(Reproachfully.)
And you promised to take me in to supper.
Of course, of course. And I will. I'll come back.
I'd rather you didn't go—Floyd. The next dance
(Looking at his card.) is ours. It will begin in a minute.
(Vanderlip does not know what to say. Freda urges him to continue toward door by tugging privily on his arm. Also she glances apprehensively at Mrs. McFee, who, with a set expression on face, has drawn nearer.)
(Hesitatingly.)
Really, Mrs. Eppingwell, I—
(Interrupting, urging him by arm to start toward door.)
We'll be late. We must go.
(Vanderlip half starts to go with her toward door.)
(To Freda.)
I beg pardon, but you scarcely understand.
(Sharply, overwrought nervously.)
It would be better, Mrs. Eppingwell, did your husband understand as well as I.
(Mrs. Eppingwell is visibly hurt, and for the moment shocked into silence.)
Now, look here, I'm not going to have any quarrelling between you women.
(With sudden suspicion, ignoring Vanderlip.)
Who are you?
(Coldly.)
One whose existence would scarcely interest you, Mrs. Eppingwell.
(Whose efforts to make peace are ignored.) Oh, I say—
(Mrs. McFee has drawn nearer. Everybody on stage is interested.)
Mrs. Eppingwell I have the right to know.
(Scathingly.)
As custodian of the community's morals?
And why not?
(Mockingly.)
Ah, and why not?
(With energy, but coolly and collectedly.)
You have the advantage. You know who I am. Who are you? I demand to know.
(Freda laughs lightly and mockingly.)
MRS. McFEE
(Entering group with a very determined air and pausing an instant.)
We'll settle that, Mrs. Eppingwell.
(Mrs. McFee suddenly springs upon Freda, tearing mask jrom face. Freda is startled and frightened. Vanderlip, the situation beyond him, stares helplessly back and forth between Freda and Mrs. Eppingwell. Everybody on the stage stares at Freda, forming a wide and irregular circle of onlookers, who are too polite to crowd closer, but who, nevertheless, cannot resist staring, one and all, from a distance.)
(Sarcastically, shrilly.)
Mrs. Eppingwell, it is with great pleasure I make you acquainted with Freda Moloof—Miss Freda Moloof, as I understand.
(Mrs. Eppingwell makes a gesture to silence Mrs. McFee, who pauses for a moment.)
Mayhap you dinna know the lady. Let me tell you—
(Interrupting.)
Now, here, I say, what's the good—
MRS. McFEE
(Interrupting, and withering him with a look.)
Child of Perdition!
(She continues.)
As I was saying, this woman's antecedents—a dancing girl, a destroyer of men's souls, a bold, brazen hussy, a servant of Satan, a—
Mrs. Eppingwell (Interrupting.)
That will do, Mrs. McFee. Will you please leave me to talk with her?
(Mrs. McFee, still holding mask, snorts and withdraws a step from group.)
(Quickly, excitedly, eyes flashing.)
I do not want you to talk with me. What more can you say than that woman (Indicating Mrs. McFee, who snorts.) has said? I want to go. Come on, Floyd.
(Gently.)
I do not wish to be harsh.
(On verge oj tears, yet dry-eyed and resolute.)
Be anything but kind. That I will not bear.
Mrs. Eppingwell (Beginning gently.)
(Interrupting, excitedly.)
It is you that have the advantage now, hiding behind that mask. Your face is clothed. I am as naked before you, (Glancing around masked circle and shrinking as a naked woman might shrink.) before all of you.
But you should not have come here.
I had reason to come.
An evil reason, I fear. However—
(She calmly removes her own mask.)
(For a long moment they regard each other with fixed gaze, Freda aggressive, meteoric, at bay; Mrs. Eppingwell calm-eyed, serene, dispassionate. Freda begins to soften.)
(Softly.)
You are kind.
No; it is merely fair play.
MRS. McFEE
(Bursting out wrathfully.)
