senseless? Mr. P.: There you go! Didn't I tell you that no one in this house knows anything but you? So why should I waste perfectly good time and perfectly good breath when I want to read this paper? Mrs. P.: If your disposition were only more equable like mine, life would be more bearable. Mildred: Papa, what do you do in your office all day? Mr. P. (absently): Oh, nothing. Mildred: How do you know when you're fni? Mr. P.: I don't know sometimes. (To wife) What do the children say about it? Mrs. P.: John is amazed that she could ask such an impossible thing. You should have seen his expression when I described that girl! Mr. P.: What did Alice say? Mrs. P.: She never enthuses over anything — for or against. George, what DO you think about it? Mr. P.: Lena, if you want my candid opinion, I say let her come! Something "gentle" and "good" around here mignt have a wholesome effect. I say let her come! Mrs. P.: If she were only good-looking and rich, then John could fall in love with her, and our financial diffi- culties would be solved. What explanation can we make to our friends for our unprecedented conduct in taking into our home a mere nobody? Mp. p.: Your powers of adjusting matters so that they shall appear perfectly proper in the eyes of the world are adequate for the exigencies of this case. Mrs. P.: I think I've solved the problem. Mr. P.: I thought you would, and to Mrs. Park's entire satisfaction. Mrs. P.: Stop that sarcasm, CJeorge. Carlyle said "Sarcasm,. is of the devil," and it is not hard to believe when you talk like this. Mr. P.: Really, Lena, I am curious to hear what your 7 fertile brain has developed in the way of an explanation for the dear public. Mrs. P.: This is just the natural expression of my love for the unfortunate. Why did I not think of that before and save myself all this needless agitation? Worry makes one look so old. Mr. P.: Isn't there some way to meet even such a contingency as that? Mrs. P.: Such a contingency as what? Mr. P.: As looking old. Mrs. P.: You old bear, go and dress for dinner. I'll write to my friend and tell her to send on her protege. I'll be a mother to the homeless girl. (Enter Robert with bandaged face.) Mr. P.: Well, young man, what have you been up to now? Fighting again over your neutralit}^? Robert: No sir, teacher whipped me and I fell over the desk. Mr, P.: What did she whip you for? Robert: Nothing, 'cept answerin' a question. Mrs. P.: That is strange; did you answer it correctly? Mr. P.: What was the question, Robert? Robert: She asked me who wrote on the board that she was a green persimmon. Mr. P.: You may come with me, young man, and I will show you a branch from a persimmon tree. Excuse me, dear, I'll not be long. (Father and boy go out.) (Mother meditates, father returns, begins to read.) Mrs. P.: When are you going to dress for dinner? We shall be late. (Looking over his shoulder.) What are you reading that is so absorbing? Mr. P.: "Taming of the Shrew." Mrs. P.: Horrid thing! I saw it played once. Mr. P.: Good! You can understand, then, why I like it. Mrs. P.: George, please come and dress for dinner. (Exeunt.) (Alice enters, looks at letter. John enters.) John: Hello, Sis; what you up to? Alice: Considering the family's latest problem. John: Oh come, fair one, forget it. Going to be home all evening? Alice: Yes; are you? John: No, I'm going to the club. Willie coming out tonight? Alice: No; some of the girls phoned that they were coming out, and do you know, John, I have a feelint; that they have heard of the addition we are expecting to our family, and are coming purely out of curiosity. If "that girl," as mother calls her, is what mother thinks she is, I'd as soon be Daniel in the lion's den as what I'll be — the butt of their ridicule. John: I hate to further ruffle your plumage, dear one, but take it from me, "that girl" will be some agitating subject all right. I bet she's a tow-headed, faded, blue-eyed, docile creature who says "yes mam" and "no mam," "I have saw" and "I seen," "you dont say,' and "I want to know?" "the molasses, they are good." I hear those mag- pies coming, so I'll hike. Don't worry, sis, they could not have heard yet of mother's latest charity. How could they when we knew it ourselves only yesterday? Alice (wisely) : Mother spent the afternoon with her best friend. John: No doubt, then, your suspicions are well found- ed. But cheer up; dress the girl up, discourage conver- sation in her, and perhaps you will survive the ordeal. Good-night, sis. (Exit) (Enter three girls.) Alice:. Come in, girls. So glad to see you. All vsell? Elizabeth: We couldn't wait another minute to hear about "that girl" that is coming to live with you. Do tell us about her. Helen: What did you say. Elizabeth Elizameth (inapatiently) : We want to hear about "that girl." Helen: Oh yes, I want to know, too. Alice: How did you know that she is coming? We knew it ourselves only j'esterday? Elizabeth: Your mother told my mother and she told me and I told tho other girls because we are all so intimate. Haven't you any idea what she is like, Alice? Aren't you afraid people will think she is a poor relative? You know it really does look queer to suddenly add to your family a perfect stranger — a poor one, at that, Helen: What did you say? Elizabeth: Nothipg of any importance. Helen: I'm so glad, for I do hate to miss important things. Elizabeth: Will you take her out and expect us to receive her just because she is living here, when we knov/ nothing of her whatsoever? Alice: I shall certainly treat her like a human being. Jane: She could be a very nice girl, despite her poverty. Helen: What did you say, Jane? Jane: That "that girl" could be a very fine girl in spite of her plainness and poverty. Helen: Of course she could. I was poor once, and was just as good then as I am now, if not better. I was more natural then, and nature is wonderful. I just hate to act lovely when I feel perfectly horrid. Elizabeth (Aside): How vulgar to always refer to her past poverty! I should hide it. Helen: What