(The Children wander away and mingle with the groups of spirits. They ring the bluebells as they go. The tintinnabulation is drowned in orchestral music, which can be heard from a distance. The theme is from Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony. Certain of the spirits listen attentively, and move towards the music. Certain others continue to talk happily, and stir among the trees.)
Enter Dr. Thorne. (Walks slowly and
alone. He is robed still in purple,
with a tunic of white showing at the
throat. He looks pallid and harassed.
He stands for a time apart,
keenly observant of the scene and of
the people, then sinks in thought. He
speaks.)
Dr. Thorne. Children here, too?
(He looks wistfully at the two children, who are playing together at a distance from him. He picks up the rose which the little boy had tossed over the brook; puts it to his face; speaks.)
Dr. Thorne. What a perfume the flowers have in this country! This seems to be a rose, yet it is not a rose. You might call it the soul of a rose. Exquisite, whatever it is. Some one has dropped this one. There is personality clinging to it. Curious! It is as though I clasped a little hand when I touch it.
(He sighs; walks to and fro thoughtfully; does not throw away the rose, but cherishes it. Groups of spirits pass and repass. Some of them smile at him kindly, but he does not return the smile. No one addresses him.)
Dr. Thorne. I have done my share of traveling in my day, but I must say I never was in a land that seems to me so foreign as this. Nothing looks natural. I seem to have no acquaintances. Apparently nobody knows me. I have no introductions. I am afraid I have got here without letters of credit. (Breaks off.) That was a mistake. I never did such an ignorant thing before. I must say it is an attractive country, too. Everything shows a high degree of civilization, and the beauty of the place is unsurpassed. But it does not appeal to me. (He shakes his head.) ... I am too homesick.... If Helen were here, I could enjoy it.
(He strolls about without aim or interest. Happy spirits pass and repass.)
Enter a man-spirit of impressive and
commanding appearance. His costume
bears a certain vague resemblance
to the dress of a gentleman and scholar
of the Court of Charles I. of England.
A cloak of the tint of the dead
oak-leaf is clasped across his breast
by a golden cross. He regards Dr.
Thorne with a piercing but kindly
look. He speaks with a fine and
courtly manner, dating from a bygone
age.
The Man-Spirit. I read thee for a stranger here.