torvwiGHT.iea?, by hahocoroorbach' ^OOVl)aci)'S full tCSrti^Jtibc Catalogue of Dramas, Comedies, Comediettas, Farces, Tableaux-vivants, Guide-books, Novel Entertainments for Church, School and Parlor « Exhibitions, etc., containing complete and explicit information, will be sent to any addreM on receipt of a stamp for return postage. Address as above. y ROORBACK'S AMERICAN EDITION. PRICE, 15 CENTS EACH. N This scries embraces thc'best of pla%s, suited to the present time. The reprints have been rigidly compared with the OTiginal acting copies, so that absolute purity of text and stage business is w.irraiih-d. Each play is furnished with an introduction of the greatest value to the stage manager, containing the argument or synopsis of incidents, complete lists of properties and costumes, diagrams of the stage settings and nracticablo stcne-plots, with the fullest stage directions. They are hand- somely, printed from new electrotype plates, in readable type, on fine paper. Their complete introductions, tcjitual accuracy, and mechanical excellence render these books far superior in every respect to all editions of acting plays hitherto publishe i. 1. ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD. A comic drama In two acts. Six male, th>ee fenude characters. Time, two hours. 2. A SCRAP OF PAPER, A comic drama in three acts. Six male, six female . liaractets. Time, two hours. -. MY LORD IN LIVERY. A farce in one act. Five male, three female charac- ters. 'Isj^me, fift>- minutes. 4. CABMAN No. 93. A farce in one act. Two male, two female characters. Time, (orly minutes. 5. MILKY'WHITE. A domestic drama in two .acts. Four male, two female char acters. Time, one hour and three quarters. 6. PARTNERS FOR LIFE. A comedy in three acts. Seven male, four female characters. Time, two hours. 7. WOODCOCK'S LITTLE GAME. A comedy-faice in two acts. Four male, four female characters. Time, one hour. 8. HOW TO TAME YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW. A farce in one act. Four male, two female characters. Time, thirty-five minutes. 9. LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET. A drama in two acts. Four male, three female characters. Time, one hour and a quarter. 10. NOT SO^AD AFTER ALL. A comedy in three acts. Six male, five female char.icters.^ Time, one hour and forty minutes. 11. WHI^H IS 'VHICH ? A comedietta in one act. Three male, three female characters. Time, fifty minutes. 12. ICI ON PARLE FRAN^AIS. A farce in one .act. Three male, four female characters. Time, forty-five minutes. 13. DAISY FARM. A drama in four acts. Ten m.de, four female characters. Time, two hours and twenty minutes. \\. MARRIED LIFE. A comedy in three acts. I'ive male, five female characters. lime, two hotirs. 15- A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. A comedietta in one act. Two male, three female characters. Time, fifty minutes. l3. LEND ME FIVE SHILLINGS. A farce in one act. Five male, two female characters. Time, one hour. 17. UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.— Original Version. A drama in six acts. Fifteen male, seven female characters. Time, three hours. 13, UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.— New Version. A drama in five acts. Seven male, five female character.>. Time, two hours and a quarter. 19. LONDON ASSURANCE. A comedy in five .acts. Ten male, three female characters. Time, two hours and three quarters. 20. ATCHI I A comedietta in one. act. Three male, two female characters. Time, fort\' minutes. 21- VVHO IS WHO ? A farce in one act. Three male, two female characters. Time, forty minutes. 2a. THE WOVEN WEB. A drama In four acts. Seven male, three female char- acters. Time, two hours and twenty minutes. }^^Any o/the above ivUlbe sent by niail^ fost-J'aid, io any address, en receipt 0/ the J>ricc. HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St.,. New York. DAISY FARM AN ORIGINAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS BY HENRY J. BYRON New American Edition, Correctly Reprinted from the Ori- ginal Authorized Acting Edition, with the Original Cast of the Characters, Synopsis of Incidents, Time of Representation, Description of the Costumes, Scene and Property Plots, Dia- grams OF THE Stage Settings, Sides of Entrance and Exit, Relative Posi- tions OF THE Performers, Expla- nation OF THE Stage Direc- tions, ETC., AND all OF THE Stage Business Copyright, 1889, by Harold Roorbach, ^ COPYRIGHT- ^-^o-- ^^C 141889 ' NEW YORK HAROLD ROORBACH PUBLISHER \ DAISY FARM, CAST OF CHARACTERS. First performed at the Olympic Theatre^ London, on Monday, May ist, 187 1. Andrew Armstrong Mr. G. Belmore Charley Burridge Mr. C . Warner Simeon Cole Mr. W. Blakely George Warriner Mr. E. W. Garden Mr. Craven Mr, H. J, Byron A Tramp Mr. J. Carter Mr. Dobson Mr. Newbound Mr. Wigfall Mr. Butler Mr. Grabham Mr. Franks Mr. Gaffer Mr. Smith Bridget Armstrong ". Miss Hughes Cribbage Mrs. W. H. Listen Kate Cole , Miss O'Byrne Jane Miss Murray Time.