did you say, Elizabeth? Elizabeth: It's a hot night. Helen: I don't think so. Do you, Jane? Jane: I'm quite comfortable. Alice: I don't think poverty is the worst thing in the world. Elizabeth: Oh, don't you? Well, you may expect con- siderable talk about this, nevertheless, Alice. It has al- ready created quite a stir. Alice: Strange how quickly news spreads; one would be justified in thinking that people had little else to do. Jane: I shouldn't let this worry me any, Alice. One of the finest girls I ever knew was "plain, good and poor." Whenever I think of that girl's struggles and attainments I feel condemned. She attended college where I did for 10 two years. Some good woman paid her tuition; her clothes were shabby and worn, and I knew by the flush that always spread over her face when she arose to recite that she was painfully aware of that shabbiness. I blush to tell it, but there was not a girl in her classes who had the moral courage to become her friend. I believe her life there was hideous, and nothing but her great yearning for knowledge impelled her to remain. So "that girl" may surprise you, Alice, and possess qualities that will dis- parage us. Elizabeth: What has come over Jane? (Sarcastic- ally) Since when have you become the champion of the weak, the defender of the oppressed? Perhaps you will have the temerity to espouse the cause of Mrs. Park's protege? Jane: I shall certainly be kind to her, if for no other reason than to make atonement for my part in the cruel treatment of the girl I told you of. Elizabeth: Mercy me! When are you going out as a missionary? Helen: AVhat did you say? Elizabeth: Nothing. Helen: Oh, I thought so. Elizabeth: Where is your brother, Alice? I wish that lie would drive us home; our car acted badly coming out. John is growing handsomer every day. Don't you think so, Jane? Jane: Yes, he does. What does he say of your com- ing guest? Alice: He refuses to discuss her; he is very fastidious about girls. Helen: What did you say, Alice? Alice: That John is fastidious. Helen: Oh, he likes me? Elizabeth: No, goose, he's particular. Jane: Isn't it too bad that she is so deaf? Elizabeth: I think it very fortunate; she does all of the talking now — what would she do if she could hear better and thus gain more subjects about which to make her inane remarks? Helen: What did you say, dearie? 11 Elizabeth: That some people weary me. Heien: Do they? Who? Elizabeth: I must go. I'm tired — enormously tired. Isn't life deadly stupid? This town is as dead as Julius Caesar; nothing new, nothing startling, nowhere to go — deathly stupid everywhere! Jane: Wise folk say that life is what we make it, and that the happy people are the ones who have an aim in life. Elizabeth: What has come over you, Jane? You actu- ally give me the creeps with your melodramatic air? Alice, what is your contribution to this maelstrom of discontent and woe? Alice (laughing): I was just thinking while you girls were talking, what wonderful products of a wonderful age we girls are. Not one of us doing a single profitable thing ! Elizabeth: Good heavens! You getting it too — this appalling thoughtfulness! Jane, 'fess up. What has in- duced such self-abnegation? Jane: Perhaps the spirits of some of my ancestors who really amounted to something have returned to kindle a spark of ambition in their worthless posterity. To tell the truth, girls, I am disgusted and surfeited with the silly, empty life I am leading! I wish that I never had to go to another party so long as I live! I wish that I'd never have to dance around again on poor, corny, buniony feet, or have to smile any more polite smiles when my face is so tired of smirking that it positively aches. I just long to look into the face of a wholesome, strong man. I don't care if he be unshaven, and dressed in a red flannel shirt and corduroy; he'd look like an unshaven angel to me! Helen: Don't you like the boys any more, Jane? I think it must be lovely to be so popular as you. The boys do not seem to appreciate me ; . mother says it is because I am deaf and too natural. I've tried being unnatural like you girls when I'm out. but it makes me feel so deceitful, somehow, that I've stopped it. I shall remain sober and natural as I was created, and continue to hope that a Prince shall soon appear who will love a serious, natural girl like me. Alice (mock solemnity): "Life is real, life is ear- nest" Let's change the subject — this is _a nightmare! Elizabeth, when are you going abroad? 12 Elizabeth: Goosie, we are not going. Don't you know there is a war in Europe? I'm very glad of it, because mother always wants to spend so much of the time at Lake Geneva and I could fairly scream when I think of it There is nothing new there: just the same old habitues of the place, with their faces frescoed, kalsomined and enameled; just the same old hotels; just the same old mountains; just the same old blue sky; just the same old smell of pines; and the same old blue lake — all so deadly stupid. Oh, yes, I felt superlatively sprightly and gay as 1 contemplated the ravishing sights! Jane: Come, girls, I realy must go. Elizabeth: Alice, call up your brother and ask him to drive us in. Alice: I am sorry, but I do not know where to get him. Elizabeth: Come on, girls; but I'll not guarantee you a safe or comfortable journey home. Isn't it deadly stupid that John is not here? Alice: Too bad, girlie Elizabeth: Good-night. Alice. We've had a lovely time. Be sure to let us know the moment "that girl" arrives, as I am consumed with curiosity. Alice: Very well; good-night. Wait; I'll go and see you off properly. (Exeunt) Curtain. ACT II. Scene: Same as before. Three months later. (Elnter Alice. Ruth Bonelle examining pictures.) Alice (removing wraps): What are you studying so closely? Ruth: I'm not studying — I'm devouring a picture of home. Alice (caressing her): Home-sick, dearie? Ruth: Alice, my heart is broken with loneliness and longing. I want my mother! I want my father! Oh, to see their dear faces once again, and hear them speak