The Squire: An Original Comedy in Three Acts

by Arthur Wing Pinero

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

ACT III. — GOOD-BYE.

Scene:—The same as in Act II. Daylight. The curtains over the window recesses are drawn back. The fire is burning brightly. It is afternoon. The sun sets as the act advances. All lights full. Bed lime R., for fire. Red lime on slot behind cloth for sun. Amber line behind transparent cloth R. Ditto L., to be worked on at cue. Music for Act drop. Clear lamp and book from table, lamp from bureau, and shut it (bureau) up. L. window open. Laughter and voices off L. as curtain rises, till Christie gets to window, then a Voice.

Voice. There's Christie! (she shuts window) Ah,
we're not good enough for Christie! (murmurs from
All)
(Christiana enters up stage, door L., There is the
distant sound of rough laughter. She looks out
of L. C.)
Chris. What a lot of animals! Ugh! How
awful common people look when they're clean, (comes
down C.)
(Izod's head appears in doorway L.)
Izod. Christie!
Chris. (turning sharply) Hallo!
Izod. (entering) What's wrong with the Squire?
Chris. (R. C.) Ill, she says. Hush! (pointing,
to door R.) She's in there. What do you want, dear?
Izod. (C.) Coin, (falls back up R. C., as Gunnion
enters door L., much perturbed. He is attired in his
grandest, wearing a large rosette of coloured ribbons)
Gun. Where's Squire? that's what I want to
know!
Chris. Hush! she's in her room. What's the
matter?
Gun. (sitting on stool C., wiping his forehead) Hunpunctuality's the matter—a lot of 'em's not come
yet. The fiddle ain't come; the Mercury ain't come.
I don't give 'em a single sentiment till Mercury's here to take me down.
Izod. You want somebody here to take you down.
Gun. Fell the grocer's not come. If he 'adn't
been harsked he'd have 'owled. Now he have been
harsked, he's for marching in late like a prince,
(rising) I'm the master of the ceremonies, I am
—take care he don't find hisself heaved out.
Chris. You're quite right, Gunnion; act up to
your ribbons.
Gun. (going to door L.) Ay, that I'll do. The
Squire's made me what I am this blessed day. I'm
Squire's representative, I am, and they'll find me
darned unpleasant. (He goes off L., muttering.) John Parsley ain't come; old Buckle ain't come;
Mouldy Green ain't come.
(Izod comes down R., C.)
Chris. (R. to Izod) Go away, Izod, and keep
quiet till you're wanted.
Izod. (down R., C.) I tell you I want coin,
(sniffing) I've got such an awful cold through
lying under those ricks in the mist. I want coin.
Chris. I haven't any.
Izod. Then I don't open my mouth to the parson
about what I saw last night. I tell you I want coin.
Chris. What for?
Izod. (reflectively) For—for—to buy a pocket-
handkerchief.
Chris. (hurriedly takes out her purse) How
much?
Izod. (after consideration) Six and sixpence.
Chris. (turns) For a pocket-handkerchief!
Izod. I want rather a large size pocket-handkerchief.
Chris. (gives him the money, then listens—looking
towards R.) Somebody's coming—go away.
(Izod slouches off L., as Felicity enters door R.) (C. to Fel.) Now then, you! (meets Fel. C.)
Fel. (R. C, turning) Yes, Miss Christiana.
(meeting Chris, C.)
(Chris, takes a letter from the pocket of her apron,
and holds it up, and then puts it behind back.)
Chris. Here's a pretty thing, and a very pretty
thing; and who is the owner of this pretty thing?
You shan't have it till you guess what it is.
Fel. A letter for the Squire?
Chris. No.
Fel. For me? (joyfully and eagerly)
Chris. Yes.
Fel. (eagerly) Give it me, please.
(She holds out her hand for it; Chris, puts the letter
behind her.)
Chris. Who is it from?
Fel. How am I to know till I see it?
Chris. Guess.