— 77/^ Present Day. Locality. — Near Buxton, in Derbyshire. Time of Playing — Two Hours and Twenty Minutes. SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS. Andrew Armstrong, a sturdy farmer of middle age, has been hap- pily married, late in life, to Bridget, his early love, who, in a fit of pique after a lover's quarrel, had married one Burridge, an unprincipled vagabond, subsequently lost at sea. Charley Burridge, a rolling stone inheriting many of his father's faults, after trying his hand at various pursuits, now returns from London where he is being educated in medi- cine at his stepfather's expense, in debt, out of health, and disgusted 4 DAISY FARM. with his profession. He has long been engaged to be married to Kate Cole, a vivacious, wholesome girl, the niece of Simeon Cole, retired inn- keeper and reputed usurer, who cherishes a secret hatred for Armstrong. Staying at the farm is a certain Mr. Craven, a middle-aged gentleman of leisure who has recently saved Kate's life from drowning, is more or less attentive to her, beloved by Armstrong and disliked cordially by Charley and Cole, Cole, in the hope of ultimately ruining Arm- strong and thus satisfying an old grudge by foreclosing his mortgage, has lent the latter the necessary money for making certain improvements on his farm. While thus indebted, Armstrong has just withdrawn his savings from the bank, hearing reports of its impending insolvency, and thus has all his ready money in his pocket, Charley, under the abso- lute necessity of having £2.y:> to extricate himself from debt and disgrace, not daring to confide in his stepfather, turns in desperation to Craven for aid, but, offering dislionorable terms, meets with a cold repulse which confirms the enmity between the two men. Charley, retiring in angry disappointment, nearly upsets Cribbage, a faithful and comical maid of all work with a partiality for George Warriner, a farm hand. Arm- strong has observed his stepson's manner closely and feels convinced that the latter is in some strait that he dares not make known. While speculating anxiously what the trouble may be and how he can avert it, he is interrupted by the entrance of a tramp who, to Armstrong's hor- ror, reveals himself as David Burridge, Bridget Armstrong's former husband, supposed to be long since dead. Burridge names ;^500 as the price of his silence and departure, which Armstrong willingly pays, and is left in a state bordering on madness at the turn matters have taken. Charley, having repaired to the village inn where he has been drink- ing heavily through the evening to drown his care, while engaged in a wrangle with several villagers who have revolted against his domineering ways, is deeply agitated by the receipt of a letter urging him to return at once to London to clear himself of a terrible charge, and indicating that certain money must be paid at once, with the alternative of swift ex- posure and punishment, While he is in a state of despair at his position, the Tramp enters, having been sleeping off the effects of drink above stairs, shows a large sum of money while paying his reckoning, and an- nounces his purpose of departing that night for the next town, by a lonely and dangerous road. The ostentatious display of the Tramp's money arouses a demon in Charley, who, unperceived, has observed it with all the intensity of a gambler whose last stake is at hazard. He follows the Tramp doggedly, encounters and robs him in the lonely road. In the course of their struggle the Tramp falls with a wuld cry over the edge of a cliff ; Charley proceeds on his way with his plunder, followed by Craven who has appeared just after the attack. Armstrong, now thoroughly broken down, feeling that circumstances require his immediate separation from Bridget, though he does not re- veal to her the true state of affairs, determines to depart for America, ostensibly to visit his brother, and arranges with Craven that the latter is to account to Mrs. Armstrong as satisfactorily as possible for his de- parture. As this is arranged, Simeon Cole having lost all his available cash through the failure of the bank, and needing money to meet an emer- gency, suddenly presents to Armstrong a promissory note of the latter's and demands its payment forthwith; but Armstrong, having given all DAISY FARM. $ the money he had to the Tramp, is unable to respond. While the money lender is fiercely denouncing him as a swindling imposter, Charley en- ters, haggard and pale, and discharges his stepfather's obligation, account- ing for the large sum in his possession by pretending to have staked it on a winning horse. But as the money is counted out, Armstrong recog- nizes several of the bills as the identical ones that he himself had paid to the Tramp. The truth breaks upon him with sickening force, and he shrinks back with a wail of grief, half accusing Charley of robbery, to the wonder and