Why dinna you tell the hussy to go?
(Masterfully.)
Be quiet.
(Breaking down, seeming to droop for an instant, with one short dry sob or catch in the throat.)
Yes, I will go, Mrs. Eppingwell.
(Turning to Vanderlip.)
Will you come, Floyd?
(Vanderlip looks to Mrs. Eppingwell for consent.)
Mr. Vanderlip will stay.
(Freda, broken down, beaten, but with no tears, no wringing of hands, nor customary signs of feminine weakness, with head up, mechanically resolute and defiant, ordinary carriage and speed of walk, goes toward street door. Silence. Everybody watches her. Doorkeeper does not assist her when she gropes blindly under bench for street moccasins.)
(What is emphasized is her isolation. She is not one of them, and they regard her as they would regard a strange animal which had strayed in out of the night.)
(She sits down on bench to put on street moccasins. Just as she lifts her foot to put on first moccasin, she pauses, thinks, then puts foot down again. She puts down moccasins, stands up, pauses irresolutely a moment, then walks forward to Mrs. Eppingwell and Vanderlip.)
(Quietly.)
Mrs. Eppingwell, pardon me, but I had forgotten for the moment what I came for.
And that is—?
Floyd Vanderlip.
(Angrily.)
Now look here, Freda, I tell you I won't stand for this.
(Freda ignores him.)
Mrs. Eppingwell I trust, Miss Moloof—
(Interrupting.)
Call me Freda.
(Bitterly.)
Everybody calls me Freda.
Well, Freda, then. Have you thought what you are doing? It is an awkward thing to play with souls. What right have you?
(Laughing harshly.)
Right? I have no rights. Only privileges.
(With touch of anger.)
Licenses, I should say.
(Mrs. McFee snorts and approaches.)
Thank you, licenses. I have licenses which you have not, for, you see, you are the wife of a captain.
What do you want with this man?
I might ask what you want with him? You have your husband.
And you?
(Wearily.)
Men, just men.
(Anger growing.)
You are all that has been said of you, a destroyer of men.
(Nodding her head in assent.)
Come on, Floyd. I want you. And be warned by Mrs. Eppingwell, I want to destroy you. (Imperiously.)
Come.
(Vanderlip has by now been reduced to the helplessness of a puppet. He makes to start.)
(Imperiously.)
Floyd Vanderlip, you remain where you are. (He stops.)
(Almost whispering.)
Come.
(He makes to start.)
(Warningly, imperiously.) Floyd!
(He stops.)
MRS. McFEE
(To Vanderlip, witheringly, imitating his hesitancy by bobbing her body.)
You weak and sinful creature, bobbing here, and bobbing there, like a chicken with its head cut off!
(Stirred to sudden flame of anger.)
Once for all, Freda, I'm not going with you.
(Quietly.)
What time is it, Floyd?
(Looking at watch, startled.)
Quarter to twelve! I must go, Mrs. Eppingwell. Good-by.
(He starts toward door at heels of Freda, who leads him by a couple of steps.)
Shame on you,
(Freda glances back and smiles a hard smile.)
(Calling softly.)
Floyd!
(Vanderlip hesitates. Freda turns her face, blazingly imperious, upon him, and he slinks on after her. Dead silence.)
(When they reach door.)
Help me on with my moccasins, Floyd.
(He hesitates, with a last faint spark of rebellion. She looks at him, blazingly imperious.)
There they are.
(He is beaten. Stoops for moccasins. She sits down on bench. He puts moccasins on her feet. They stand up. He helps her on with her cloak. While he is putting on his own moccasins and a big bearskin overcoat, she pulls hood of cloak over her head and covering her ears. Then she puts on her mittens. Then she waits for him. He puts on cap and mittens and opens street door.)
(Recollecting, and turning toward Mrs. McFee.)
Go, get my mask.