Fel. How did you get it? (quickly)
Chris. It was left here this morning by a common
soldier.
Fel. (jumps with glee) Oh, it's from Tom! He's
not common—he's a sergeant. How dare you keep
my letter all day?
Chris. (holds up letter—reading the address) "Miss Felicity Gunnion—immejit." Immejit. He
can't even spell properly—that's a good match for a
girl.
Fel. (indignantly) I can't spell at all—it's a very
good match, (she snatches the letter from Chris, and
opens it—aside) Dear Tom—(crosses to sofa L.)—
that's his smudge—he always begins with a smudge.
(she sits on couch L., and reads—Chris, watches her
grimly—reads) "Dear Miss Gunnion." Dear Miss
Gunnion! Oh, Tom! (she reads quickly)
Chris. How is he? What does he call you—
Lovey or Popsey? He smokes bad tobacco; I
shouldn't care for him to kiss me.
Fel. (wiping her eyes in great distress—crying) Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! (she takes her earrings
from her ears and throws them over the back
of the couch)
Chris. (L. C.) Hallo! what's wrong with the ear-rings?
Fel. He sent them to me. You were quite right,
Miss Christiana, he is common; he's the commonest,
worst man in Pagley Barracks.
Chris. I'm glad of it; it serves you right. You
shouldn't sneak into other women's shoes. (She
goes off L.) (The harvest people are heard again in the distance
singing a rough chorus. Off stage L. U. C.—laugh.)
All. A song, a song! Ay, ay, a song! (rapping
mugs on table)
Loud Voice. Silence! yee.
"The Countryman's Song"
(Kate Verity enters towards end of song from door
R., looking white and worn, without noticing Fel.;
she crosses slowly to window L., enters the recess,
opens casement, and looks out. The Villagers,
who are supposed to be enjoying themselves in the
court below, break off their singing as Kate appears
and cry out to her.)
Man's Voice. Theer's Squire!
All. Hurrah!
Woman's Voice. How are ye, Squire? Are you
better, Squire?
(Kate nods and closes window. Murmurs gradually
subsiding. She sits on the sofa L., C., Felicity
rises and crosses to go off R., D., and turns as Kate
speaks.)
Kate. Why, Felicity, what a sad little face.
(Fel. goes to Kate with her letter.)
Fel. I—I—I've had awful bad news, Squire.
Kate. (sits) Well, sensible, strong-minded creatures
like you and me are not to be knocked over by
a little bad news, (patting Fel's head kindly) What
is it?
Fel. (kneels at Kate's side R., of her) Oh, Squire,
dear, listen to this, (reading the letter) "Dear Miss
Gunnion"—fancy that, Squire, from Tom Morris—
"the news have come to Pagley that our regiment
is the next for India. (Kate starts) The orders
are posted that we embark in ten days from this
present, in the 'Orion.'"
Kate. Stop! For India—Eric's regiment, (she
covers her face with her hands) Oh!
Fel. What's the matter, Squire?
Kate. Nothing, dearie; don't mind me. Go on!
Fel. (continuing letter) "I have been thinking
of the matter careful, and have come to the conclusion
that the climate of India would not agree with
your health, it being a swelterer. I therefore let you
off of your engagement, but have spoke to old Stibbs,
the butler at Mrs. Thorndyke's, who has saved money,
and wants for to marry again, and I have mentioned
you as a steady hard-working lass who would make
any man's home a palace. Send me back the silver
earrings you had from me, as they will only remind
you of him you have lost. So, no more from your
heart-broken Tom." Oh, Squire!
Kate. (kisses Fel. on the forehead) Thank
Heaven, on your knees, little woman, that you can
never be that man's wife.
Fel. (rises and dries her eyes, and crosses to R. C.) I—I'm sure I'm very glad of it. (standing C.) Oh, Squire, them soldiers are a bad, deceiving lot.
