The Squire: An Original Comedy in Three Acts

by Arthur Wing Pinero

ACT II. — THE SIREN.

Scene:—An old-fashioned, comfortable, oak-panelled room. The furniture dark and cumbersome. Down stage R., a door. Up stage, R., C, capacious fireplace, with solid mantel-piece above it. At back R., and L., two substantial casement windows. The windows are in deep recesses, about two steps above the stage level. These recesses are sheltered by heavy draperies. Between the windows, up stage, C., a massive bureau, opened, with writing materials upon it. Before bureau a square stool. On L., of bureau a chair. Up stage L., a door. Below door L., a settee; above settee, a bell rope. Before fire a comfortable arm-chair; L. of arm-chair, a small table with a reading lamp upon it. On mantel-piece, a clock to strike; other articles of furniture, etc., to fill spaces. The flooring of dark oak, square carpeting R., of stage. The whole to produce the effect of "a woman's room" Curtains closed, L. window unfastened. See written letter on bureau. All gas out behind. Gas one-half up inside. Music for act drop.

It is night time—no moon. The lighting to be sombre throughout the act.

(Before the curtain rises Felicity's voice is heard
singing off R.)
There's a jingle to make a maiden glad
And flush the skies above her,
The clink of the spurs of her soldier lad,
"I am a faithful lover."
Sun is shining, flow'rs are blooming,
Light and bloom are not for aye;
What if sob and sigh are looming,
Hear the jingle while you may!
CURTAIN.
There's a jingle to make a maiden glad,
etc.
(Kate enters at close of song—puts keys on table.)
Kate. (leans over back of arm-chair—listening) Poor little bird, singing of her soldier lover. How
am I to tell her that her soldier's heart is not of so
bright a colour as his jacket? How can I tell her,
when there is another soldier lover in the world so
good and so true? (sits R., of table—she opens her
locket; it contains a likeness of Eric) Eric! Ah!
the man who painted this miniature hasn't done Eric
justice; the face is too white and pink, and the
moustache isn't at all the right shade. I know I
could catch the exact tone of Eric's moustache if I
were a painter. It's a kind of browny, yellowy,
red-tinted, a sad auburn, with a sea-weedy wash about it.
Under the nose it suggests one of our daybreak skies,
and there, where the ends droop, a sunset of Turner's.
Dear old Eric! (kisses locket)
(There is a knock at the door L.,; Kate hastily closes
the locket and glances at clock.)
It's late! (aloud) Who is it?
(The door opens, L., and Christiana enters, knitting
stocking.)
Chris. Gilbert Hythe and Gunnion, with a box
of clothes for the girl, (down by settee L.)
(Gilbert and Gunnion enter—Gil. carrying a very
diminutive wooden trunk; he places the box down
L. C., and doffs his hat. Gil. still has his gun with
him; he goes up to bureau.)
Gun. Good-night to you, Squire. Gilbert Hythe's
been so kind as to lend me a hand with this blessed
box. (pointing to box) My child's wardrobe, Squire,
scraped together by the sweat of my brow.
Kate. Sit down, Gilbert. (Gilbert puts his gun
down L., of bureau and gets to R., of it, standing) Take Felicity's wardrobe upstairs into Felicity's
room, Mr. Gunnion. (Gun. goes to take box—Chris.
down L.)
Chris. Excuse me, Squire, but before Gunnion
goes I should like you to make note of the ale
(Gun. drops box) that's been drawn from the new cask.
The ale was in my keeping and it's due to me for
you to know of the loss.
Gun. (on his knees—to Chris.) Drat you for a
mischievous hussy! Why, your own flesh and blood
helped me to drive the tap in with a mallet, and
drank double what I did.
Chris. More shame for an old man to lead a
poor boy astray!
Kate. (shaking her finger at Gun.) Oh! Mr.
Gunnion, how could you!
Gun. (rises—gets nearer table) Well, Squire,
it's not a thing I've done afore, and it's not a thing
I'm like to do again.
Kate. Come, come, that's all right.
Gun. And I've paid the penalty precious dear.
I've had my yead under the pump from four o'clock
till past sunset, and wettin' my yead is a thing I
dursn't do.
Kate. Oh, dear!