(He obeys, amid dead silence. Mrs. McFee mechanically surrenders mask to him. He returns. Opens door. Freda passes out. He follows.)
Scene. Freda Moloofs cabin. It is eleven forty-five at night. The room is large, and luxuriously furnished. Its walls are of logs stuffed between with brown moss. Doors of rough, unstained pine boards, also window-frames and sashes. Street door to rear, in centre. On either side of door is an ordinary, small-paned window. To left of door a plain chair. On rear wall, near door, are wooden pegs, from which hang cloaks, wraps, furs, etc., also wisp-brooms for brushing snow from moccasins.
The luxury of furnishing is of the solid order. No gim-cracks, no bric-a-brac. Furniture is rough, made in the Klondike. Tables, chairs, etc., are unpolished; they are made from pine lumber, are unstained, rough, massive. There is no carpet. Bearskins, etc., litter the floor. Strange juxtaposition of rough pine furniture, costly rugs, etc.; and, strangest of all, a grand piano. The cheapest and simplest and ugliest of kerosene lamps are used for lighting purposes, also candles. On walls are magnificent moose-horns and other appropriate trophies and weapons of the Northland (such as great ivory-headed spears and a pair of tusks of the mammoth); but there are no framed paintings.
Midway between front and rear, and midway between centre and right, a large, wood-burning stove. Beside it a woodbox. On stove a tea-kettle is simmering. To left of stove, and near it, table, with table-cover on it, a few books and magazines, and a cheap kerosene lamp; around table several pine chairs. Between table and stove two easy chairs of rough pine, massive, thrown over with furs. On right, at front, against wall, a large, comfortable lounging-couch with many cushions. On left, at front, a grand piano. On piano a small, gilt French clock is ticking.
The room is luxurious, comfortable, picturesque, emphasizing the contact of civilization and the wilderness. In short, it is the best possible living apartment that money can purchase in the Klondike.
A Maid is in easy chair, reading magazine and yawning. Door opens on right. Indian enters with armful of firewood, which he carries to stove and dumps in woodbox. He proceeds to put several sticks of wood into stave and to adjust damper. His entrance arouses Maid, who looks up, yawns, lays magazine face-down on lap, yawns again, at same time stretching arms behind head, and glances at clock. It is quite a distance to clock. She rubs eyes and looks again.
Ten minutes to twelve. (Yawns.)
What time come?
(Shaking head.)
I don't know.
(Yawning.)
I never know.
Me go to bed.
You'd better not. She said we were to stay up.
What for? Much trouble you think? What she do? Where she go?
(Yawning.)
How should I know?
Sitka Charley take dogs. Sitka Charley big hurry. What for?
(Listening.)
There she comes now.
(Maid rises to her feet, like a soldier coming to attention, hastily puts magazine on table, and brushes down front of skirt. Indian puts another stick of wood into stove and busies himself with raking ashes level in ash-box of stove.)
(Street door opens. Freda enters, leading Vanderlip by the hand. Both are mittened and in same wraps, coats, etc., with which they left anteroom of Pioneer Hall.)
(Indian finishes with stove and goes out slowly to right. Maid goes to rear and helps Freda off with wraps, moccasins, etc.)
(Vanderlip, who has come in reluctantly, does not remove mittens or cap, and stands sullenly inside the door, though he cannot forbear glancing curiously around.)
(Seeming in high spirits, while Maid is taking off her street moccasins.)
And now for a toddy! You've never tasted Minnie's. She makes them—
(Holding up hands.)
oh, to the king's taste, and to a Klondike king's at that.
(Brusquely.)
Sorry. Won't have time. What did you want me for?
My! There's the man of it!
(Imitating his voice and manner.) What did you want me for?
(Natural voiced)
Can't let the poor woman catch her breath. Won't sit down for a moment in the warm.
(Motions to Maid to help him off with his bearskin overcoat.)
Must know what he's wanted for. Must know right away. Must go right away. Oh, my! Oh, my!