concern of the others, without, however, denouncing his stepson entirely. Armstrong is now crushed with a double secret from his wife — her first husband's return and her son's crimes. Craven forces an inter- view with Charley, in the course of which he boldly accuses the latter of the robbery and murder of the Tramp, but agrees to compound his London embarrassment, conditionally on his leaving Daisy Farm and giving up Kate. Bridget enters, unperceived, during the latter part of the interview, listens with horror to Craven's accusations, and with a shriek, recognizes a picture produced by the latter, which he had picked up near the cliff, as the portrait of her first husband, David Burridge. Charley, unable to bear this misery and wretchedness longer, makes a clean breast of it, telling how he had fallen into bad company, goi; into a money scrape, was threatened with exposure, and, tempted by the sudden sight of money in the hands of the Tramp, had robbed the latter, the por- trait being in his pocket-book with the bills. At this juncture the Tramp himself appears to levy further blackmail and is recognized with anger by Armstrong and relief by the latter's stepson. Bridget, who has at first beheld the tramp with dismay, after watching him ear- nestly and comparing his features with the portrait in her hand, de- clares that the man is not David Burridge. Craven, who. also, has observed him searchingly, recognizes and denounces the sham Burridge as Richard White, a private soldier under his command in a late foreign war. The impostor, thus brought to bay, confesses the cheat and is dis- missed after explaining how he happened to impersonate the real Bur- ridge who is actually dead. Charley is sent to America to retrieve him- self, while the ever faithful Cribbage makes a match with the man of her choice. Simeon Cole is settled ; the indications about the future of Kate and Craven are favorable ; the dark clouds of uncertainty are dispersed by the bright ray of truth ; and happiness once more finds its home beneath the roof-tree of Daisy Farm. COSTUMES. Armstrong. — Black velveteen coat: red waistcoat; gray trousers; white cravat; red handkerchief; gray wig. Burridge. — Gray suit and hat; fancy colored shirt, with black neck- scarf. Short side whiskers. Cole. — Suit of black, black hat and gloves; white neckcloth; bald or half bald white wig. Warriner. — Gray waistcoat and loose trousers, flannel shirt; coarse low shoes and gray socks. Face made up sunburnt, lips very red. Short red curly wig. 6 DAISY FARM. Craven.— Morning suit and Derby hat of same color. Short light- gray wig and military mustache. Carries light cane. Tramp. — General appearance shabby but not ragged. Comforter and slouch hat. Gray hair, and grizzly beard a week old. DoBSON. — Black waistcoat and trousers; white shirtsleeves and apron. WiGFALL, Grabham and Gaffer. — Plain business suits. Bridget Armstrong. Plain house dress, white apron. Cribbage. — Print dress, caught up over colored petticoat; fancy cap and ribbons; shoulder knot; buckled shoes; no sleeves. Kate Cole. — Walking costume. Jane, — Cambric dress, cap and apron. STAGE SETTINGS. Acts I. and III. LandscapeBacking UiWoiM .Do Chair Tshh %> Ch&irs Tahie \ CAairs Act II. — Scene /. Jhor DAISY FARM. Act \\.- Scene hi. Mcunimn ^^^ ^ Q -^>^ ^^^'^ ]iQise^£ank "I ^ ACT IV. 2.av(Iscqpe J3aclcinq \Door I ' Mnic Door SCENE PLOT. Act I. — Plain chamber set in 40., with landscape backing in 5 g. Window, R. C, in flat. Door L. C. in flat. Doors R. I E, and L. i E. Dresser or cupboard L. Fireplace and mantel shelf at R. 3 E. Tables and chairs R. c. and L. C. Three chairs up stage. Act II., Scene i. — Public house tap-room set in 3 G. Door in flat, R. C. Window l. c. in flat. Doors R. IE. and L. 3 E. Fireplace and mantel shelf at l. i e. Tables and chairs R. c. and L. C. Chair up c. Arm chair R. of table L. c. Sporting pictures on walls. Sign hung against flat, painted " Wine, Spirits and Porter." Rack to hold pipes over mantel shelf. Scene 2. — Landscape in i g. Scene 3, — Chfl" overlookmg ravine and road. Moonlight, Raised bank running across stage in 3 G. Mountain landscape backing in 4 G. Trap c, behind bank, with small tree and shrubs near it. Set rocks and foliage r. and l. Act III. — Same as Act I. 8 DAISY FARM. Act IV. — Parlor set in 4 g,, backed with landscape backing in 5 g. Door R. c. and window L. c. in flat. Doors R. i e. and L. 3 e. Fire- place R. 3 E. Cabinet at c. Bookcase L. Tables and chairs r. c. and L. c. Chair near fireplace. Sofa up L. Carpet down. PROPERTIES. Act I. — Samples of corn. Knives and forks in box, and table cloth for Cribbage. Pocketbook and money for Armstrong. Pocketbook for Tramp. Act II,, Scene i. — Lighted clay pipes. Spirits and water in glasses on table. Cane for Charley. Newspaper. Letter for George to bring on. Mug of beer for Jane to bring on. Bottle of champagne and glass on tray, for DoBSON. Large purse containing