Gun. As for the drop o' drink, I was druv to it
by grief.
Kate. By grief?
Gun. I'm an old man, I am, I ain't got a tooth
to my yead. I've had thirteen children, and now
the last of 'em's gone. It ain't for an old man to
see the only set of teeth in his house walk out of
the front door without takin' on a bit.
(Felicity sings again off R.)
Why, confound the brat, she's squalling in the
Squire's place now. Don't 'ee stand it, Squire!
(Felicity comes from door R., carrying a book and
a little silken shawl. She gives book to Kate,
and gently places the shawl on Kate's chair.)
Drat you, what do you mean by vocalizing free and
easy like this? You ain't been called on for it. Do
you want to make your father look small?
Fel. (R.) I beg Squire's pardon. If I didn't
sing I should cry. That's the worst of being too
happy—it makes people chokey. (Kate pats her
cheek—seeing her box) Oh, father's brought my
bits o' things, (crosses in front—she runs over to
box, throws open the lid and hurriedly empties it of
the few mean articles of clothing it contains. From
the bottom of the box she takes out a small gaudily
framed picture) Oh, I am so glad! There's my
linsey, and my goloshes—my workbox!
Gun. What do you mean by bits o' things?
Leave your wardrobe alone.
(Gun. hastily replaces the clothing. Fel. runs over
to Kate and gives her the portrait.)
Fel. Look, Squire—Tom Morris—ain't he handsome?
Gun. (replacing clothes) Darn these things!
(mumbling) What d'ye mean by tossing your things
on the floor in that way? (lifting box) Good-night
to you, Squire.
(Christie goes up to chair by L., D.)
I'll leave this in the gell's room and be off.
Kate. Good-night, Gunnion.
Fel. (goes to Gun.) Good-night, father. Go
straight home.
Gun. Drat 'ee, what d'ye mean by that!
(Fel. goes round back of Kate's chair to stool R.,
and sits looking at photo.)
Good-night to ye, Gilbert Hythe, and thank 'ee for
your help. Good-night, Christie, (shouldering box) Darn this wardrobe! (turning to look at Fel.) Ah!
your twelve brothers and sisters never had a start
in the world like o' this!
(He goes off—Chris, closes the door after him, then
sits on chair up L., knitting. Gil. comes to table,
puts hat down.)
Gil. The time's come for us to part company.
I've brought my books and odds and ends, Squire,
as I promised.
Kate. But you must make one at the Harvest
Feast, Gilbert. Who is to play with the children,
and to set the old folks laughing, if you are missing?
Gil. Folks will have to laugh at me, Squire, if
they are to get a laugh out of me, to-morrow, (he
takes a few rusty keys and some small dog-eared
books from his pocket, and places them on table
before Kate) Here are the keys—the Red Barn, the
barn below Fenning's field, the store house. The
key of the oats house—(Kate puts key and money
in key basket)—Gunnion's got. (puts books on table) There's my account—it's poor book-keeping, Squire,
but plain. Will you cast your eye over it?
Kate. (shaking her head) No!
Gil. Thank you, Squire, (places a little bag of
money before her) John Buckle's rent, and Mrs.
Tester's arrears—less some job wages paid by me
since Saturday. And that's all.
Kate. Thank you Gilbert.
Gil. And now, Squire, I can't say good-bye to
you in two words. Will you hear what I've to say?
Kate. Certainly, Gilbert, (gives book to Felicity)
(Gil. looks at Fel. and at Chris, and learn over
the back of Kate's chair.)
Gil. (in an undertone to Kate) Can't it be
between us two, Squire?
Kate. No!
Gil. (aside in Kate's ear) Kate, I'm almost a
desperate man. Take care how you treat me to-night.
Kate. (without moving, aside to Gil.) How
dare you speak to me like that?
Gil. (aside to Kate) Reason before you let your
good friends slip from you. I'll give you a chance
to consider what you are doing, (turns up to bureau
—aloud) Squire, I want to scribble a few words
to you. (pointing to bureau) May I write here?
Kate. If you please.
(Gil. sits at bureau and writes quickly.)
(fretfully) What are all these, Felicity?
Fel. (opening book and reading) "Gilbert
Hythe's cures for cows." Shall I read 'em, Squire?