my name! How can I live without them? Alice: I wish that I could help you, dear, but I don't know how, you are so different from us. 13 Ruth: Have you seen this picture of our home? Near this window grew a rosebush — I can smell the sweet fra- grance of it now as it was wafted in by the gentle breeze. Over here was a briar-rose, whose buds yielded sweet harvest for the honey bee. And right there were more roses, all flushed and warm as they nestled close to a pure, cool lily. Alice: What is that large tree there? Ruth: That is a great oak; mother called it the "patriarch" of the garden. Alice: Why did she call it that? Ruth: Because it looked innured to stand and suffer. Behind the hoase is a little brook that lulled me to sleep every night as it murmured over the pebbles. In this corner of the porch was a bird's nest. Each morning we were awakened by hymns of rapture from these song-birds that warbled from their latticed security. Mother's garden was beautiful; never a weed was allowed to violate this sanctuary — this garden of "love and inspiration." Alice: Your mother must have been a beautiful woman, Ruth. Ruth: I wish that you had known her. Alice: I've been thinking so much about what you told me the other day; about the time your mother spent with you, training you and teaching you, and leading you to confide in her. It seems to me that she w^as a most unusual mother. Why, come to think of it I never see my mother except at the table or when she consults me about a party or gown. She is so busy at one thing and another that she has no time for us. I suppose a mother's first duty should be to her children, but what would become of all the organizations that mother superintends if she gave her time to us? Ruth: Charity begins at home. Alice: Something has been oppressing me of late. Ruth; the other day I felt like going to my mother and throw my arms about her neck and ask her to advise me and help me. Ruth: Why didn't you? Alice: Why didn't I? She would have thought me crazy and would have sent for a brain specialist. My mother is almost a stranger to me. (Maid brings in card.) (Exit Alice) 14 (Ruth plays "Home, Sweet Home" softly. John enters and listens.) John: Please continue playing, Ruth. Ruth (starts to leave) : No, thank you, I must go. John: Please do not go, Ruth. Sit down and talk with me a while. You haven't spoken ten words to me this week Other girls do not treat me like that. What have I done to incur your displeasure? Ruth: Nothing. John: Then why don't you like me? Ruth: I did not say that I did not like you. John: Actions speak louder than words. Tell me, what can I do to gain favor in your sight? Ruth: Be a man. John (Indignantly): I am a man. Ruth: Well, then, you are not the sort of man I like. John: Come, Ruth, tell me what is the matter with me? Ruth: Please excuse me; I must go. (Starts to leave the room.) John: No, I will not excuse you; you have thrown down the gauntlet, and I accept the challenge. I am ready for the fight. Why am I not the sort of man you like? Ruth: You have no ambition. (Brother slips in and hides.) John: I didn't have any before you came, but I have now. Let us be friends,. Ruth — I'll forgive your wholesale disparagement. I've never seen a girl in my life that I admire as I do, or whom I think half so pretty. Will you go to the concert with me tonight? It is going to be great. Ruth: No, thank you, I cannot. John: I beg your pardon, but why not? Ruth: One reason is that your parents would dis- approve. John: I don't care about that; what is the other? (Boy sneezes, is discovered and ejected.) Ruth: I do not care to. 15 John: Why can't you be sociable and go out with us occasionally? Come, Ruth, be reasonable; I've loved you ever since you came. I'm not such a worthless chap as you seem to think me. You are the only girl I've ever cared a rap about. I know that I could be somebody if you would only help me. I wish I could command more gracious words in which to speak my love. Every move- ment and every word of yours are fraught with that un- elucidated influence that men call "charm." You must be the daughter of a long line of wonderful sires. Please love me just a little and tell me what I must do in order to come up to your standard of manhood. I'll do anything you say — even try to sell mustard plasters to a C. S., or diamonds to the old ladies' home. Be kind, Ruth; try to love me and some day I'll make you my wife. Ruth: Your wife! Never! I could never be your wife, but I will be your friend if you deserve it. The young men worth while see visions worthy of men. They work undaunted, determined to have a part in the work that the world has need to be done. The progress of tomorrow is built by the young men who see visions of ambition and accomplishment. Are you going to climb, or stay at the bottom, lazy and worthless during these youthful days of opportunity, miserably commonplace, as free from ambition as an animal waiting in its pen to be fed? Indolence is the sleep of the mind. Oh, that I had advantages like yours — a chance like yours! John: You need not covet my chance — I don't see any Unless one have wealth there is no opportunity for big things, and we have no wealth despite the fact of our simulating it. I could do great things if I had money. Ruth: There is a far greater wealth than dollars and cents, and it is available to whoever desire and seek it; but not to indolent or bigoted folk. Think of the wealth stored in books; think of the wealth that resides in paint- ing and music; think of the wealth that close communion with nature bestows; think of the wealth through friend- ships that have become to us the very fortifications of life; thinV of the wealth of love — that emblem of eternity; think of the wealth that a life of service to one's fellows will accumulate. This is wealth! Oh, the tragedy of idleness! The rosy-hued hopes it has smothered; the noble purposes it has thwarted; the lofty ideals it has shattered; the discontent, the cynicism, the suspicion it has bred; the desire for growth it has lulled to sleep; the passions roused, the crime it has fostered; the dull, dead leAel of mediocrity it has steadily fed! Oh, the blighting effects of idleness! 