Daddy Long-Legs

Scene: The sitting-room at Lock Willow farm, summer, three years later. A plan and full description of the scene will be found at the end of the play.

Discovered: At rise Sallie, seated L. of table, looking more mature and womanly than in the preceding act, is discovered at rise, interestedly engaged in writing a letter. Jimmie enters U.L., wearing a slight mustache and dressed in flannels. He enters, humming a song and carrying a gun.

Jimmie. (Throws cap on piano) Well—got him! (Places gun R. of what-not.)

Sallie. (Looking up) What?

Jimmie. (Crosses to L.) Woodchuck!

Sallie. (Resumes writing) That’s good!

Jimmie. (Crosses to door U.) Oh—Mrs. Semple!

Mrs. Semple. (Off stage R.) Y-e-s—

Jimmie. The deed is done. (Turns to Sallie, who pays no attention, crosses R. of table) I’ve been lying on my stomach for two hours, waiting for that old cuss to stick out his head. Gee, I’m stiff. (Goes through gymnastics.)

Sallie. (Looks up and laughs despairingly) My dear Jimmie, won’t you ever grow up? You’ve been out of college two years, and you act like a Freshman.

Jimmie. (Turning to mirror over mantel up R. and twirling his mustache) Freshman! Did you ever see a Freshman with a mustache like that? (Sallie resumes writing. To mantel) I say, where is Judy? (Crosses to C. above table.)

Sallie. She drove to the village, to send off the manuscript of her new book.

Jimmie. Well, why didn’t she ask me to go along?

Sallie. You were occupied.

Jimmie. (Sits R.) I could have postponed that woodchuck until to-morrow.

Sallie. To-morrow! Jimmie McBride, you must go home to-day. You had no business stopping off here at all.

Jimmie. You visit Judy for two weeks. I should think I might have two days.

Sallie. Father needs you in the factory.

Jimmie. Factory? Work—work—work! It’s awful the way we men have to work to keep you women in idleness and luxury.

Sallie. You? Work! Ha! It’s Judy who knows how to work!

(Mrs. Semple enters R. and Jimmie rises.)

Mrs. S. (Crossing to R. of Jimmie) Well, did you get the critter? (Crosses to R. of table.)

Jimmie. (Weeping into his handkerchief) It’s all over. (Crosses to piano—sits and picks out a one-fingered tune.)

Mrs. S. I’m real glad. He et all the tops off my young carrots. (Up R., looking around the room—to set things in order—but no halt in the lines) Mr. Jervis usually keeps the woodchucks pretty well shot-up; but he ain’t been here lately.

Jimmie. (Turning interestedly) Is Mr. Pendleton in the habit of coming?

Mrs. S. (Crosses down a little R.) Off and on.

Jimmie. (Curiously) Off and on?

Mrs. S. (Continuing) —for a little fishing.

Jimmie. Fishing!

Mrs. S. I’m always glad to see him, it makes it cheerful for Miss Judy.

Jimmie. (Rising) Oh, fishing?

Mrs. S. (Crossing to piano, looking at picture of Jervis over window) I can’t realize that Mr. Jervis ain’t still the little boy in that picture. Seems like he belonged to me. But of course I was only his nurse and after he growed up, he sort of drifted off. (Sitting R. of table. Jimmie at window.)

Jimmie. (Comes down R.) Until Miss Judy commenced coming—and then he sort of drifted back, eh?

Mrs. S. Oh, he’s awful fond of fishing. (Phone rings, one long, followed by three short) Telephone! (Crossing to R.)

Sallie. That’s not our number!

Mrs. S. 13! The Weavers! Wonder who’s talking to ’em? I’ll just find out. (She waddles off R. Sallie resumes writing and Jimmie crosses above table C.)

Jimmie. (Crossing above table) Don’t you think it’s darned queer for Jervis Pendleton to be visiting up here?

Sallie. No! She’s his old nurse!

Jimmie. Nurse? Maggie Flannigan is my old nurse, but I don’t spend my summers with her.

Sallie. (Mocking Mrs. S.) Mr. Pendleton’s awful fond of fishing.

Jimmie. Fishing! Rats! (Crosses to chair R. by fireplace.)