Kate. Oh no.
Fel. (from another book) "Poor mother's receipt
for brewing herb beer. Note: but nobody can
brew it like poor mother could."
Kate. (takes the book from Fel. and reads—
aside to Fel.) Gilbert's mother was my nurse, (takes
book from Fel.—looking over her shoulder at Gil.,
who is writing) Poor fellow!
Fel. (opens another book) "An account of Joe
Skilliter's pig, who could say 'Yes' and 'No,' by
moving his ears. Note: When Joe's pig was killed it
was tough eating. Another argument against the
spread of education."
Gil. (rises and comes down to table. He places
a note before Kate) The few words, Squire, (she
takes the note) Ah! don't read 'em till I've gone.
(Kate replaces the note with a shrug of the shoulders.
Christie rises—to Fel.) Good-bye, little
woman.
Fel. (rises with a curtesy) Good-bye to ye, Mr.
Hythe. (sits again)
(Gil. is going.)
Kate. (holds out her hand) Good-night, Gilbert.
(Gil. looks at Chris., who is busy knitting, then
speaks aside to Kate.)
Gil. (in an undertone) You haven't read my
note yet, Squire. (Kate elevates her eyebrows in
surprise—Gil. crosses to L., to Chris.) Good-bye,
Chris., my girl.
Chris. Turn up your collar, Gilbert, it's bitter
cold, (turns it up for him)
Gil. You're right, there's a wet mist; we're going
to have a bad night, take my word for it. Good-night
to you.
(He goes out L., Kate rises and goes to window R.)
Kate. (looking out) Good-night. It is as black
as ink. (shivering) Christie, make up a fire here. I
shall read for a little while before I go to bed. (puts
money and key basket in bureau drawer, and sits on
stool by bureau)
Chris. (looking at Fel., who is reading the little
books) My hands are as white as hers, but I suppose
she is to be the lady's maid.
Kate. Oh, Christie, Christie, after all these
years! Surely you are my friend still, (takes book
from table)
Chris. I know I'm your servant; whether or not
I'm your friend, Squire, is another matter; but I'm
not her friend, and I own it.
Kate. You're very foolish, and very jealous.
Chris. That's it, I'm jealous; I hope there'll
never be a worse name for it.
(She goes out, door L., Kate sits on sofa L.)
Kate. (to Fel.) You can run off to bed, little
maid.
Fel. Thank'ee, Squire, (puts books down)
Kate. I shan't want you any more to-night.
(Fel. curtseys—crosses to door L., carrying the
soldier's portrait.)
Don't forget to say your prayers.
Fel. (coming down) Squire, (looks round
nervously, twitching apron. Kate looks up from her
book)
Kate. (raising her head—fretfully) What is it?
Fel. I suppose there's no harm in a girl praying
for her sweetheart?
Kate. No—if he's a good fellow and worthy
of her.
Fel. If he's a bad 'un, praying's likely to be of
more good to him. (she comes nearer Kate and
speaks in an undertone) Because, Squire—don't be
vexed at me—because, if you like, when I'm praying
for Tom I might make a small mention of—er—the
other gentleman, (close to Kate)
Kate. What other gentleman?
Fel. (bending forward and whispering) The
young lieutenant, Squire. (Kate rises angrily)
Kate. How dare you! I am very angry with
you! There's not the slightest—Oh, Felicity, how
came you to think of such a thing? (she draws Fel.
to her. Fel. claps her hands and laughs)
Fel. He's such a nice young man, Squire—you
couldn't help it.
Kate. Be quiet, child. We don't always fall in
love with nice young men.
Fel. We do generally, Squire. May I just mention
him along with Tom? Parson won't know.
Kate. Well, Felicity, there's no harm in praying
for a man, even if one is not over-fond of him.
Fel. No, Squire.
Kate. So, if you like, just a little for the young
lieutenant—
Fel. Yes, Squire?
Kate. And—
Fel. And who, Squire?
Kate. And the woman he loves. Good-night,
dear, (pats her cheeks—Fel. goes up L.)
(Chris, enters door L., followed by Izod carrying
wood fuel. Chris, takes the wood from Izod,
and crosses to fireplace R.)
Why, Christie, what is he doing here?