16 John: Ruth, be kind; do not judge me too harshly. What you have said has been a revelation to me. I have not deliberately turned aside from the consideration of these things, but have drifted — no better, no worse, than many others. You have aroused me from apathy! I feel a great power stirring deep in my spirit, an upheaval of something striving to be born! What do you want me to do to prove my sincerity? What do I need to do first? Ruth: Be a Christian, John. John: Be a Christian? What do you mean? We all belong to the church. Ruth: Being a church member does not necessarily imply being a Christian. John: Well, that is a new one on me. Wliat is your idea of it, little one? Ruth: A Christian is a follower of Christ. John: I supposed all church members did that. Ruth: Some do and some do not. John: Well, suppose you explain. Ruth: Where Christians dwell, there abide gentle- ness, helpfulness, sympathy and love. I find none of these things here. All I hear is money, fashion and pleasure. John: This is all Greek to me. I've listened patiently to your nice little sermonette; please reward me with a smile, and say that you will go with me tonight. Your pretty lips were not made for such sombre words; they were made for smiles, laughter and kisses. (Approaching her.) Say that you will go to the concert with me tonight, Ruth Ruth (waiving him back): No, thank you, I cannot. John: You mean that you will not. Well, there are plenty of girls who will. Au revoir! (Exit John) (Ruth meditates. Enter Alice and Robert.) Robert (to Ruth): We kids are going to have a wed- ding. Come on and help stuff the preacher to make him look fat! Alice is going to play the march, and we are going to have it in here. Hurry up, before mother gets back from her charity board — she never lets us kids have any fun. Ruth: How many in your wedding party? 17 Robert: 'Bout a dozen — just asked anybody that hap- pened along. Some of them have gone home after their things. Alice: W-ien shall I begin to play, Bob? Robert: I'll come in and give you the signal — no, begin it now and they can be getting into step. It won't take long to stuff the preacher, will it, Ruth? Ruth: No, come on, let's fix him up. (Ruth and Robert leave room. Alice plays.) Bridal party enters. Boy (from rear): Wait a minute! I want to be in on that, but I look so unfinished! Daniel: Come on, that's the way you always look; so what are you kicking about? Let's march around some more till he gets ready. I just love to march! When I get married, if I have to choose between the march and the bride, I'll take the march! Boy (clown): Who'll march with nie? Giri: Not me! Gertrude: I will, John — nothing makes me sick. Preacher: Do you take this lady, Mr. Park, to be your only wife forever? Robert: Yes, I do. Preacher: Miss Lena Lewis, do you take this gentle- man to be your only husband and promise to obey him forever? Lena: No, I will not. Preacher: Wliy won't you, I'd like to know? Lena: Because I've changed my mind! Now you may all walk around and view the remains. Preacher: This ain't no funeral. ^AHiere's the remains? Lena: Stupid! The remains of the wedding! There it is! (Points to groom.) Stop that laughing back there! This is a very j^olemn occasion — this is no laughing matter! Robert (mimics) i "This is no laughing matter." Lena: Be still, you forsaken-at-the-altar husband! Si- lence becometh thee! Robert: I'll not be still, you wretched husband- deserter! 18 Lena: Let's play something else. Let's play "Romeo and Juliet." Gertrude: I'll be Womeo. Daniel: No, you won't; I'll be her myself! Gertrude: Oh, my baby is very sick. Get a doctor quick ! Preacher: What seems to be the matter? Gertrude: Oh, I don't know! Get a doctor, quick! Daniel: Let me walk him around a bit — that's what mother does when my little sister howls. (Walks about.) (Enter doctor, calmly removing gloves, etc.) Doctor: How long has she been in this comatose condition? Gertrude: There ain't nothin' a matter with her toes! I fink it's her 'pendix — everybody's a-detin' it! Doctor (aside): Send for a nurse at once! I will try to save your child. (Aside.) You had better take the mother away. Daniel: Say, doctor, I've had measles, mumps, rheu- matism and stomachache — eruptive, expansive, inflamma- tory and digestive diseases. Some diseases! The last named the worst of all. Doctor: That's a child's disease (scornfully). Daniel: You're mistaken. Why, I had it so bad after Christmas that it threw me on the floor, rolled me down twenty steps into the basement! When I v/as picked up later, a trifle sore and non compos mentis, the ache had entirely disappeared. Nov/, doctor, I have a very logical mind, and I have deduced from this unpleasant experience a fact that should be of wonderful assistance to the med- ical fraternity, namely: Shock has its place among the curative agencies of the world! Doctor: I should hesitate to try it on any of my patients. Daniel: I shouldn't if I were you. Well, as I was saying, I've had some diseases, but not an operative one. I should like to have everything, once, especially an oper- ation, since it puts one in a class all to oneself to have had something removed! (Enter nurse.) 