(Maid starts to help him off with overcoat. He jerks away from her.)
(Sullenly.)
What do you want to say to me? Fire away.
(Laying hand on his arm.)
Floyd—
(Hesitating.)
—dear Floyd.... You are big and strong. I know, too, that you are kind. Be kind now, just a little kind, a very little. I can't talk with you here, this way. It would be ridiculous.
(Beginning to help him take off coat, in which operation his assistance is restricted to non-resistance.)
Come and sit by the fire a moment.
(Hands overcoat to Maid, who hangs it up on wall.)
Just for a moment.
(Untying ear-flaps, and removing his cap, which Maid hangs up. She pushes him on to chair and lifts one foot to remove street moccasins.)
(Helplessly expostulating.)
Now here, I say—
(She persists.)
I won't have a woman doing that for me.
(Pushes her away and removes moccasins himself. He stands up.)
I said I wasn't coming to your cabin, Freda; and I can't stay anyway—only for that one moment, that's all.
(Taking his hand and starting to lead him forward.)
That is all I wanted, just the moment. And it is sweet of you to give it to me.
(Vanderlip pauses and looks around room with interest. Freda pauses with him. Maid remains in rear, putting moccasins away, etc.)
(More genially, forgetting to be sullen.)
I say, Freda, you're fixed comfortably.
Think so?
It's grand style, I must say. Nothing like it in the land. You're the only person that has three rooms.
Four—counting the kitchen.
And my cabin is one room.
And you a millionaire.
But this is the Klondike—
(Laughing and interrupting.)
Where even millionaires
(Imitating Dave Harney.) can't buy sweetenin' for their coffee an' mush. Dodgast the luck anyway.
(Vanderlip laughs appreciatively. They start on again to front, but he sees piano and stops again.)
If there ain't a piano! It cost you a pretty penny, I'll bet.
(Leading him toward piano, half-singing, lightly.)
"You cannot pack a Broadwood half a mile." (Looking at him.)
Don't you know it?
(He shakes head.)
Don't know your Kipling!
(Sitting down at piano.)
Here's the way it goes—
(Plays and sings.)
"You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile,
You mustn't leave a fiddle in the damp,
You couldn't raft an organ up the Nile
And play it in an equatorial swamp "——
(Who had first gazed admiringly at her, then gazed curiously around until, by clock on piano, he sees what time it is, interrupting by bringing hand heavily down on keys of piano.)
I can't wait another second. What do you want with me?
(Ceasing the song, looking up quite calmly, and placing hand over face of clock.)
I want you to stop looking at that clock. And
(Rising, taking him by hand, and leading him toward stove.)
I want you to come right over here and be good.
(Turning to Maid.)
Minnie.
(Maid, who has been waiting in rear, comes forward and again waits.)
(Freda pushes Vanderlip into easy chair near stove, runs to couch at right for cushion, which she puts behind his head, pressing his shoulders and head back upon it. She places fur-covered footstool under his feet. He has not relaxed himself, and in his stiff acceptance of comforts makes a ridiculous appearance.)
(Giving cushion behind head a last pat.) And now you may smoke.
(Maid goes out to right.)
(Vanderlip rolls head back and forth on cushion. His hand searches for watch, which he draws forth from pocket. But before he can look at it Freda's hand covers the face of it.)
Oh my! My! What a busy man it is!
(Maid enters with cigar-box on tray. Vanderlip takes a cigar, and while he examines it critically Freda puts watch back in his pocket.)
(Biting off end of cigar.)
Real Havana. And you can't buy them for love nor money. How do you manage it?
(Striking match and holding it up to him.) Oh, I just do. I could have offered you worse, I assure you.
(Vanderlip puffs on cigar—long, slow, appreciative puffs. His face loses its sullen expression. He sighs contentedly. He relaxes his body, sinks back, and for the first time looks really comfortable.)