Chris. (R. on her knees before fire) He's been
sleeping off the effects of that wicked old man's
temptation, poor dear, (takes up bellows)
Izod. (C.) I'm better now, Squire, thank you.
I've been precious queer all the afternoon.
Kate. (L. C.) Have you, indeed! Well, now
you've carried up the wood, you can be off home.
(Fel. has gone up to door L.)
Fel. (up L., turning) Good-night, Miss Christiana.
Chris. (sulkily—lighting fire) Good-night.
(blowing fire)
(Izod, unnoticed by Kate, gives Fel. a low
mock bow.)
Fel. (timidly) Good-night, sir.
Izod. Good-night, Miss Gunnion. (makes a grimace
at her)
(She goes out hurriedly.)
Chris. (R.) My poor brother has something to
say to you, Squire.
Izod. (C.) It's this, Squire. I hear that Gilbert
Hythe has had enough of the Priors, and that there's
room for a new handyman.
Kate. Gunnion takes Gilbert Hythe's place—you
know that.
Izod. Yes, Squire—but in consequence of the old
man's awful dishonesty with the harvest ale, I thought
perhaps you'd like to chuck him over. (Chris, gets
to R., of Izod) Now, Squire, I'm doing nothing just at
present—a gentleman, so to speak—give me a turn—
have me at your own price, Squire, and you get me
cheap.
Kate. (rising) Look here, Master Haggerston, I
don't want to do you an injustice, but I don't like
you. There's no room on my farm for you. I shall
be glad to hear that you're doing well elsewhere.
(Kate crosses to fireplace—the fire is now burning
brightly. Kate leans against mantel-piece as
Chris. goes over to Izod. L.)
Izod. (L. C., to Chris., aside) There, I told you so,
she's a cat!
Chris. (C.) Poor boy. (to Kate, whose back is
turned to them) Will you want me again to-night,
Squire?
Kate. (R. without turning) No. Go to bed,
Christie.
Chris. And I suppose Izod can be off about his
business?
Kate. Yes.
Chris. (aside to Izod, clutching his arm) Izod,
I'll see you out past the dog, dear—then go and lie
by the ricks near the Five Trees, and watch who
passes under the archway to-night.
Izod. (in a whisper) How long am I to wait?
Chris. Wait till a man walks from the Market-Sinfield
road, and you won't wait long, (to Kate) Good-night,
Squire, dear.
Kate. (turning) Good-night, Christie.
(Chris, and Izod go out L., closing the door after
them. The clock strikes nine.)
(Looks at her watch) Already! Oh, if that boy
should not have passed the Five Trees before
Eric comes! How provoking! (she crosses to door
L., listens, then turns the key) There's something
about to-night that I don't like. Christie! How
unkind of Christie to be so jealous! (still listening,
she goes to window L., pulls tack the curtain and
opens window) That's Christie and her brother walking
over the stones, (looking out) And there's the
light in Felicity's room still burning—I can see the
shadows. When will the house be still? Ugh! What
a dark night for Eric's lonely walk, (the bell rings in
the court below. Katie draws back) The bell! So
late—what can that mean? (she comes from the
window and draws the curtain over the recess) Something
wrong in the village—someone ill. (she crosses
to fireplace, nervously) Perhaps poor Mrs. Tester
has sent for me to read to her, or old Mr. Parsley
wants me to witness another will—I've witnessed
eight of them—he has only a few spoons to leave
behind him—I can't go to-night. (A knocking at the
door L.) Who is that?
Chris. (outside) Christiana.
(Kate crosses quickly to door L., and unlocks it.)
Kate. Christiana! (opening the door) What is
wrong, Christie?
(Christiana enters.)
Chris. Parson Dormer has walked over from
Market-Sinfield and must see you to-night.
Kate. Not to-night—not to-night—to-morrow.
(Dormer enters; he wears an old Inverness cape and
woollen gloves.)
Dormer. I suppose a man ought to apologize for
calling at this hour. It's cold enough, so one pays
the penalty, (takes off cape, gloves, and hat, and puts
them on settee L.)