Mrs. S. (Entering—crosses to up R.) That was Jim Weaver talking to their doctor. It’s awful the way Jim Weaver swears over the telephone. I think every lady on the line ought to complain. Miss Judy had the telephone put in. We never had one till she came. Don’t know what we’d do without it now. (Sitting R. of table, crosses to R. for workbasket on table and returns to R. of table and sits and begins work on knitting) Miss Judy does have more ideas! The first summer she was here she and Mr. Jervis knocked out the whole wall side of the house and had that window put in. Makes it look like all outdoors. It’s fine for the summer, but they ain’t here in the winter. (Grunt. Workbasket on table) And then she had that piano put in tuther room. The last I heard, they was planning a pergolley in the garden. But he ain’t been up here for a month or so and I guess the pergolley notion has sort of dropped. I don’t know what she’ll think of next.

Jimmie. (Rises, twirling mustache with self-satisfied air) She’ll be getting married next, and then—

Mrs. S. (Looks across at Jimmie) When she does marry, I hope it will be to a man that amounts to something, and not to some trifling, good-for-nothing young fellow who’s afraid of work.

Jimmie. (Gives himself a burlesque punch and turns up) Ooh!

Mrs. S. (Putting workbasket on table) Land sakes! (Looks at clock on mantel) What time does your train go? I mustn’t let you miss it!

Jimmie. (Sweetly) Thanks!

Mrs. S. Too bad you weren’t here when Miss Judy left; she could a-carried you to the station.

Jimmie. Oh, I can postpone going until to-morrow, if it isn’t convenient—

Mrs. S. Oh, it’ll be convenient— (Telephone rings, one long and one short. Mrs. Semple rises) The Widow Dowd! I wonder who’s talking to her? (Hurries off R. Jimmie turns to Sallie.)

Jimmie. (Above table) Are you writing a book, too? Is it catching?

Sallie. (Gathering up pages) I’m just writing a note to Gordon.

Jimmie. A note? You’ve got it bad! I hope when I get engaged, my girl won’t write me notes like that and expect an answer.

Sallie. (Having enclosed note in envelope, rises) Jimmie, wait a second! (Crosses to L.) I’ll get a stamp. (Goes upstairs and off, as Mrs. Semple enters at R.)

Mrs. S. (To R. of table) That was Mrs. Iry Hatch wantin’ to borrow the Widow Dowd’s ice-cream freezer.—Now what do you s’pose she wants to make ice-cream for in the middle of the week? (Phone rings: two long and three short rings) There it goes again! That’s our number. I don’t get no rest! (Hurries Off R. Sallie enters.)

Sallie. (Downstairs on landing to Jimmie) Oh, Jimmie! The Postman is coming up the road. Give him this and see if there is any mail for us.

(Carrie enters U.L. Crossing to C., carrying a broom and dust cloth; as Jimmie turns to exit.)

Jimmie. (Going up and off L. Mrs. Semple enters R. and crosses up to Carrie at R.C. Sallie to L. of table, closing writing desk) I fly!

Mrs. S. Carrie! Carrie! Mr. Jervis has just telephoned from the station. He’s driving up and he’ll be here in half an hour. (Carrie crosses to door R.) Ain’t it lucky I made that jelly cake? (Calls off R.) Carrie! Carrie! You go and clean the best bedroom.

Carrie. But Mr. McBride’s in it!

Mrs. S. (R.C. above table) Just set his things right out in the hall. He’s going in a few minutes.

Carrie. (Upstairs) Yes’m! (Exits upstairs.)

Mrs. S. (Crossing to R. to foot of stairs door and speaks to Carrie) And Carrie—don’t tell Miss Judy. She ain’t heard nothing from him in a long time and we’ll just fix up a little surprise.

Carrie. (Off stage) No’m.

(Mrs. Semple closes door, as Jimmie enters L. with mail. Mrs. Semple crosses to R. of table and sits.)

Jimmie. (Coming to C. above table) Hello, Sis! Mail!

Sallie. (L. of table) Oh, did you get a letter for me?