And now, Minnie, you have your reputation to live up to.
(Hesitating an instant.)
The Scotch?
(Freda nods head, and Maid goes out to right.)
(Taking cigar from mouth and looking at it.)
I say, Freda, you can make a fellow comfortable.
(Smiling.)
Think so?
(The sullenness returning into his face.) And you know how to make him uncomfortable.
(Smiling.)
Think so?
You are, by long odds, the most brutal woman I ever met.
(Incredulously and innocently aghast.) I?
(Harshly.)
I wouldn't treat a dog the way you treated me. (Growing angry.)
You treated me like a cur, the way you lugged me away from the dance.
Think so?
I'd sooner a man beat me with a club, than take what I took from you. It was just as much as if you took a club to me. You beat me into submission, in front of everybody, until I followed at your heels—that's what you did.
(With mock solemnity.)
Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.
But you are not the Lord. You are Freda—Freda
(Laughing and interrupting.)
And whom Freda chasteneth—
(Interrupting.)
She—
(Interrupting.)
Not at all. The Lord is the Lord, but Freda is only a woman....
(A pause.)
(Impatiently.)
And?
Her ways are different from the Lord's.
(She pulls her chair alongside of his, and rests one hand for a moment, caressingly, on his. Speaks softly.)
And aren't you glad?
(The caress has its effect. He is soothed, and puffs away at cigar with half-closed eyes.)
(Freda, unobserved, throws a swift glance at clock, listens intently as for sounds from without of an approaching sled, and betrays to her audience her anxiety and restlessness.)
(Maid enters with two glasses on a tray. Freda, observed by Vanderlip, sips from one glass, nods head approvingly, and passes it to him. Takes other glass herself.)
Minnie. Candles.
(Maid moves about room, putting out lamps and lighting candles, which latter, with tissue-paper shades, shed softer light.)
(Vanderlip suddenly recollects himself and draws watch. Freda tries to cover watch with hand, but jails. Vanderlip sees watch and starts to rise from chair. Freda half rises and presses him back.)
(With note of real regret in his voice, glancing from cigar in one hand, and glass in other hand, to the stove, about the room, and then at Freda.)
It's a darn shame to leave all this, but I've really got to, Freda. I don't think I was ever so comfortable in my life.
(Softly, almost whispering.)
Then why leave it, Floyd?
I've got to hit the trail to-night, right away. And I've got to get my trail clothes. That bearskin overcoat's too warm. Can't travel in it.
(Starts to rise.)
(Pressing him back gently.)
Wait a minute. Let me think.
(Thinks a moment. Her face brightens.) Ah, the very thing. Why not send my Indian for your things? He can bring them here. That will give you a few minutes more of the warm—
(Interrupting, putting his arm out and around her waist.)
And of you, Freda.
(Freda lets his arm linger for a moment, then, warning him, by a look, of presence of Maid, gently disengages arm. Takes her time about disengaging it. Vanderlip sinks back comfortably on cushion.)
(Turning to Maid.)
Minnie.
(Maid, who has finished lighting candles, approaches.)
Send Joe here. Tell him to put on his mittens and parka.
(Maid goes out to right.)
(Freda resumes seat, and lays one hand on Vanderlip's hand. Neither speaks.)
(Maid enters, followed by Indian, who, as he comes, is putting on parka and mittens.)
You know Mr. Vanderlip's cabin?
(Nodding.)
Um.
Give him the key, Floyd.
(Vanderlip reaches in pocket and gives key to Indian.)
You go Mr. Vanderlip's cabin and get parka—
(Interrupting.)
Dog-whip, fur cap, all together with parka.
Dog-whip, fur cap, all together with parka. (Indian nods.)
And flask of whiskey on table.
And flask of whiskey on table.
(Indian nods.)
And go quick.
And go quick.
(Indian nods and starts toward door to rear. Makes exit. Freda rises, as though recollecting something.)
Excuse me, Floyd.