Kate. (crosses distractedly to fireplace) Come to
the fire, parson, (he crosses to Kate.) Something
unusual must have brought you so late, (crosses
towards fire below table)
Dormer. (pauses below table) Perhaps, (crosses
to fire)
(While he does so, Chris, up stage gently looks
through the curtain into the window recess.)
Chris. (at L. C.—aside) She has opened the
window—the saint! Poor Izod won't have to wait
long, (going to door L.) Shall I sit up, Squire?
Kate. No, I will see the parson through the
archway.
(Chris, goes out.)
Dormer. Something unusual has brought me to
you.
Kate. (with exclamation and quickly) I
feared so.
Dormer. I am here to render a service to John
Verity's daughter.
Kate. Thank you.
Dormer. (stands with his back to fire—the red
glow is upon them) People think me a strange man,
but I am strange even to myself when I find my heart
running away with me as it does to-night.
Kate. You make me frightened of what you have
to say to me.
Dormer. It rests with you whether I shall speak
or hold my tongue.
Kate. (moves front chair R., of table) No—-say
what you have to say.
Dormer. Will you be truthful with me?
Kate. What do you mean by that?
Dormer. Strange thing for a rough man, such as
I, to aim at. I want to save you pain, (puts his
hand on her shoulder)
Kate. Pain! I thought so.
Dormer. If it had pleased Heaven to give me that
one woman for a wife, and that woman had borne
me a daughter, to that daughter I should have spoken
as I speak to you now.
Kate. (slowly places her hand in his—with pain) Is anyone, who might be dear to me, dead?
Dormer. No. (Kate sinks back) Some one has
returned to life.
Kate. Can it concern me?
Dormer. I hope—no! Answer me one question
honestly—do you love this young soldier whom I saw
here to-day?
Kate. Suppose I say—"no."
Dormer. Then I leave you without another word.
Kate. If I say—"yes?"
Dormer. Then I deliver to you a message.
Kate. A message! From whom?
Dormer. From the one who has returned to life.
Yes or No?
Kate. Heaven help me—I love Eric!
"There's a jingle,"
(In the distance there is the faint sound of Fel's
song, supposed to proceed from the room above
through the open window. Dor. crosses at back
and listens.)
"Sun is shining,"
Dormer. What is that? (crosses behind table
to c.)
Kate. (calmly) The child singing. She is happy.
Go on—I want the message. (Dormer takes some
papers from pocket-book)
—"Hear the jingle,"
Dormer. It is here—in writing, (at bureau)
Kate. Addressed—to whom?
"—while you may."
Dormer. To the woman who loves Eric Thorndyke.
Kate. I am she—who sends it?
"—above her."
Dormer. The stranger at the White Lion.
Kate. (after a pause) Who is the stranger at the
White Lion?
"—lover."
Dormer. (L. of table) Eric Thorndyke's wife.
(Kate rises slowly, supporting herself upon the
table; she and Dor. stand face to face. The song
above ceases.)
Kate. Eric—Thorndyke's—wife. Yes? (falls
back into chair)
Dormer. Shall I read the message?
Kate. If you please.
(Dormer goes up to the bureau, puts on his spectacles
and by the light of the lamp arranges his
papers.)
Dormer. It is written in French. I have translated
it faithfully, (he places a paper before Kate) That is the original.
(She takes it mechanically, looks at it, then lets it
fall upon the floor. At the same moment the
shadow of a man is seen at the window L., and the
curtains move slightly.)
Shall I read the translation to you? (opens paper
with one hand; pushes it off table)
Kate. If you please, (goes toward lamps)
(The movement of the curtain stops. Dor. reads
slowly.)
Dormer. (reading) "I was a singer in Brussels,
with a sweet voice. They called me La Sirène."
Kate. (in a low tone) Stop—the Siren. Yes.
Dormer. (continuing) "I am a Protestant, born
at Chaudefontaine, five miles from Liège. My father
was an Englishman, my mother a Belgian woman.
They died when I was a child."
Kate. An orphan, like me. (touches lamp again)
Dormer. (continuing) "Three years ago a student,
Eric Thorndyke—
(Eric appears at L. C., holding back curtain.)
married me secretly but legally at the Protestant
church in the Rue de Stassart in Brussels." Are
you listening?
Kate. Yes.