The King has their chests padded, and so girls think
they've got big hearts, but it's all wadding, Squire,
it's all wadding, (goes up R.)
(Gunnion enters door L.)
Gun. I'm darned if this ain't a'most too much
for an old man. (calling off, at door) Come on
with ye!
(Robjohns, Junior enters, attired in his best and
carrying his fiddle in a green baize bag; he has a
white hat in his hand.)
I've got him at last; blessed if he ain't been dressing
hisself since nine o'clock this morning, (up by L., D.)
Rob. (L. U, advancing) Well, Squire, I'm truly
sorry that I'm two hours and a yarf behind time, and
I hope it'll make no difference.
Kate. (sitting L., C.) No, no.
Rob. But, fact is, Squire, father's a-lingerin' in
a most aggravatin' way, and rare work I had to get
the yat from him.
Kate. (absently) The hat?
Rob. (holding out the hat) Father's white 'at,
Squire—he's full o' yearthly pride and wouldn't give
it up.
(Rob. goes to L., D. and takes fiddle out of bag, as
Fell, the grocer, a stout man, with his Wife and
a little Child enter—types of village trades-people.)
Gun. (C.) Squire, this is Mr. Fell, the proprietor
of the grocer shop down by Thong Lane.
Fell. (L. U., advancing) I beg pardon, not a
grocer's shop—stores!
Gun. Maybe it's grocer's shop, maybe it's stores,
but if the Fells imagine that droppin' in late is
Market-Sinfield manners, they're darned well mistook.
Dooks may do it, but not grocers nor even
stores.
Kate. (on sofa—reproachfully) Gunnion!
Gun. Well, I'm the master of the ceremonies,
I am.
(Mr. and Mrs. Fell argue out the subject with Gun.
up C., Kate beckons the little Child, who runs to
her.)
Kate. (rises and kneels with Child C.) Come
here, Toddle—what's your little name?
Child. Stores.
(Gunnion places Mrs. Fell on stool up C. Fell
takes chair from L., of bureau and sits beside her.)
Kate. Stores! No, no, no, that's not your name.
(crosses to R., with Child)
(Felicity places stool beside chair R., C., of it, and
Child sits. Fel. behind her. The Shabby Person,
representative of the "Pagley Mercury" appears,
supported on either side by two country people, men)
Gun. Squire, I'm mortally grieved to say this 'ere
is Mercury. He's a little tired; we found him in the
parlour of the White Lion. Come on, drat 'ee!
(Enter Dame, her husband and son with clarionet
Kate meets Dame.)
Kate. Ah, Dame, glad to see you!
Dame. Long life to you, Squire.
Kate. (pointing to chair L.) Sit down, Dame.
(Crowd follow, all bob and curtsey and say) All. Mornin', Squire! How are you, Squire?
(Group formed L., of stage, Gunnion arranging
them. Kate sits R., The S. P. is placed upon the
couch. The Villagers and Farm Servants,
Men, Women, and Children troop in and cluster
in doorway up stage L., At the same time the
Parson, breaking his way through them, enters and
comes to Kate. Kate. with the little child, rises
to receive him.)
Kate. (gratefully) Ah, Parson, how kind of you.
Dormer. You—you look ill.
Kate. No, no, not now.
Dormer. Whose child is this?
Kate. Mr. Fell's, the grocer's little girl.
Dormer. Bah! the world's full of girls.
Gun. Now then, Joe Parsley, leave go of Jane
Boadsley's waist! You don't see me lowering myself
with a woman! Squire, the Harvest Song! Go on,
drat 'ee!
(A simple rustic chorus is sung to the accompaniment
of Rob's fiddle.)
Chorus of Villagers.
A Woman.
What have you got for me, Good-man?
All Women.
Say—a—a—a—ay!
Men.
Laces and rings and womanly things,
Upon our harvest day—a—a—a—ay!
A Woman. (holding up a baby) What's for your baby boy, Good-man?
All Women.
Say—a—a—a—ay!