(Passes behind Vanderlip's back toward door to right, and unobserved beckons Maid. They pause at door to right.) Run quick, out the kitchen door, and catch Joe. Tell him not to come back. Tell him I said so—to go get drunk, anything, but not to come back.
(Vanderlip lifts heady turns head around, and is watching and listening. Freda continues in slightly louder voice.)
And then, Cupid's stew.
(Maid makes exit to right.)
(Freda returns to chair, passing hand caressingly through Vanderlip's hair before she sits down.)
(Gruffly, suspiciously.)
What were you gassing about?
(Mysteriously.)
Cupid's stew.
I heard it, but what is it?
(Pausing and considering.)
Well, first you take the chafing-dish—
(Interrupting.)
What's the chafing-dish? Use them in churches, don't they? Burn incense in them, or something or other.
(Laughing.)
A chafing-dish, silly, is a very pretty something you cook things in.
Oh, I see. A highfalutin' frying-pan.
(Nodding.)
First you put some butter in it; and then, when the butter is melted, you stir in—oh, say a tablespoon of flour.
(Vanderlip is listening closely.)
When it is stirred smooth—
(Interrupting.)
Do you brown the flour?
No, of course not.
(With comprehension.)
Oh.
Then you stir in a cup of milk—Minnie's fixing it now, out in the kitchen—and in her case it will have to be condensed milk—
(Interrupting.)
St. Anthony's Cream's the best brand I know of.
(Regretfully.)
But you can't get it in this country.
I've got some.
(In joyful amazement.)
No!
(Nodding head.)
I have. Then you put in some boneless chicken—tinned—
(Interrupting.)
You got some of that, too?
Yes. And then some mushrooms—tinned—
(Interrupting ecstatically.)
Freda, you're a wonder!
Then season to taste,
(Rising to climax.) and there you are!
(Freda half rises, leaning toward him. He half rises to meet her, reaching for her with both arms, to put around her waist, but she catches his hands and very gently and slowly disengages herself. Her very manner of disengaging herself is caressing and seducing. They sink back slowly into their respective chairs.)
(Freda listens intently, as for the sound of a sled without. Glances anxiously at clock on piano. Vanderlip does not notice, for he is drawing his watch and looking at it.)
It's ten after twelve.
(Looks anxiously at door to right.)
Gee! I hate to go without having a crack at that Cupid's stew.
(He looks at Freda. She is gazing at him absently, apparently lost in meditation over him.)
Well?
(Startled, as though discovered, in pretty embarrassment.)
Oh!
I was just wondering what you wanted to see me about.
(He draws his chair snugly against hers. She looks at him, studying him, as though trying to make up her mind to speak.) Well, what is it?
(With steadiness and determination.)
Floyd, I am tired of the whole business. I want to go away—over the ice—anywhere—away. I can't live it out here till the river breaks next spring. I'll die. I know it. I want to quit it all and go away. And I want to go at once.
(She lays her hand in appeal on the back of his. His hand turns over and captures hers. He does not know what to say.)
Well?
(Hastily.)
I don't know what to say. Nothing I'd like better, Freda. You know that well enough.
(He presses her hand, and she nods.)
But you see I'm—
(Blurting it out.)
—I'm engaged. Of course you know that. Everybody knows it. The girl's coming in over the ice to marry me.
(Meditatively.)
Don't know what was up with me when I asked her, but it was a long while back, and I was all-fired young.
And you intend to wait for her?
(He nods.)
And to marry her?
(He nods.)
Men sometimes make mistakes, you know, when they are young.
(Warmly.)
And this is one of them. What did I know about women then?
(Slyly.)
Nothing to what you know about them now.
I should say so.
But, Floyd, by persisting in the mistake, do you mend matters?
(He shakes his head dubiously.)
Will you be happy? Will she be happy? She is sure to find out the mistake, then it will be tragedy.
(In despair.)