Dormer. (continuing) "I married for money
and station. I won neither. I found myself wedded
to a man who was dependent on a wretched allowance,
and who dared not disclose his marriage. We
were never happy, and I grew to hate him. One
terrible night he discovered me in a gaming house
pledging his name to pay my losses. I feared him
for the first time in my life, and I fled."
Kate. Is this—a woman?
Dormer. (continuing) "The fatigue of my journey
threw me into a fever. For many a day I lay
at death's door, and throughout the country where
the Siren's was a familiar voice I was thought dead."
Kate. Dead. I see.
Dormer. (continuing) "When I recovered, my
sweet voice and pretty face had gone from me forever.
I had nothing but a mad loathing for the man
whom I had never loved, and I formed a plan to
ruin him."
Kate. Oh!
Dormer. (continuing) "I took a new name and
fostered the report of my death, saying to myself,
'He will love and marry again, and then I, the
wreck of what I have been, will come back to life
and destroy his peace,'"
(Eric disappears.)
Kate. Not a woman—not a woman!
Dormer. (continuing) "But in time my heart
softened and my hate died away. My conscience
won't let me rest, and now, when remorse has broken
me, I drag myself to where Eric is, to learn what
evil I have caused. If there be any wrong, it is I
that have worked it—not my deceived husband, whom
I have not the courage to face." Signed "Mathilde."
Kate. Is that all?
Dormer. (pocketing paper) That is all. (Kate
rises)
Kate. How comes this—creature to know of the
existence of the woman who loves Eric Thorndyke?
Dormer. She asked me if I thought such a woman
existed. I replied, yes. "Then," said she, "whoever
this woman is, and wherever she may be, carry
my warning to her before it is too late." (puts paper
away and goes to sofa L.)
(Kate struggles with herself for a moment; her
manner becomes completely changed.)
Kate. (lightly) Ah, thank you, Parson Dormer,
for your goodness, and for your cold journey. May
I give you some wine?
Dormer. No. (he resumes his cape and gloves,
then holds out his hand to Kate) Good-night, (she
takes his hand) Don't come down, I can find my way
out. (looking round) I used to quarrel here with
your father.
Kate. Good-night. I shall look for you to-morrow
at our harvest supper—it is the happiest night in
our year, (screams and falls back, Dormer catches
her—he is going—she clutches his sleeve) Parson!
Parson! look! (she points to the written confession
which lies upon the floor) Don't leave me alone with
that!
Dormer. That—what?
Kate. That. Take it away with you—take it
away!
(Dormer crosses to table, takes up paper and puts it
in his pocket, and crosses back to L.)
(lightly again) Strange creatures, we women, aren't
we—and superstitious, a little. Remember, Parson
dear, we must keep our secret. Think of the scandal
and misery for poor Eric if this history became
known. For Eric's sake, remember.
Dormer. You bear the young gentleman no
grudge?
Kate. I—no.
Dormer. (looking at her) Ah, you'll eat a breakfast
to-morrow—I shan't—and my wound is twenty
years old. Good-night to you.
(He goes out. Kate listens to his receding steps L. D.)
Kate. (softly) Good-night! Good-night!
(There is the sound of the closing of a door in the
distance) Gone! (she looks round) Quite alone
(She shuts the door softly, then with uncertain
steps walks to the settee L., upon which she sinks
with a low moan—starts up wildly) It's late! Let
me see! (she takes her wedding ring from her pocket) My wedding ring—I'll hide that; it is such a lie to
carry about with me. (She hurriedly opens a small
drawer in the bureau R., of it and brings it to table) It will rest there, and can never be laughed at. (she
takes off her bracelets) These too—Eric's gifts, (she
throws them into the open drawer, then takes the
locket from her neck) Eric's portrait, (she opens the
locket and gazes at the portrait, earnestly) Another
woman's husband! (she rises) Nobody sees me.
(music—kisses locket—Eric covers his face with
his hands. Kate throws locket into the drawer. As
she does so, she catches sight of the papers lying
there. She seizes them) Papers! I had almost forgotten.