19 Doctor: Nurse, prepare the patient for an operation on the heart. Preacher: Isn't that very serious, doctor? Doctor: No; science has made such wonderful ad- vancement that we now remove a man's heart as easily as we remove his lungs or brain. Preacher: But this is a female. Doctor: 411 the same thing, except the heart may be a little larger and softer. Nurse: The patient is ready. (Doctor operates.) Preacher: What form of heart trouble is this, doctor? Won't this be an expensive job, doctor? Doctor: Have they money? Preacher: Yes. Doctor: Yes, this is the most expensive operation we are ever called upon to perform because of the marvelous skill it requires. If we should accidentally leave the sur- gical scissors in the cavity there might be a suit for damages. Preacher: What form of trouble is this? Doctor: Endocarditis. The laity call it "hardening" of the heart. Seemingly, we are entering the realm of the minister, but in reality we come in only when he fails. He endeavors to soften the heart — we remove it. Robert: Do they live? Doctor: Yes, the world is full of heartless people. Everybody knows that. You may tell the mother it is all over and her child lives. (Enter Mrs. Park.) Mrs. Park: Robert, take these noisy children out of here at once. Girls, what do you mean by allowing this? Alice: Don't scold; they wanted to have a little fun. Mrs. Park: Go to your room, Alice. You may remain, Ruth; I have something to say to you. Be seated. I have a very unpleasant duty to perform, and I do trust that you will receive what I am going to say in the same kind spirit that it is given. I have not failed to note the unusual attention my son is paying you; nor have I failed to note the pleasure with which you receive it. Of course you are cognizant of the fact that you are a fairly good-looking girl; but since you have no money, no position, you can scarcely 20 aspire to my son, who has a wonderful future before him. In extenuation of anything he may have said to you, or of any false hopes he may have raised, I have but this justi- fication to offer: Young men are very slisceptible (old men, too, for that matter) to the charms of a pretty girl. In their youthful ardency they frequently do and say things which, after mature years have brought discretion, they deeply deplore. So I ask as a slight recognition of all that we have done for you, that you desist from your effort to allure our son. To be perfectly frank, our son must marry money. It is absolutely essential to his career. I trust that I have made myself perfectly plain, and that you will accede to my Mdshes. Ruth: Yes, Mrs. Park, you have made yourself per- fectly plain. I would spare you the deep humiliation that must follow your ill-advised words. You have been frank — brutally frank — and I shall follow your precedent with apologies to those who taught me to be kind. True, your son has pursued me with his most unwelcome attentions. Only today he was rude to me when I protested against them, and declined his attendance to the concert tonight. I have anticipated your wishes: I have refused to marry your son. Mrs. Park: John asked you to marry him? Incredible! Ruth: Do not be alarmed. I shall never marry your son. There is a gulf between us as wide as the sea. Mrs. Park: What do you mean to imply by your dramatic, enigmatical words? Ruth: I mean this: the man that I shall love and m.arry will not be a shriveled up soul, surfeited with the pleasures of life before life is scarce begun, and have no higher ambition than to go to the club and theatre. Ah! he reminds me of the Susquehanna River — fairly good to look at, but worthless because of its shallowness. Forgive my discourtesy; I do not mean to be rude, but I am pro- foundly stirred at the lack of righteous ambition in this home. What an opportunity lies at your door Mrs. Park: Stop, girl; I will suffer your impertinent criticism no longer. (Sarcastically) I wonder what you wou'.d have me do? Turn my home into an orphan asylum? You speak as if I did nothing for humanity. Only yester- day I sent a number of garments to a poor woman, and Mr Park supports the church generously. Ruth: That is not what I mean. By your teaching and example are you inspiring your children to the highest things? Do you go to the homes of the poor and the sick? 21 you make them feel that someone really cares? The loving word, the gentle touch, mean more than all else to the desolate. 1 know, for I have needed them sorely. Mrs. Park (turning away): Why, girl, you are a fanatic ! Ruth: Please do not turn away! Listen to me! I know that I am an unwelcome guest in this house (Maid shows in poor woman.) Ruth (to woman): Oh, good evening. .Mrs. Park (astonished): Ruth, who is this woman? Woman: Please excuse ma for coming," but I was so hungry for a sight of my baby's face that 1 could not stay away. You see, I was never separated from him before, and he is all I have. I thought, perhaps, he was just as hungry for me as I am for him, so I've come to take him home. Mrs. Park: Ruth, who is this woman, and what is she talking about? Ruth: I beg of you, let me explain! I was taking a long walk the other day, when I found a little boy lying by the road crying piteously with pain because of a sprained ankle. I carried him to his home and assisted his mother in making him as comfortable as possible. I learned that it was imperative that she go out the next three days to work; that would leave the child entirely alone until night, and he was unable to rise without support. Returning here, I found it impossible to dispel the picture of the swollen ankle and white, quivering face. I could not sleep for thinking of his being alone those three long days, so the next morning I arose early, and while you were out motoring, I brought him here and took him to my room to care for him. I Imev/ that you would disapprove, so I kept my secret with the aid of the maid, who pitied him, too. The big moments of life ought to come to us in beautiful places, but they do not for me. As I raised the little dar- ling from his bed and carried him from his home, while his baby lips whispered, "I love oo,; it would be so long till muver comes back tonight," the greatest moment I have ever known came to me. It is compensation for any price I shall have to pay for my act; and it is a great price that I shall pay — I see it in your face. Mrs. Park: That child here in my house! Incredible! (Mildred enters with child in little wagon.) 