Jimmie. No! An advertisement for you. (Gives her large music envelope) Gordon’s tired of writing. (Gives mail, wrapped magazine to Mrs. Semple) For you, Mrs. Semple! All for Judy. (Takes remaining letters up R. and lays them on work-table.)

Sallie. (Taking sheet music from envelope) This is from Gordon. Oh, it’s a song he wants me to sing. (Sits at piano.)

Jimmie. You! Sing a song! Ha! (To table above Mrs. Semple.)

Mrs. S. (Sits R. of table looking over magazine.) And here’s instalment three of the remarkable serial by that rising young author, Jerusha Abbott.

Jimmie. I say, look at the pictures. Aren’t they corkers?

Mrs. S. I don’t know how she does it—I couldn’t write a book, not if you was to pay me for it.

(Jimmie turns up to window with a laugh.)

Jimmie. Oh, by jove—here she is now! (Crosses and exits L., leaving door open as Judy is heard “helloing” off stage. Jimmie and Judy carry on a chatter outside as Mrs. Semple goes through her speech with Sallie playing the air on piano with a gradual crescendo, ending on the word “famous” as Judy steps inside.)

Mrs. S. Now, ain’t that grand? To see her name printed right out in letters half an inch high! I always said that Judy was going to be famous.

(Judy enters and comes to L.C., carrying hat in one hand and millinery bag in other. Sallie rises as Judy enters. Jimmie follows Judy, carrying a small market basket, ladened with bundles.)

Judy. Hello, everybody!

(Jimmie crosses behind Judy and sets basket on table C.)

Sallie. (At L.) Good gracious! What’s all that?

Judy. (Coming down L. of table, Sallie to L. of Judy, Jimmie L. of Mrs. Semple) I am September Santa Claus. I’ve brought you all a present from the village store. (Judy removes coat and puts hat and coat on windowseat.)

Jimmie. (Crosses down R.) I like the way you set me to catching woodchucks. (Judy comes down L. of table) And then go off on a pleasure drive.

Judy. When we take a tramp in for the night, we expect him to work for his board.

Mrs. S. What kept you so long? We were afraid old Grover had run away with you.

Judy. Oh, I stopped to give the money to old Mrs. Barber. (Explaining to Jimmie) They’re an awfully poor family, who have had such bad luck. I wrote to Daddy Long-Legs about them, and he sent me a check for a hundred dollars for them.

Sallie. (Crossing to Judy, arms around her) What did she say? Was she pleased?

Judy. (Laughs) She said, “Thank the Good Lord,” but I told her it wasn’t the good Lord. It was my Guardian.

Mrs. S. But it was the good Lord that put it into his head.

Judy. (R.) Oh, no, it wasn’t! I put it in his head myself. (Takes two haying hats from bag she had placed on the table, as Jimmie crosses to table above Mrs. Semple) Look! The latest importations in fall millinery. One for Sallie and one for Judy, to save the skin on our noses when we go blackberrying. (Tries hat on Sallie, who turns and crosses over L. to mirror, below staircase, to try on hat herself as Judy turns and takes from basket a flour sifter. Holding up sifter) A new flour sifter for Mrs. Semple. (Jimmie has unwrapped a package containing pink cambric, which Judy takes from him) And last, but not least—here is some stuff to make aprons for Carrie.

Mrs. S. (Examining the material) Landsakes! What did you pay for that a yard?

Judy. Fifty cents.

Mrs. S. Fifty cents! Why didn’t you get blue checked gingham?

Judy. Oh!

(Jimmie crosses to window, twirling mustache. Sits on arm of chair.)

Mrs. S. You could of got that for 12 cents a yard.

Judy. (Shuddering and turning up, as Sallie crosses up to Judy and puts hat on piano) Oh!

Jimmie. (At R.) I never saw anything so silly, as the way you women fuss over clothes.

Judy. (Facing Jimmie. Sallie behind Judy) Silly, eh? I heard of another man who grumbled about women’s clothes being silly, until finally his wife, to please him—adopted dress reform. And then—

Jimmie. Then what? (Twirling mustache.)

Judy. He eloped with a chorus girl. (Looks of horror from Mrs. Semple.)

Mrs. S. Good grief.