They would tell tales, if—if anything bad
happened to me. (She examines them. Eric comes
from the recess as if about to speak. Kate opens a
letter. From Eric when his regiment was quartered
at—(reading)—"My own Kate." Oh! (Eric sinks
horror-stricken, upon the chair by the bureau—his
head drops upon his arm. Kate finds an old photograph) Ah! a photograph of the church where we
were married. I remember—we entered at that door
—not the one under the porch—and it brought us to
the chancel. Ah, here it is—(reading) "The Parish
Church of St. Paul, at Blissworth, in Yorkshire."
How pretty. It's one hundred and fifty miles away.
What a long journey for such a marriage. A valentine!
(she takes the papers and kneels at the fire-place.
She goes down on her knees before fire and
burns the papers, first kissing them. Eric raises
his head) A lucky thing that Christie made such a
bright fire for me. (shivering) And yet it is cold.
Ha! I suppose heat never comes from burnt love
letters, (to the letters) Good-bye! Good-bye! (Eric
rises and slowly comes down C.)
Eric. (hoarsely) Kate!
Kate. (with a cry she starts up and faces him) Eric!
(Music stops.)
Eric. I know everything. I have heard. What
have you to say to me?
(Kate walks feebly towards him behind chair.)
Kate. (leaning on chair for support) Nothing
but—leave me. I am looking at you now for the
last time, (passes behind table to C. R., of bureau)
Eric. How can I leave you when we are bound
by such ties? My love chains me to you—nothing
earthly can break that?
Kate. The same words with which you wooed
that other woman! (passes to front of table)
Eric. Kate! (advancing)
Kate. Don't touch me or I shall drop dead with
shame.
(Eric advances again.)
Don't touch me—I can bear anything now but that!
Eric. You must hear me! (moves L. C.)
Kate. Hear you! What can you tell me but that
the pretty music you have played in my ears has been
but the dull echo of your old love-making? What
can you tell me but that I am a dishonoured woman,
(Eric turns away) with no husband, yet not a widow
—like to be a mother, and never to be a wife!\
(advances a step)
Eric. You will listen to me to-morrow? (turns
up a little)
Kate. To-morrow! I have no to-morrow. I am
living my life now. My life! my life! oh, what it
might have been! (she sinks on her knees with her
head upon the floor by table. Eric bends over her)
Eric. Kate, don't shrink from me! I go down in
the same wreck with you. You are a hopeless woman
—I stand beside you a hopeless man.
Kate. (moaning) You never told me of the past.
Oh, the times I have looked in the glass, with the
flush on my cheek that you have painted there, and
called myself Eric's First Sweetheart, (moves) If
you had told me of the past!
Eric. I could not believe in its reality. She
never loved me, Kate—she threw me away like an
old glove or a broken feather. I believed her dead.
Ah, Kate, do you think I would have stolen one look
from you if I hadn't believed myself to be a free
man?
Kate. Oh, Eric, Eric!
Eric. I had news from a distance that she had
died, a repentant woman. In my dreams I have seen
the grass and the flowers springing up from her
grave.
Kate. Oh, Eric, Eric!
Eric. (moves to L., C., a bit) What dreams will
haunt me this night—the grave of your life and
mine? (hand to head)
Kate. Dreams that picture despair and parting.
(walks up and returns)
Eric. (advances L., rousing himself) Tell me
where to turn, where to go. If I die, what then?
If I live, what then? I'll do anything you bid me,
(returns to her) but if you shrink from me at parting
it is more than I can bear, only look at me. One
last look—a look for me to cherish. Kate! (advancing,
Moves down, back to audience.)
Kate. (rises) No, no! (he covers his eyes with
his hand—there is a pause) Let me see your face,
Eric (he turns, they look each other in the face—
pityingly) Trouble makes you pale. Oh, how selfish
I am. Poor Eric!
Eric. I am thinking of the day we first met!
How bright! And now, what a parting!
Kate. Hush! I shall go mad if you make me
think. (The clock chimes again—starting) Look at
the hour—Good-night! (goes R., a little)
(He turns to go—stops.)
Eric. (holds out his hand) Touch my hand but
once.
Kate. (looking at him) We are suffering so much
together, aren't we? I don't know what I've said to
you, but it is no fault of yours, dear. We were
wedded in happiness—we are divorced in grief. Yes
—I will just take your hand.
(Without approaching too nearly, she lays her hand
in his—their eyes meet.)