Men.
Bawbles and milk and a robe of silk,
Upon our harvest day—a—a—a—ay!
A Woman. (pointing to the Squire) What have you got for She, Good-man?
All Women, (pointing to the Squire) Say—a—a—a—ay!
Men. (stooping as if to carry a burden) Why, sheaf and stack, and a weary back,
Upon our harvest day—a—a—a—ay!
CHORUS.
Everybody.
Bread in the oven, milk in the can,
And wood for the winter fire!
Fire-ire-ire!
A broken back for the husbandman,
And golden corn for the Squire!
Squire-ire-ire!
(At end of Chorus a young girl comes from the
crowd and presents Kate with a basket of fruit
and flowers. Kate kisses her—the girl returns.)
Gun. Squire Verity, it was my desire for to have
been took down in my words by Mercury. Mercury,
however, is non composite, as the saying goes.
Villagers. More shame for him!
Gun. But what I have to tell you is this here,
Squire; the men wish you a better harvest next harvest
than this harvest—as much 'ops and more wheat
and barley, not to say hoats.
Villagers. Hear, hear!
Gun. The women wish you a good husband, who'll
love you and protect you and put a load o' money
into the land, and have all the cottages well
white-washed.
Villagers. Hear! Hear!
Gun. And lastly—if the parson will allow me that
word—lastly, we all wish you may live amongst us
long and happy until you're an octo—an octo—an
octagon. I'm sorry Mercury can't take me down.
Villagers. Bravo, Gunnion! Well spoken, very
good!
(Kate rising—with her hand on the little Child's
head—Felicity puts stool bach, and stands by
Kate taking her hand and kissing it at end of
speech.)
Kate. My dear friends, you are kinder to me
than I deserve, which makes me very pained at what
I have to tell you. You and I, who have been
together for so many years, and who have loved one
another so much, have to part company.
Villagers. (murmur) What!
Gun. Part company! You don't mean to say
you're going to put more machinery in the land,
Squire?
Kate. I mean that I am going away from Market-
Sinfield, perhaps never to come back.
Villagers. Oh, what will become of us?
(a murmur from the Women)
Kate. The lands will be worked by a richer
farmer, and you and your homes will be the gainers.
Villagers. No, that they won't! (they shake
their heads)
Kate. But what I ask of you, is—don't forget
me—
(Sob from one of the Women.) —and to make sure of that, please christen some of
your children by my name. Kate is a pretty name,
and when your babies grow up, tell them why they
bear it. (she kisses the Child and sends it back to
the group, then sits and cries)
Gun. (sympathetically) Well, all I've got to say
is, Squire, we're well nigh heart broke, (turning to
the group) My eye—up'll go the rents.
Dormer. (coming down) Be off, all of you—
don't stand and gape at a woman who is crying!
(Felicity exits R., D. Mercury assisted off. Fel.
places his chair back as before. Dormer goes off
through the group; the rest sorrowfully disperse,
looking over their shoulders at Kate. As they
leave Gil. comes through them, and is left on the
stage. He softly closes the door and crosses to
Kate R., C.—Voices till Gilbert speaks.)
Gil. (quietly) Squire!
Kate. (looking up quickly) Oh, Gilbert! (she
gives him her hand across the table)
Gil. (L. of table) I've been watching for a chance
of a word with you. Ah, Squire, how good of you
even to look at me!
Kate. Don't speak so, Gilbert.
Gil. When you think of me as I was! Ah, Squire,
I had the devil in me last night, and I would have
shot the young lieutenant like a dog in this very room,
but for—I can't say it.
Kate. But for what?
Gil. But for the sudden thought that you were
as guilty a woman as he was a man.
Kate. You didn't know, Gilbert.
Gil. Thank you, Squire, I didn't know, (advances
to her, looking round to be sure they are alone) Well,
Squire, I've seen Mr. Thorndyke this very morning.
Kate. (eagerly) Yes?