22 Mildred: Willie heard his mamma's voice and cried to tum in, so 1 just hauled him in brover's wagon, tause he tau't walk. Woman (clasping child): My darling! (Mildred dances with glee.) Mrs. Park (snatching Mildred from child): Woman, bring your child and come with me. (Woman starts to obey, but turns back to Ruth.) Woman: I love you, girl, for your kindness to my child; the memory of it will brighten many a dark night. I have not always lived as you found me. Once I had a pleasant home, another child, a good husband. After a Jong illness, girlie died; then misfortune after misfortune overtook us. One day my husband came home deeply dis- tressed and said that he had been discharged because of inability to do the amount of work that he had formerly done His health had been failing for some time, and it was not long until he left me, too. I tried so hard to save the home, but there was not work enough for everybody, and no one wanted me because of the baby. I'm not com- plaining; I'm only telling you so you may realize how deeply your kindness has touched me. It makes me believe again that, perhaps, somewhere, there is a God who looks with compassion upon the sorrows of the poor! (All leave room but Ruth.) Mildred re-enters, excited. Mildred (sobbing): Mamma's sendin' dem away, Rufie. (Throws arms about her.) Don't cry, Rufie. Let's tell Dod about it. Ruth (holding child at arm's length and gazing at her fondly): "Suffer little children to come unto Me." Mildred: 'And forbid them not." Both: "For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." (Embraces child.) Strains of "No room in the inn" are wafted in to Ruth and child as they sit with bowed heads. No beautiful chamber, no soft cradle bed. No place but a manger, nowhere for His head; No praises of gladness, no tho't of their sin, No glory but sadness, no room in the inn. 23 CHORUS: No room, no room for Jesus, Oh, give Him welcome free, Lest you should hear at heaven's gate, "There is no room for thee." Mildred: No room for Jesus, neither? (Surprised and sorrowful.) (Curtain.) ACT Mi. Seven months later. (Maid dusting. Enter John.) John: What are you doing here? Maid: Shure, and cain't you see thet I'm a dustin'? John: Well, stop till I get out of here. Maid: Indade I won't — my time is pracious, and yours ought to be. (Shakes duster near him.) John: Stop that, I say, or I'll have you dismissed! Maid: You naden't throuble yourself about that; your mither has already antacapated your wishes and dismissed me — but I'm not a goin'. Oi'm goin' to stay and see what Miss Ruth is goin' to do with you. If Oi hadn't a been so interested in you and her Oi'd have been gone long enough ago. Oi don't ioike it here — you're too ardinary for me. (Shakes duster again.) John: Stop that, I say, Leigh! By the way, Biddy, where did you get that name of yours? It's a boy's name. Maid: Shure, and Oi'd rather be named after a dacant boy thin after jist enybody. Oi have the full name of my Uncle O'Doud. Of course, you have heard of him — he is a grate lawyer! He niver lost but one case in his loife, and that was not his fault; it was caused by the parvarsity of a American gurrul. John: How was that? Maid: Well, you see, it was Ioike this: When he was a courtin' the prisent Mrs. O'Doud she didn't Ioike his name — she said it was too Irish. She was a sweet, pretty little thing, but awful obstreferous. Altho that eloquent tongue of his had won her love, still the dasase had not took her so hard that she would stand for ivery- thing about him. So what did that parvarse gurrul do 24 but damand that he drop the "O" and have a dacent American name. So it is Mr. Doud iver sance. You may talk about your "peace" advocates; about Bryan giving up a perfectly good job for peace; about Ford taking a per- fectly good trip for peace; but belave me, nather one of them made the sacrifice my uncle did when he gave up a perfectly good name for peace. (Laughs heartily.) John: What's so funny? Maid: 01 could die a laughing when Oil think what a long argument that was! Oi heard him a tell it myself, that he began in the morning, he argued it all day; he took it up again in the evening and kept it up till 12 o'clock: then when he saw no signs of her a givin' in, he made one last grand appale. He stood up before her! If you have niver seen my Uncle O'Doud stand up before a jury in that foine way of his with his eyes a twinkling loike two stars in the milky way, and his hand a foolin' with his watch-chain, you've missed an imposing sight — belave- me! John: How did it come out? Maid: Figure it out for yourself — he's been known iver sance as Mr. Doud. (Looks at large doll.) Oi'll declare if this doll hasn't the same beautiful fatures loike my Uncle O'Doud! (Kisses doll.) He hasn"t but one inemy in the world; iverybody loves him. John: Who's his enemy? Maid: Once he was at a grate dinner party, and a grate singer sat next to him; she was enything but beau- tiful, but Oh my, she could sing! The people got to talking about blind and deaf folks. Now my uncle is absent from himself sometimes when he is on a case, so when the lovely singer turned to him suddenly and asked, "Which would you rather be, blind or deaf?" he turned his lovely eyes upon her and answered in a far-away voice, "Blind, when Oi look at you; deaf when Oi hear you sing!" John: No wonder she's his "inemy"! Maid: Too bad; it's a growin' on him, too — this absenteeness. Yes, it's too bad! Why, do you know that he took his wife out a ridin' last summer and she got out for to gather some wild flowers, and he forgot her and drove home without her? After he got home he waited for a long time for his dinner and his wife; when nather came he got worrit and telephoned the polace that he feared that she had been kidnaped, and for them all to get out and hunt. Just as iverybody was a gettin' ready 25 to hunt, in walked Mrs. O'Doud every bit as mad as Moses was when he found that crowd what he was a tryin' to lade worshiping a calf; if there had been anything around to brake she would have braked it, too, just as Moses did, she was that mad. John: How did she get home? Maid: Somebody picked her up and brought her home. She was ashamed to tell them that he had forgot her, so she let them think that she was crazy and just wanderin' around. When