Sallie. Oh, Jimmie, do let that mustache alone. Kill it, but don’t worry it to death.

(Jimmie crosses to Sallie and they exchange shots in a light tone as Judy plays the prelude to the song. Sallie cautions Jimmie to be quiet and stands above Judy ready to turn pages for her. Jimmie stands L. of table, leaning against chair and watching Judy. Mrs. Semple sits back in her chair R. of table, ready to listen with great satisfaction.)

Judy. Where did you get it?

Sallie. Gordon sent it.

Judy. (Crosses to L. of table) Oh, has the mail come? (Jimmie quickly crosses to R. and returns with letters) Any letters for me?

Jimmie. (To table, sits on table, handing letters to her) A million-dollar check from your publishers. (Takes magazine from table) Instalment three of the great American novel by Jerusha Abbott.

Judy. (Having looked through letters) Is this all?

Jimmie. All! Were you expecting a love letter, too?

Judy. (Sitting L. of table) Don’t be silly, Jimmie! (Opening one letter, laying others on table) I wonder what my publishers have to say of the idea of my new book.

(Sallie sits at piano and softly plays the song.)

Jimmie. (C. above table) What’s the name of your new book?

Judy. “The Rufus Gaunt Home.”

(Jimmie above table, Judy sits L., Mrs. Semple R.)

Jimmie. “The Rufus Gaunt Home?” That is a cheerful title! Is it an insane asylum or just a poorhouse?

(Sallie looking out window.)

Judy. It’s—an orphan asylum.

Jimmie. An orphan asylum? Oh, I say, if you’re going to write a book, why don’t you choose a subject you know something about?

Judy. (Looks up from letter then around to Jimmie; then slowly faces front again) That’s just what my publisher asks.

Sallie. But wait till he reads it! It’s a beautiful book—isn’t it, Mrs. Semple?

(During this scene, Jimmie devotes all his attention to Judy.)

Mrs. S. Of course it’s beautiful. Everything Miss Judy writes is beautiful—but I did think the book you wrote that first summer was grand!

Judy. (Laughs) It was dreadful! When I got back to college I borrowed the engineer’s furnace. I felt as though I cremated my only child. The next morning I started a new one. I am an awfully optimistic person. I think if I lost a husband and seven children I’d bob up the next day and hunt for a new set.

Mrs. S. You can say what you please, but I like hero-ines rich.

Judy. But my heroine can’t be rich, she is in an asylum.

Mrs. S. Are you plumb set on that asylum?

Judy. Yes, I’m plumb set!

Mrs. S. You see the trouble is, nobody will ever want to marry her, if she’s out of an orphan asylum.

Judy. Oh!—But she doesn’t get married.

Mrs. S. Folks won’t read it unless it’s got a love story.

Jimmie. You bet! We’ve got to have a love story.

Judy. But she’s just a little girl. She doesn’t grow up.

Mrs. S. I’ll tell you how you can fix it, Miss Judy; if you’re set on having her an orphan. Get over them troubles in the asylum as fast as possible, and then discover that she ain’t no orphan at all. She got stolen out of her cradle when she was a baby, and her father is a real millionaire, he spends fifteen years searching for his lost daughter, and he recognizes her by a strawberry mark on her left arm.

Jimmie. (Crosses R.) What’s a strawberry mark?

Mrs. S. That’s the way you tell lost children.

Jimmie. Oh!

Judy. But things don’t happen that way. It wouldn’t be true.

Mrs. S. Land sakes! Miss Judy, nobody cares if a book’s true, so long as it’s comfortable—that’s the way I’d write it. Then you’d oughta make her grow up, and marry someone real nice like—

Jimmie. (Down to R. of Mrs. Semple) Like me.

Mrs. S. (Turning to him) You—never. No—like Mr. Jervis.

Jimmie. (Goes R.) Ha! I think I see the proud and haughty Mr. Pendleton marrying a grimy little orphan out of an asylum. (Up C. above table) No, Judy, I am sorry but I’m afraid we can’t fall in love with your hero-ine.

Carrie. (Enters R. to R. of Mrs. Semple) Mrs. Semple, we are all out of molasses.