Gil. And I'm the bearer of a message from him.
Kate. (rising) A message—what is it? Quick?
(checking herself) Oh, no, it doesn't matter—don't
tell me.
Gil. Ah, Squire, you can't have heard the news.
The regiment's going away to a strange country—
it's his duty, and he goes too.
Kate. (faltering) Yes, I know—going away—
soon.
Gil. Well, Squire, I parted from him less than an
hour ago, and he grips my hand and says to me,
"Gilbert, you're the only soul that know's our secret,
and you're my friend and hers, and we trust you."
—God bless him for that, Squire! "And, Gilbert,"
says he, "I'm packed off to the Rajkote station in
India, where many a gravestone marks the end of a
short life. It's a good country for broken hearts,
Gilbert. And, Gilbert," says he, "I want to wish
her a good-bye. She won't refuse me that, Gilbert,
she can't refuse me that." (Kate goes to fire) Ah,
Squire, I've got a man's heart, though it's rough, and
all my poor disappointments and troubles are nothing
to such a sorrow as this. And I'm here for your
answer, Squire—waiting.
Kate. I can't see him. I must not see him. I
am weak—ill. My answer—no!
Gil. I won't take it, Squire. My heart goes out
to him. I can't bear that answer back.
Kate. Then tell him that you found me well,
cheerful, with a smile, among my people. Say it is
better as it is; that we must learn to forget—say
anything, (she sinks helplessly in chair)
Gil. Oh, Squire! (approaches her)
Kate. Do as I bid you—keep him away from me
—that's all.
Gil. (walks sadly over to L., C, then turns) Nothing more.
Kate. Nothing more.
(The door L., opens, and Chris. enters with Izod
at her heels.)
Chris. (to Gil.) Gilbert, the children are crying
out for you to tell them your fairy stories, and sing
your songs to them.
Gil. I'm coming, (crosses to L.) (Chris, and Izod. go up stage R., As Gil. is leaving,
Kate rises and calls him.)
Kate. Gilbert! (crosses to Gilbert)
Gil. (turning) Squire!
Kate. (she lays her hand on his arm—aside) Gilbert—I—I have thought about it. Tell Mr. Thorndyke
that the poor folks look for a glimpse of him
to-day. That he shouldn't leave England without
seeing the last of Verity's farm. Gilbert, say that
we need not meet, (quickly) Go—tell him to come
to me!
(Gil. hurries off; Kate sits on couch L., Chris.
stands before her. Izod. comes down C.)
Chris. You're going to turn your back on Market-
Sinfield, Squire. What's to become of me! (crosses
her arms)
Kate. The poor servant's fortune always falls
with the house, Christie. You're young and strong,
and better off than your mistress.
Chris. (uncrosses and uses her arms) Ah, I see;
it's the baby face and baby tongue of old Gunnion's
daughter that pleases you now! And why? Because
the child can talk to you of the barracks at Pagley,
and the jests they make, and the stories they tell
about young Thorndyke's lady-love!
Kate. (raising her head) You are an insolent
woman!
Chris. Insolent I may be, but I'm not worse!
(goes a little to R.)
Kate. What do you mean?
Chris. That your precious love-secret is known
to my brother and me. That we can spell the name
of the man who is the most welcome guest here, in
broad daylight when doors are open, and in the dead
of night when doors are locked!
Kate. (rising and seizing Christie's wrist) Christie!
Chris. (throwing her off—placing her hands
behind her defiantly) Don't you touch me, because I'm
your servant no longer! don't touch me, because
you're not fit to lay your hand upon a decent woman!
Kate. All the ills of the world at one poor
woman's door! (sits on sofa) What is it you want?
Izod. (aside to Chris.) Coin!
Chris. This: I've got gipsy blood in me, and that
means "all or none." Will you promise to turn old
Gunnion's child away, never to have her near you
again?
Kate. If I refuse, what will you do?