it got out, it hurt his practice considerable; many people said that if his absenteeness throubled him loike that he might forget which side of a case he was on and plade for the wrong side. His powers of persuasion are truly wonderful (dreamily). If he can plade his love for a gurrul like he plades a case, Oi- John (laughing): So you'd like to be the "gurrul," would you? Maid (appraisingly) : Say, do you know that you are different from what you used to be before Miss Ruth came? John: Is that so, Biddy? Tell me what difference you see. Maid: 01 can't explain it, but you are different. But you've got to go a different way yet before you're different enough to maKe any difference with Miss Ruth, who is so different from you in so many different ways that she can still see the difference between you and the different folks that ar so different from you in so many different ways. That is the difference. John: Thank you, Leigh. I shall be more different still. Maid: Mercy! Ain't he impressed with himself! (Alice enters.) Alice: I thought I heard voices? Maid: You did. Your brother dropped in and Oi was giving him some advice. Alice: Leigh, you are entirely too late with your dust- ing, and in the future reserve your advise for those who ask it. Maid: Shure and Oi should be glad to do that, but the very ones what nade it the most don't know enough to ask it. (Exit maid) (Alice arranging books, John reading.) 26 Alice: I presume it will create quite a stir for a club like ours to go dov/n to the slums and sing at a mission. A unique experience, to say the least. Quite a fad to sell tags and give charity balls, but to use our trained voices on which our indulgent papas have spent so much money — that is entirely different! John: What are you going to do with all of those books. Sis? Alice (surprised): Why, I've just been telling you! Haven't you heard a word I said, John Park? We're going to have a prayer meeting here tonight! Why don't you laugh? John: Nothing to laugh at, for I know very well if that be true, Ruth is at the bottom of it; anything that she sees fit to engineer I'll not laugh at, Alice: Well, we are not going to have a prayer meet- ing; but we are going to practice songs to sing in the slums. How perfectly funny that you should think we were going to have a prayer meeting! Goosie, don't you know that it is impossible to have a prayer meeting unless people can pray? And who in our bunch could pray? John: That's so; I hadn't thought of that. Will Ruth be in here while you practice? Alice: Yes indeed; she loves such songs as we shall sing. John: I'll be here, too. I want to be near her when she is smiling and gracious — she is so cold and formal with me. Do you know. Sis, that I'd rather have a smile from her than anything else in this world? Alice: Too bad she won't love you; but if you want her love, John, you will have to qualify. I don't blame you for loving her; isn't she splendid? I feel a vague stirring, a reaching out after something since she is here; my thoughts, my ideals, are all changing. Isn't her silent iniluence wonderful? John: Is it? (Walks about, thinking.) What time are the folks coming? A I Ice : Eight- thirty. John: I'll be here. Alice: I wouldn't if I were you. John; mother will know that you come just to be near Ruth, and there will be another scene. 27 John: I'll be here just the same! The next scene will be with me; (Exit John) (Enter Mr. and Mrs, Park.) Mrs. Park (taking up paper): I see Dame Fashion has decreed still fuller skirts. I am sorry, for I like narrow ones much better. And I see, dear, that the gentlemen's coats are to be fuller, too. How do you like the idea? Mr. Park: Don't like it! Shan't wear them! I'm not going back to kilts. If you want to look like a balloon, you may, but I'll not. One slave to fashion in the house is enough. (Enter Ruth and Uncle. Introduces Uncle.) Mrs. Park: Did you know that your uncle was coming, Ruth? Ruth: No, I did not. But isn't it lovely that he came? Oh, tFncle! I'm so happy to see you! Are you well? Did you miss me very much? How is my little bird, and is my rose-bush growing well? Are ,Fido and Kitty still chums? How is little Tom, and does he remember me? Oh, Uncle, I am so glad to see you! Uncle: I am glad to see you, my child; my old eyes have ached for a, sight of your pretty face. I have come to take you home, for my heart read between the lines, and I discovered what you were too brave and loyal to tell. I divined your loneliness and struggle. (Turning to family.) I am generally accounted a queer old man — "eccentric," most people say — and what I am going to tell you now will only corroborate that opinion. (To Ruth) : Child, I implore you to forgive the decep- tion I have practiced upon you; it was prompted by my love for you. (To the Parks) : I have no apology to make to you. You have entertained an angel. From this girl's early childhood I have known that her heart and mind were attuned to the beauty of the skies. As each succeeding year fulfilled the promise of her child- hood, 1 wondered if that young life were deeply enough rooted in the firm, rfch soil of love to withstand the fires of temptation. I had to know; so it was I who prevailed upon Mrs. Clifton to send my child here. I have a friend who know^s you and your household well, and from what I learned of it I conceived the idea of sending her to you to pass through the testing and refining process. I see you start — I mean no insult; I only speak the truth! I deliberately placed her in the furnace, believing that she would come out untouched, unburned — pure gold. But I 28 had to know of her strength before I unfolded my great plan for her! She has alM^ays breathed forth a loving, compassionate nature. Wherever there was sickness or need there was she to bless and help. When she was but five years old, in her play-house were gathered at one time a strange family— a kitten, a big dog, a lame chicken, two rabbits and a sick lamb. They dwelt together in peace and comfort; the love of this child blessing