Mrs. S. (Rising) Oh, Miss Judy, did you forget the molasses? (Takes market basket and hands it to Carrie. NOTE: All the bundles were replaced in basket as soon as used by Judy.)

Judy. (Rising) I left the jug in the buggy—Jimmie, would you mind going down to the barn and getting it?

(Carrie has made her exit with the basket; Mrs. Semple has taken work basket from table and crosses to place it on work-table at R.)

Jimmie. (Going, mimicing Mrs. Semple) Land sakes! I don’t get no rest!

Mrs. S. (At R., comes back to R.C.) Oh, Miss Judy, we’re going to have a surprise to-night.

Judy. (Crossing to Mrs. Semple) A surprise?

Mrs. S. (Crossing down to door R.) Something you ain’t expecting!

Judy. (To chair R. of table) What is it?

Mrs. S. (Shaking her head) I ain’t going to tell. (Goes out R.) I ain’t going to tell.

(As Mrs. Semple exits, Judy sits R. of table, facing away from Sallie in a sad and dejected mood. A brief pause—and Sallie turns—notes Judy’s attitude.)

Sallie. (Rising from piano. Standing above table) What’s the matter, Judy? (Crossing to L. of table) Don’t worry about what that old publisher says. He hasn’t even read the book. It’s the best thing you’ve ever written.

Judy. (Standing L.) Because it’s true!

Sallie. It’s wonderful, Judy—the imagination you have! Why, the atmosphere of that asylum seems as real as though you’d seen it with your own eyes. I don’t know how you do it! I couldn’t picture the inside of an asylum and the way a little orphan girl feels—not if my life depended on it.

Judy. (Slowly rising) It didn’t require any imagination. Those are the things that really do happen.

Sallie. (To front of table) Yes, but how, how do you know? (Sits on stool, facing Judy.)

(Judy turns away from Sallie and faces up stage, then suddenly returns to Sallie, taking chair and bringing it down and sits a little above Sallie.)

Judy. Oh, Sallie! I want to tell you the truth. I can’t stand it any longer—this pretending and pretending to be something I am not. I don’t belong with all you other girls, who have homes and families. I try to be silly and laughing and care-free like the rest of you; but—I’m only an impostor.

Sallie. What do you mean?

Judy. You wondered that I knew so well how the little orphan girl felt. I knew because—I myself was that little girl.

Sallie. You!

Judy. My childhood was one long, sullen stretch of revolt. I was brought up in an asylum—in blue-checked gingham. Oh, I feel sometimes—(Sallie sympathetically puts her arm on Judy’s shoulder)—as if those miserable checks had stamped themselves on my very soul. And then one day—suddenly—like a miracle, Daddy Long-Legs came and lifted me out of all that misery—and gave me freedom and a chance to live. Oh, I was delirious with joy. I thought every trouble in the world was ended.

Sallie. I can imagine what it would mean to lose one’s parents.

Judy. I don’t know what I am or where I came from. Oh, I try to be sensible and courageous, but I feel sometimes as though I could never escape from the shadow of my childhood. I dream about it at night, I wake up shivering in the dark, feeling as though I must run faster and faster, because Mrs. Lippett is after me with her arm outstretched to grab me back.

Sallie. Why, Judy, you’re growing morbid. All this makes no difference.

Judy. Not with you, perhaps. But to others—

Sallie. Who?

Judy. Well, do you think Julia Pendleton’s mother would have let her daughter associate with me if she had known? I know how much they think of family.

Sallie. It doesn’t matter what the Pendletons think.

Judy. And perhaps they know already.

Sallie. Why?

Judy. Well—Jervis—Mr. Pendleton used to come here frequently for a few days’ fishing and he and I became very good friends. We went tramping and fished for trout, read books together and had such good times. But for a long while now he has stayed away and I wonder why. Unless—he has learned the truth. (Rises.)

Sallie. (Rising also) It doesn’t matter, Judy, he doesn’t count. Some day some other man will come and ask you to be his wife.

Judy. And I would have to tell him about the John Grier Home.

Sallie. (Putting her arm around Judy’s waist) He would marry you just the same.