Chris. Tell the parson that there's a lady in
Market-Sinfield who needs as much praying for as
she can get from him on Sundays—tell him what
Izod saw last night and what I heard—give him a
new text to preach to the poor folks who call you
their saint.
Kate. You'll do this? (rises) Then I promise to
be a friend to little Felicity as long as she loves me
and clings to me. Say the worst you can.
(Izod goes up towards L., D. and remains. Chris.
makes a movement as if going. Kate stops her.)
Kate. (rises) Christiana! (Chris. stands
before Kate with her hands behind her back) I'll
give you this thought to help you. I stand here, the
last of my name, in our old house, wretched and in
trouble. I'm not the first Verity that has come to
grief, but I shall be the first at whose name there's
a hush and a whisper. And this will be to your
credit—to the credit of one who has fed and slept
under my roof, and who has touched my lips with
hers. (She comes to Chris, and lays her hand upon
her shoulder) Christie, if you ever marry and have
children that cry to be lulled to sleep, don't sing
this story to them lest they should raise their little
hands against their mother. Remember that. (sits
again)
(Eric Thorndyke enters quickly, door L., and stands
facing Kate. Christiana and Izod look at each
other significantly; there is a pause—Christie
backs a little so that Eric passes in front of her,
Izod passes behind and gets on steps.)
Chris. (with a curtsey to Eric) Your servant,
Lieutenant. You haven't forgotten the Harvest
Feast, sir.
(He makes no answer. Chris, and Izod cross quietly
to door L.)
(In Izod's ear) Come to the parson—now.
(They go out, Kate and Eric are alone—they look
at each other.)
Eric. (C.) Thank you for seeing me.
Kate. You ought to hate me for it. (on sofa)
Eric. I should have delayed this till you were
stronger, but I was in dread that you would go
without a word.
Kate. I leave Market-Sinfield to-morrow. I
should not have said good-bye to you. You look tired
and worn out.
(Eric advances to sit beside her, she checks him and
points to stool C.)
Sit down—there. (he sits wearily) Has your
mother written?
Eric. (with a short bitter laugh produces a letter
from his pocket-book) (C.) Oh, yes; here is my
congé. The gates of The Packmores are shut and
locked. Stibbs, the butler, has orders to clear out
everything that spells the name of Eric. Poor
mother!
Kate. Ah, that needn't be now; you must tell her
we have quarrelled, that I have jilted you, or you me
—anything for a home.
Eric. (rises) Home, Kate! Home! That's all
over. (comes down C.)
Kate. Hush! hush!
Eric. I've been with Sylvester, our lawyer, this
morning; he is going to raise money on the reversion
of my aunt Tylcote's little place, which must come
to me. It is the merest trifle, but it is something.
And I've written to the agents in town about setting
aside half my pay.
Kate. (looking up) What is the meaning of
that?
Eric. For you, Kate. I've no thought but for
you, dear, and the little heart which is to beat against
yours.
Kate. (starts up—rises) Oh, Eric, unless you
wish to make me mad, you mustn't be kind to me, I
can't bear it. (advancing C. firmly) Why, Eric,
do you think I'd let you pinch and struggle for me!
(they meet C.)
Eric. (hotly) Why, Kate, you wouldn't live in
a fashion that doesn't become my wife!
(He stops short—they look at each other, then turn
away.)
Kate. (sits again on sofa—under her breath) Oh, Eric, what made you say that?
Eric. It slipped from me—I didn't meant to say
it. Oh, it comes so naturally, (goes up to L., of L.
window)
Kate. It doesn't matter; it's all through wrangling
about miserable money, (goes to R., of L. window)
(The lights are getting duller, the faint glow of the
setting sun is seen outside the windows.)
Look! there's the sun going down; we mustn't stay
here longer. (She comes closer to him, looking up
into his face. They stand with their hands behind
them.) There's time only for one last word.
Eric. I'm listening, (coming down R.)