I don't know. Women keep bothering me so. There are so many of them, and I like them all. Seems to me I like best the one I'm with at the time.
Mrs. Eppingwell, let us say.
(With positiveness.)
Yes, Mrs. Eppingwell. Why, when I'm with her, I think there's nothing like her under the sun. I feel like going out and killing her husband just to get her.
(Seductively.)
And when you are with me, Floyd?
(Vanderlip reaches out impulsively and draws her to him. Her head rests on his shoulder. She snuggles in to him in a contented way, her hand petting his. He buries his face in her hair. The scent of her hair gets into his brain and maddens him. He disengages hand from hers and slips it gradually up her bare arm. His other arm, about waist and shoulder, draws her closely against him. All the while, however, they are occupying their respective chairs. They remain this way for a long moment or so, his hand still progressing up her bare arm.)
(Tearing herself suddenly loose from him and holding him from her at arms' length, tragically.)
Floyd! Floyd! I want to go away—out of the land—anywhere!—anywhere!
(Soothingly.)
Dear Freda.
I am tired, tired, so tired of it all. I—I—
(Voice breaking.)
—I think I shall cry.
(Gently and soothingly drawing her to him.)
There, there, little woman. Brace up, buck up, don't give in.
(Slowly disengaging herself and gently holding him off at arm's length.)
I've been running over in my mind the men I know, and reached the conclusion that... that...
(Beaming with self-complacency.)
I was the likeliest of the lot.
(Quickly.)
No, not that, but... but... that I liked you best of all.
(Drawing her to him.)
Dear Freda.
Dear Floyd.
(Door on right opens. They break away from each other and assume a more decorous position. Maid enters, bearing tray, on which are chafing-dish, dishes, napkins, etc., and a quart bottle of champagne. She sets tray on table. Freda serves Cupid's stew to Vanderlip, while Maid, a little to rear, is wrestling with champagne bottle.)
(Who has not noticed champagne bottle, aroused by popping of cork and turning around quickly, simulating a person roused from sleep, rubbing his eyes, etc.)
Wake me up, somebody. I'm dreaming. Pinch me.
(Takes hold of bottle, Maid still retaining her hold, and looks at it.)
The real thing.
(Releases bottle and looks admiringly at Freda.)
Freda, you're a peach. There isn't another bottle in the Klondike.
Oh, yes, there is.
(Incredulously.)
You've got to show me.
I've three dozen in the store-room—(Turning to Maid.)
Isn't that right, Minnie?
And two over. I counted them this afternoon.
(Awe-stricken.)
Gosh!
All right, Minnie. You may go now.
(Maid goes out to right.)
(Vanderlip begins eating Cupid's stew. Shows that he is pleased with it. Freda watches him, herself eating. Glances at clock, and listens. She seems to hear something. Puts down her plate on table. A knock is heard on door at rear. Freda rises, goes swiftly to rear, and opens door.)
(An Indian enters. He is dazzled by the light, and pulls ice from lips. Freda shuts door. Vanderlip, after one glance around, goes on eating and drinking.)
Hello.
(Not knowing his errand.) Hello.
Brrr! Much cold.
Very cold.
Me come Sitka Charley.
Oh, you are the man.
Sitka Charley say him come quick.
How quick?
Maybe ten minutes. What time now?
Fifteen minutes after twelve.
Him come twenty-five minutes after twelve. Ten minutes more him come, I think.
How is the girl?
Much tired. Ride on sled. Plenty tired, cry little bit, like baby. She say must camp right away. Sitka Charley say make Dawson. She say no camp right away she die. Sitka Charley say don't care, make Dawson anyway. I go now. Good-by.
Don't you want to go out in the kitchen and get warm?
No. Good-by.
Good-by.
(Indian opens door and goes out.)
(Freda returns to chair at stove.)
(Freda Sitting down.)
You haven't told me how you like it.