them all. In a little room adjoining hers lay, for three weeks, a home- less newsboy who was crippled by a car. She helped nurse him back to health, and from that day the desire of her heart has been to establish a home for poor and sick children. I have come to say that her dreams shall be realized, for I know that she is strong and worthy to undertake so great a work; and a hospital she shall have for her little ones! Ruth: But uncle, the money? It will take a lot of money! Uncle: There is plenty of money, my child. I may be a queer old man, but I am not a poor one. You may have all the money your enterprise requires. "You have been faithful over a few things; I will make thee ruler over many things." Ruth: When can we begin, Uncle? When shall we go home? Uncle: Tomorrow, dear, (Enter John; is introduced.) Uncle (closely scrutinizing John): So this is the young man who claims to love and wants to marry my girl? John: I love her, and have asked her to marry me. Uncle: You are not half bad. There may be hope for you. I've seen large oaks from little acorns grow; I've seen the lightning chained; I've seen ships in the air; I've heard the human voice a thousand miles distant; I've seen sins like scarlet washed as white as snow: so there is hope for you, young man. No, you are not half bad. If you would put aside your shoddy aristocracy, and cultivate that true aristocracy of mind and heart that inspires men to help lift the burden of the world ; that inspires men to turn the current of human lives into larger rivers of use- fulness — then I say, young man, there is hope for you. Yes, I have seen even greater miracles than that would be! The secret of life and development is to fall in with the forces at work, and do every moment's duty right. 29 (Enter maid with card. Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Park.) John: Ruth, are you going to leave us soon? Won't you please give me a little sympathy? I'm not the aimless fellow I was a few months ago. I know that my manhood's noblest self has been covered with rubbish, but I'm different now, for I've laid my selfish attributes on the altar of love. Many a time when I've been inclined to do wrong, the thought of you has kept me right. Just ask any of the fellows and they will tell you I am different. Can't you see it, Ruth? (Exit Uncle) Ruth:. Yes, I have noted the indomitable resolution in your eyes and voice. John: Ruth, I love your sweet sympathy, your free- dom from pose and affectation, your loftiness of thought and word. You have revealed a new world to me; now do you mean to leave me to travel its difficult paths alone? Won't you stay with us and teach me the way? Ruth: No, I cannot stay, but I will leave you an infal- lible guide. (Taking Bible.) This is my mother's Bible; I never look at it that I do not see her dear face bending over it. See, here are her markings! How I love those marked places! What a rich inheritance is a mother's marked Bible! If all mothers would so link their lives with this Book, that to their children down the vista o'f the years the sight of it would recall them, more children would walk in the right way because of the impetus re- ceived at their mother's knee. I leave this with you; it will guide and bless you. You may return it to me at the end of a year. John: May I not see you before then? Ruth: No, you must first serve your apprenticeship. John: My apprenticeship? Ruth: Yes, your apprenticeship to Christ (Alice enters with several girls.) Jane (looking over music on piano): Let's sing some of these old songs until the others come. (All sing "Carry Me Back to Old Virginny.") Girl: Here are the others. What are we going to sing at the mission? Jane: The minister made but one selection; he left the others to us. 30 Girl (sneeringly) : It's a wonder that he would trust our judgment. Girl (wisely): He knew that Jane would be here. Alice: I admire his taste, Jane, and yours, too. Jane: This is the song he se^scted. Shall we practice? (All sing "For You I Am Praying.") (During singing, Mr. and Mrs. Park and Uncle enter.) Alice: What is the next? Jane: Ruth, tell us your favorite. Ruth: The song I love best is "Where He Leads Me I Will Follow." Uncle: Tell them why you love it, child; it will do them good. Ruth: I cannot remember the time when I did not love Jesus. When I was about fifteen I learned to know Him as I had never known Him before. I was listening to a great Bible teacher on the ministry of Christ, when suddenly I seemed to hear a sweet voice whisper "Come, my child." While I sat entranced the choir began to sing softly "Where He Leads Me I Will Follow." Listening to the Voice that was now strangely blended in beautiful harmony with the music of the choir, I knew the Voice — it was my Saviour calling me. The vision I had of Christ that day was one of Service. I saw Him take the little ones in his arms and bless them; I saw Him open the eyes of the blind and cleanse the leper's spots; I saw Him feed the hungry multitude and calm the waves; I saw Him send the sinful woman away forgiven; I saw Him stretch forth His loving arms as He yearningly said "Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy-laden and I will give you rest." And I knew my Christ. Oh, that you all might know Him! Let us ask our Father to put upon our lips the sweet message of Christ; to stamp upon our hearts His blessed face; to fill our lives with His compassionate love, and help us to see in the despairing hands held out to us the bleeding hands of our crucified Lord. (After a moment's intense silence, all but Mrs. Park sing the first verse, feelingly and reverently, during which the impression made by Ruth's words deepens. When the verse is finished, Mrs. Park rises slowly with the light of a great revelation on her face, and approaching the singers, and Ruth, who stands in their midst, declares earnestly, "I'll go with Him, too." Ruth and the family group about her as all sing last verse softly.) (Curtain.) LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 017 401 614 8