Kate. (tearfully) It's this. You may—of
course—write to me—to the Post Office at Bale, for
the present. Not to make it a tax upon you. But
when you've nothing better or more cheerful to do—
oh, write to me then!
Eric. Oh, Kate! (He moves down R., towards
her, she goes back a pace to avoid him)
Kate. (leans against chair) No, no, I'm not
going to cry. (smiling) A man is always so frightened
that a woman is going to cry. And, Eric, promise me,
dear, never to gamble, nor bet—only very little.
Will you promise?
Eric. Yes, I promise!
Kate. (both centre) Don't listen to stories at
the mess table about officers' wives—don't sit up too
late—don't drink too much wine.
Eric. There's no chance of that, (walks toward
settee L.)
Kate. Ah, dear, you haven't been in trouble till
now. And lastly, always go to church and be a good
fellow.
Eric. Which means, Kate—try to do everything
I should have done in the happy life we might have
lived together, (sits, Eric on settee, Kate C.)
Kate. Yes, that's what I mean. And when you
find yourself getting very miserable, which means,
getting very weak, I want you to say to yourself—
"Eric, old fellow, pull up—you've got a true love
somewhere—you don't know where she is—but you'd
better do everything she bids you, for she's a
perfect tyrant" (she breaks down, and stands C.)
Eric. (puts hat on chair) That's your last word,
Kate—this is mine.
(MUSIC.)
When I get away from India, on leave, I shan't know
where to bend my steps unless it's to the country that
holds my girl.
Kate. No, no. (moves to table)
(Rises and crosses, both near table.)
Eric. Ah, listen, (he holds out his right hand
and traces upon it, as if it were a map, with his left) Suppose my hand's a map—there are lines enough
on it—and that you're dwelling in some pretty foreign
place, say here. Well, then, when you're here,
I could while away the time there, and if you're
weary of that one spot and run off to there, I could
pack up my bag and smoke my cigar here. You see,
darling? Never too near you, where I've no right,
but always about thirty or forty miles away. So
that in the twilights, which are long and saddening in
foreign places, you might sit and say to yourself, "I
don't want to meet Eric face to face, because he'd
remind me of old times and old troubles, but he's not
more than forty miles away, and he's thinking of his
dear love at this very moment."
(MUSIC changes.)
Kate. (drawing her hand across her eyes) You
mustn't speak to me any more.
(Eric takes his hat. Kate goes down to R., C.)
Eric. Good-bye. (looking in her face, trying to
smile) Why, I do believe I shall begin to write you
my Indian budget this very evening.
Kate. (struggling with her tears) It doesn't
matter how long the letter is. Good-bye. (she holds
out her hand, he walks down slowly and takes her
hand. There is a pause—softly) You are going
away—I can't help it.
(MUSIC ceases.)
(She lays her head quietly upon his breast, he folds
his arms round her. As they part Dormer enters
door L., with a stern face.)
Eric. Mr. Dormer!
Dormer. (L.) We meet, as we have met before,
sir, in hot blood. Mr. Thorndyke, you have no secret
that is not shared by me, and yet you are here, sir!
For shame!
Eric. (C.) Let me remind you, Mr. Dormer,
that one of the few advantages of being neither a
pauper nor a felon is freedom of action.
Dormer. Mr. Thorndyke, I am without the
smooth tongue of my class. I find you in a woman's
house, where you are a guest by night as well as by
day. I bid you begone. You are a soldier lacking
chivalry—a man who makes war upon weakness
—you are a coward! (step)
Eric. A coward, Mr. Dormer, is one who, under
the cover of his age and profession, uses language
for which a younger and a braver man would be
chastised, (goes up stage toward fire-place)
Kate. (crosses to Dormer R.) Parson, you don't
guess the truth. If you knew! (crosses to C. Eric
drops R.)
Dormer. I'll know no more. Miss Verity, I am
the pastor of a flock of poor, simple people, who
regard your words as precepts, and your actions as
examples. I will spare you the loss of their good
will, but I demand, so long as you remain in this
parish, that Mr. Thorndyke be excluded from your
house.