Judy. Yes—through kindness perhaps—through pity. But when I told him if I saw a look of doubt on his face, if I saw the slightest shadow, oh, Sallie—(Turning to Sallie)—I couldn’t bear it! It would kill me! (Sobs and buries her head on Sallie’s shoulder. Sallie tenderly mothers her.)

Sallie. (After a pause; lifts Judy’s head) Oh, Judy! You speak as though someone has already come. (Judy shakes her head, and slowly crosses to L.) Has someone already come?

Judy. (L.C.) No, no! I was only pretending.

Sallie. (Following Judy a step) But he’ll come and be proud to do so. You are going to be a famous author.

Judy. I don’t want fame. (Crosses to staircase) I just want—happiness.

Sallie. (Crossing to piano) Poor Judy!

(Judy starts upstairs, halting, as Mrs. Semple enters at R. and excitedly crosses up C. to window.)

Mrs. S. (Going up C.) He’s coming!

Jimmie. (Crosses down to R. and exits with jug) Yes, here I am.

Mrs. S. (Coming down C. above table after laugh) No, I don’t mean you—I mean Master Jervis.

(Judy pauses on stairs as Jervis enters and comes down L. of Mrs. Semple.)

Jervis. (Taking her in his arms) Well, Lizzie, how are you? Bless your heart.

Mrs. S. Bless yours, Master Jervis. The sight of you does my old eyes good.

Jervis. (Taking her face between his hands and kissing her eyes) Ah! Bless them—bless them!

Sallie. (Left by piano) How do you do?

Jervis. (Crossing to Sallie) Ah, Miss McBride—this is an unexpected pleasure— (Sees Judy on the stairs and advances to her. Judy comes to meet him and Sallie crosses at back over to Mrs. Semple.)

Judy. And how are you, Mr. Pendleton?

Jervis. (Coming down C. and then front of table) Mr. Pendleton—oh! Have I been away so long that Jervis is forgotten?

Judy. Well, you must admit you’re something of a stranger to our gates. We began to fear we had been forgotten.

Jervis. What! May I hope then that I’ve been missed?

Mrs. S. (Up R. Coming down R. of table) Missed! Why, Master Jervis, the five weeks you’ve been away seems like an age—

Jervis. (Crossing to L. of Mrs. Semple) Oh, you flatterer— (Jimmie enters and stands R. of Mrs. Semple. A look passes between Jimmie and Jervis) Oh! And Mr. McBride!

Jimmie. (Coming down) How do you do, sir?

Jervis. (As they shake hands) And you…. (Crosses to Jimmie.)

Jimmie. Nicely, thanks.

Mrs. S. Oh, Master Jervis—Mr. McBride shot that woodchuck you tried to get. You know that one you tried to get—the one that ate up all my young carrots.

Jervis. I congratulate Mr. McBride upon succeeding where I failed. (Turns and crosses over to Judy) No, I shall not presume to hope that I had been missed. (Jervis and Judy turn up a step above piano as Sallie crosses down to L. of Jimmie.)

Sallie. Come along, Jimmie—the time has come for you to go— (Crosses to L. and upstairs.)

Jimmie. (Following Sallie) I was thinking that myself.

Mrs. S. (Coming down R.) Oh, Mr. McBride—(Jimmie stops at L.C. below Jervis and Judy)—I told Carrie to put your things out in the hall.

Jimmie. Eh?

(Sallie waits at head of stairs.)

Mrs. S. You don’t mind, do you?

Jimmie. Oh, no, no! Not at all. (Crosses to foot of stairs—then turns) You’re sure you didn’t put them in the road?

Mrs. S. Oh, no! (Exits off R.)

Sallie. Oh! Come on, Jimmie!

(Exits. Jimmie on stairs starts to sing dolefully as he goes up and off, his last line heard off stage.)

Jimmie. (Singing)

(Off stage, closing door) Go! Go! Go!

Mrs. S. (Entering R.) Oh, where’s your bag, Master Jervis? Yer old room is ready for you.

Jervis. (Crossing R. to Mrs. Semple) No, no, Lizzie, I haven’t come to stay.

(Judy looks at Jervis and then slowly turns back to piano.)

