Bird’s Nest
SCENE.—A little low white cottage, approached by a gravel-path which winds up from gray, moss-grown steps at L., flanked by lilac-bushes. A sunken step leads across the tiny pillared porch, twined deep with honeysuckle which, together with the tall, recently-acquired French windows, stands open into the living-room, dark now except for its moonlit shadows.
At the rise of the curtain there is a moment in which the dark and stillness permeate one; then there is a slight noise overhead, an electric light flashes in the upper hall, and a tallish, youthfully old figure that is Martin Doan, wearing valet’s livery, can be made out, descending the little flight of stairs just inside. As he reaches the bottom, the heavy strokes of the clock in the church tower, faintly visible in the middle-distance, begin to boom out midnight. Martin pauses, listening. As the strokes proceed, he steps into the open doorway, and peers into the garden.
Martin.
[In soft unison with the bells.] Nine—ten—eleven—twelve——!
[Then, snapping the profound quiet which succeeds the ending of the chimes, there is an abrupt movement above stairs, and George Sanford’s voice, thick but vibrant with unwonted excitement, calls.
Sanford.
That you, Martin?
Martin.