(Kate goes up to bureau.)
Eric. Oh, sir, I can relieve your mind on that
point; a moment later you would have found me
gone. Good-bye, Miss Verity, I shall inform you of
my arrival abroad if you will let me.
Kate. (takes his hand, and looks firmly at
Dormer) Stop! Parson Dormer, this house is mine;
while my heart beats, for good or for evil, neither
you nor your bishop could shut my doors upon the
man I love. That is your answer.
Dormer. And to think that yesterday your voice
had a charm and a melody for me. It serves me
rightly for forgetting my old lesson. What a fool!
What a fool! (he goes deliberately to bell rope L.,
and pulls it)
Kate. What are you going to do?
Dormer. My duty.
Kate. What is that?
Dormer. To open the eyes of these blind people.
Kate. Open their eyes to what?
Dormer. Your guilt.
(Eric gives an indignant cry. Kate goes to
Dormer.)
Kate. Guilt! It's not true! Parson, I am
unhappy, with a life wasted, with hope crushed out
of me, but not guilty yet. I am this man's wife in
the sight of heaven, married a year ago at God's altar,
prayed over and blessed by a priest of your church,
to be divorced by the cruel snare which made you its
mouthpiece. Parson, I am desperate and weak, but
not guilty yet!
Dormer. Kate! Kate! look in my eyes—is this
the truth?
Kate. (clinging to Eric) As true as that at
this moment, for the first time in my life, I am in
danger!
(Eric leads her to chair R., she sits. The village
crowd, headed by Christiana, Izod, Gunnion, and
Felicity, appear at door L., Christiana triumphant.
Dormer faces the crowd.)
Dormer. Friends, Market-Sinfield people, (laying
his hand on Chris's, arm) you've been told by
this good creature here that I've a few words to speak
to you. Very well, this is my text. Beware of Tale
Bearers! They destroy the simplicity of such natures
as yours; they feed the bitterness of such a nature as
mine. I entreat you, firstly, to believe nothing ill
against those you hate, and you'll grow to love them;
secondly, to believe nothing ill against those you love,
and you'll love them doubly. Lastly, whatever you
think, whatever you do, to pity this poor lady
(pointing to Kate) who is in some trouble at leaving the
place where she was born. Go! (turns down C.)
(Chris, snatches her arm from Dormer with a bitter
look. The crowd makes a movement to go, when
Gil forces his way through and comes to Dor. L.
of him.)
Gil. (aside to Dormer) Parson, you're wanted
up yonder!
Dormer. What is it?
(Gil. whispers a few words in Dormer's ear, and
falls back. Dormer raises his hand to stop the
crowd.)
Dormer. (emphatically) Stay! before you go
I'll tell you why the Squire leaves Market-Sinfield.
(goes a little to R., C.)
Kate. (rises and goes up behind table—to
Dormer) Parson! No! (goes down on Dormer's L.)
Dormer. (not heeding Kate) She is going to be
the wife of that young man there, our neighbor
Thorndyke.
Crowd. What! Married!
Dormer. She is going to be married to him in
your presence, in my church, and by me, before
another Sunday passes.
(A cry from the Crowd.)
But neighbor Thorndyke is off to India for some
years with his good wife, on duty to his Queen, and
that's why you lose your Squire. Men and women,
on your knees to-night, say God bless Squire Kate
and her husband, and bring them back to us to
Market-Sinfield!
(Another cry from the Crowd.)
Crowd. Hurrah!
Kate. (L. of Dormer—grasping Dormer's arm,
aside to him) Parson, the woman at the "White
Lion!"
Dormer. Hush! (to Eric) Mr. Thorndyke,
you're a free man, sir, your wife is dead!
(MUSIC.)
(As the curtain falls, Kate kneels, Dormer puts
his hand on her head.)

THE END.