Mrs. S. Didn’t come to stay?

Jervis. Well—not this time. (Judy sits at piano) The man who drove me here is waiting—I must catch the 7:30 train.

(Judy plays softly the song she has sung.)

Mrs. S. Why, it hardly seems worth while yer coming for so short a time.

Jervis. Oh, I hope not, Lizzie. (Looking over his shoulder at Judy) I trust it will prove—oh, so worth while—

Mrs. S. (Looks from Jervis to Judy and understands why) Oh! Well, ye’ll have a cup of tea?

Jervis. Yes.

Mrs. S. And I’ve got some of that jelly cake you used to like when you were a little boy, Master Jervis. (Exits R.)

(Jervis, closing door after her and turning slowly at door, looking across to Judy. Judy has finished playing, rises and looks across at Jervis. Jervis breaks the scene.)

Jervis. (Moves chair. Crossing up to R. of table, Judy going to L. of table) Well, Judy, it seems to me I’ve been away so long I’m sure there is much to tell me. How are affairs at Lock Willow? How’s old Grover?

Judy. Well—

Jervis. Cautious and sedate as ever?

Judy. (Sitting L. of table) The same.

Jervis. And how’s the new book? How’s that progressing?

Judy. Cautiously, too, like old Grover, under the restraining influence of my publisher.

Jervis. Oh, that’s not fair. Your imagination should have free rein.

Judy. It’s flattering to know that—you still take interest in our small affairs.

Jervis. I shall never cease to do that, not for a single moment.

Judy. That is difficult to believe.

Jervis. And why?

Judy. Well—five weeks away and not a word or sign or token.

Jervis. Yet every moment of those weeks you’ve been in my thoughts. I went away, I stayed away because of something I had learned.

Judy. (Apprehensively) About me?

Jervis. Concerning both of us—the truth of which has forced itself upon me, and it became a problem I’ve been trying hard to solve.

Judy. A problem? How—

Jervis. (Sitting R. of table) A conflict of my heart and mind in which I can find no peace. And so I’ve come back to ask that you decide. The freedom of our comradeship has gone and I am a dependent now upon your answer. I love you, Judy.

Judy. Jervis!

Jervis. With a love so deep, so great that it overpowers what the world would call my sense of right, but how could I help it? You came into my gray existence like a spirit of Spring and sunshine, bringing to it an interest that I had never known. But the difference of our years forbade that I should recognize the truth and so I deceived myself that your friendship was my sole desire. And the play-time of my life began. And then the thought thrust itself upon me that I was deceiving you. My reason mocked and ridiculed my love. That I, past youth, should offer youth the remnant of a life … and so I went away to fight it out alone. I feared perhaps your sympathy might lead you into that greatest sacrifice, a loveless marriage. Then hope transformed me with the thought that in my great love, you might find some measure of content. And so, quite conquered, beaten in the struggle between my reason and my love, I ask your aid, remembering always that beyond all else your own happiness is at stake. Have no thought of the hurt that might come to me, and yet, if somewhere in your heart there is a spark of feeling for me that my devotion might warm into a glow of love, oh, give me the blessed chance to try—and so, dear heart, I’m waiting—fearing—hoping—will you be my wife? (Pause.)

Judy. (Shaking her head slowly) I cannot—I cannot!

Jervis. (Rising) Oh, Judy, are you sure? Is there something that I cannot hope to put aside?

Judy. (Rises, her back turned to him, slowly) Yes.

Jervis. (Goes back of table. Looks upstairs with thought of Jimmie) I think I understand. And so the sun of all my happiness has set.

Judy. (Crosses to piano—murmurs in suffering) Oh, please—please—!

Jervis. (Back of Judy) I know, I know, I’m a coward. Forget my folly in speaking to you of this. I should have known. (Takes hat from table and crosses to L. of Judy) Tell them all I could not stay. Make some excuse for me, and some day when my reason reigns supreme let me come back to you, dear comrade—till then, God bless and keep you, Judy—always, always, always! (Turns and slowly goes up and off U.L.)

(Judy is at piano and as Jervis goes off, sinks to her knees and throws herself on chair below piano, crying bitterly as curtain descends.)