(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.)

     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.)