Eric. Oh, Kate, the future!
(With a cry they go to each other, but as Eric is
about to press his lips to hers, she recoils with
horror.)
Kate. Oh, no! I, that have prayed God to make
me good all my life, what should I be if you kissed
me now?
Eric. Oh, Kate!
Kate. Go, go. Eric, you love me too well for
that, don't you?
Eric. Heaven give me strength, yes!
(The door L., opens, and Gilbert appears with a
fixed and determined look, carrying his gun.)
Gil. (L.) Mr. Thorndyke! (at door)
Eric. (c. calmly) Well, sir. (a pause)
Kate. Why have you come back to the house?
Gil. (puts hat on chair and shuts door) I have
not left the house. I come for an answer to my
letter.
Kate. (putting her hand to her head) Your letter?
(the letter lies unopened upon the table, Kate
sees it) Oh, there it is, unopened.
(Gil. walks firmly into the room, and points towards
the letter.)
Gil. Read it, please, (down L. C.)
(Kate opens the letter, draws her hands across her
eyes and reads, sitting R., of table.)
Kate. (reading) "Squire Kate—I will be satisfied
that this Thorndyke's name is not to blacken
yours in the mouths of the people of Market-Sinfield.
I shall remain concealed in this house till I can
speak to you alone. Remember—my love makes me
desperate—one more harsh word from you may bring
mischief to another. Gilbert." Mischief to another?
Eric. (C. slowly takes the letter from Kate) What gives you a right to control this lady?
Gil. Her loneliness—my love. I was born and
reared on these lands—we plucked wild flowers
together, as children.
Eric. Are you her guardian, now that she is a
woman?
Gil. I am—and of any weak soul in peril.
Kate. (rises) What do you want of me?
Gil. Nothing; because I am face to face with him.
Eric. Quickly, then, sir, your business with me?
(throws paper down)
Gil. Mr. Thorndyke, you, who are supposed to
be a sunshine acquaintance of our Squire's, are found
here at dead of night, in the house of one whom all
honest folks know as Miss Verity.
Eric. Well, sir?
Gil. (pointing to Kate) I can't—I won't believe
but that that lady is good and pure. You either
have a sacred right here, or you are an intruder and
worse than a thief. You have to answer for this
to me.
Eric. Sir, you are in the presence of a sorrow too
profound to be disturbed by sharp questions and hot
answers. In justice to this lady, we may meet to-morrow.
Gil. Not to-morrow, when I trap my game to-night.
Eric. (indignantly) Ah!
Kate. Gilbert, you used to be so gentle! (Eric
restrains her)
Gil. Pardon me, Squire, my reckoning is with
him. Mr. Thorndyke, you have robbed me of a love
which I have laboured for for years. Ceaseless
yearning—heart-sickness—hope raised and hope
deferred—sleep without rest—thirst for which there
is no drink. That is my account. What is yours?
I find you now where you can have no right but the
sacred one of husband. (Eric and Kate exchange
a look—he comes nearer to Eric and looks in his
face) Is that lady your wife?
Eric. You approach me, sir, with the light of a
murderer in your eyes, and carrying a weapon. Your
very tone, sir, is a sacrilege. I tell you, man, there
is a grief so deep that it is holy before Heaven.
Gil. Is that lady your wife?
Kate. (advancing) Gilbert, you shall know—!
Eric. (stopping her) Hush! (to Gil.) Do you
threaten me?
Gil. I am the protector of a helpless woman—
I do.
Eric. You are a coward.
Gil. (stamping his foot) Is that lady your wife?
Eric. Then, sir, in the sight of heaven, yes.
Gil. (madly) In the sight of the law?
Eric. No.
Gil. Heaven forgive you—stand back!
(He raises his gun. Kate rushes forward with a
cry, and catches his uplifted arm.)
Kate. Gilbert! Gilbert! The father of my
child!
(music.)
(She falls in a swoon at his feet. Gil. with a cry
drops his gun, and looks down with horror upon
Kate. Eric kneels beside her, as the curtain falls
quickly.)

QUICK ACT DROP.
(Picture—Eric supporting Kate's head, L., of her,
Gil. looking on dumbfounded.)

END OF ACT II. [ [!-- H2 anchor --] ]