(Turning plate upside down.) Actions speak louder than words. (She helps him to some more.) Let me see, Cupid's slumgullion, eh?
(Laughing.)
Cupid's stew.
(Thrusting fork into stew on his plate.) What's in a name, so long as it's in your plate anyway?
(Eats silently jor a space.)
(Softly.)
Floyd.
(He is absorbed in eating.)
Floyd.
(Looking at her.) Unh-hunh.
(Still softly.)
I've been thinking. Why couldn't we go down river?
(Dropping fork and looking at her blankly, then around room, then at plate, and holding up glass of champagne—pathetically.)
And leave all this?
Why not? We'd soon be down in the world, where we could swim in wine and all kinds of good things.
(Seriously.)
I don't know, Freda. I almost believe you've got to be in a place like this to get the value out of things. I tell you champagne on tap is not all it's cracked up to be. It never bites in and lays hold the way this does. Down in the world it's all wine and no thirst—
(Interrupting.)
And up here it's all thirst and no wine.
(Enthusiastically. )
But when you do get hold of the wine—Lord! Lord!
(Tilts hack head and empties glass, his face beaming like to the full moon. He regards Freda thoughtfully as she fills his glass, and speaks with sudden suspicion.) You don't happen to care for palaces, do you?
(Shaking her head.)
Why, what put that into your head?
Well, I had a hankering after them myself, till I got to thinking a while back, and I've about sized it up that one gets fat living in palaces, and soft and lazy. No sir, no champagne on tap and soft summer skies for me.
I suppose it's nice in palaces—for a time. But one would soon tire. The world is good, but life should be many-sided. The way we'll do it will be to rough and knock about for a while, and then rest up somewhere.
(Vanderlip begins to lean forward, interested.)
Off to the South Seas on a yacht, then, say a nibble of Paris.
(Gleefully.)
Paris!
Then a winter in South America, and a summer in Norway—
(Interrupting.)
I always wanted a look-see, at South America.
A few months in England—
(Interrupting.)
Good society?
Certainly. And then, heigho! for the dogs and the sleds and the Hudson Bay Country!
(Half rising, enthusiastically.)
Freda, you were made for me! It's just the life I want. I couldn't have hit it off better myself if I'd tried. The way you put it—a bit of this, and a bit of that—variety, you know—that's me.
That's it, variety, change. A strong man like you, full of vitality and go, could not possibly stand a palace for a year.
(He shakes his head.)
It's all very well for effeminate men, but you weren't made for such a life. You are masculine, intensely masculine.
(Taking her hand and beginning to draw her toward him.)
Do you think so?
(Yielding herself.)
It doesn't require thinking. I know. Have you ever noticed that it was easy to make women care for you?
(Superbly innocent, yet showing by his expression that he agrees with her.)
Oh, I don't know.
You know it is so.
Well, for the sake of argument, yes.
It is very easy. And why?
(Still playing innocent.)
Darned if I know.
(Impressively.)
Because you are masculine. You strike the deepest chords of a woman's heart. Woman is weak. You are a wall of strength to her. You are something to cling to—big-muscled, strong, and brave. In short, because you are a man.
(He folds her to him.)
Dear, dear Floyd!
(She lies in his arms a long moment, both still on their respective chairs. Then she slowly and gently disengages herself, at the same time stealing a glance at the clock.)
(Holding up her arm and studying it for a moment.)
How much do you weigh, Freda?
(Smiling.)
What now?
I just wanted to know.
But why?
Oh, nothing, I was just thinking you were not the kind to put on fat?
(Decisively.) Well, I think not!
(Suddenly, by her hands, lifts her to her feet and thrusts her several steps away from him, then, sinking back in chair and running his eyes critically over her) Your lines are good.
(Lightly)
Think so?
You just bet I do.
(Jubilantly)
You'll never get fat!
(Coming to his chair and rumpling his hair.)
No, thank goodness, I wasn't born that way.
(Beginning pompously)
Now some women—