money, for Tramp. Heavy stick, up stage. Eyeglasses for Wigfall. Scene 3. — Same pocketbook and money for Tramp. Act III. — Cloth, mug of milk, loaf, etc., and part of breakfast service on table. Money for Craven. Pail for Cribbage. Document for Cole. Tramp's pocketbook and money, for Charley. Act IV. — Cane used in Act III. Money, picture and bank check for Craven. Pictures on walls. China and bric-a-brac on cabinet, c. STAGE DIRECTIONS. Observing, the player is supposed to face the audience. R. means right; L.,left; C, center; r. c, right of center; L. C, left of center; R. D., right door; L. D., left door; D. F., door in the flat or scene running across the back of the stage; i E., first entrance; 2 E., second entrance; U. E., upper entrance; i, 2 or 3 G., first, second or third grooves. UP STAGE, toward the back; down stage, toward the footlights. R. R. C. C. L. C. L. Note. — The text of this play is correctly reprinted from the original authorized acting edition, without change. The introductory matter has been carefully prepared by an expert, and is the only part of this book protected by copyright. DAISY FARM, ACT I Scene. — The Kitchen at Daisy Farin. Large latticed window in Flat, R. c, showing sunny landscape, corn fields, etc., all warm and rich. Door in fiat, L. C. Large old-fashioned chimney corner, R.U., with dog fire alight, but not blazitig. Everything comfortable and homely. Music to take up cur- tain. Bridget Armstrong stands at door. Brid. What a fine fellow ! what a fine, manly fellow ! How he strides along as if he were lord of the manor. Ah, they were right when they said, " Mrs. Armstrong, send Charley to Lon- don — it'll make a man of him ; " and it has made a man of him, too — if the folks about do say he's become a cockney, so much the better, say I ; a little London polish wouldn't do any of our neighbors any harm, {comes down from window as her hus- band, Andrew Armstrong, enters, with Charley Burridge, her son, and Andrew's step-son. Andrew is a sturdy farmer of middle age. CHARLEY is dressed in modern style, and has a rather restless and dissatisfied air, and a slightly disap- pointed look. The music, which has continued piano through Bridget's speech, swells as they enter, and then ceases) Brid. Well, Charley, and what do you think of it all } Char. Oh, /don't know. Lot of money thrown away, /should say. Daisy Farm always did very well without improvements, as they're called ; but there, /know nothing about it, and perhaps I'm wrong, {crosses, R.) And. Yes, you are wrong, Charley, and you don't know any- thing about it — there you're right. I don't believe you could tell a turnip from a bunch of " sparagrass," lest they were cooked. Brid. Ha ! ha ! I'm sure he couldn't. We didn't send him to London to be a doctor to learn all our farm stuff. His is a dif- lo DAISY FARM. ferent line, Andrew, old man, and you wouldn't be altogether at home, you know, amongst his medical books and instruments, and prescriptions and things. And how do you seem to cotton to the doctoring business, Charley dear ? Char. Oh, pretty well — I don't adore it. And. It strikes me, Charley boy, you don't adore anything in particular — you turned up your nose at farming — you tried the law for a bit, but that didn't suit you — then we got you into the Linkburn Bank, but you found it irksome — then you thought you'd like to be a doctor, and now you don't know w/^^a;/ you'd like. I don't want to speak harsh, my boy, but all this hasn't been done without expense, and my improvements here have rather drained [crosses to Charley) Char. I know, governor, I know what a good step-father you've been to me — better than fifty real fathers rolled into one. I know I'm a bit of a black sheep, I Brid. No, no, I won't have that. Flighty and a bit unsettled you may be. It isn't altogether your fault. At all events, your father's other faults 3'ou don't inherit. And. Now, now, Bridget, don't let's talk of his father. He's dead and gone, and his faults are not a-going to be reproduced in Charley here. Fm his father now, and I ain't perfection. Char. I don't know that, governor ! You're not far off, I never heard you say an unkind word of anyone, or saw you do an unkind act, or knew you break your promise, or — or— {sighs) Ah, I wish I was a bit like you. Brid. Why, Charley, you've taken to flattering ; and positively, Andrew, you're coloring up. And. Am I, Bridget ? — Well, perhaps I ajn ; it's with pleas- ure, though ! I like to hear Charley speak like ///«/y (Brid- get sits, L.) he don't often do it. Sneering somehow seems to come easier to him. Char. I know it does. It's a sort of pleasure to sneer when — when you're in debt, and in a profession you don't like, and in bad health, and — and {sits on R. table) Brid. And in love, Charley. You'll get better, dear, when Kate keeps your house and you settle down. Char, {impatiently) Ha ! And. Kate's uncle's behaved very well to me, Charley. I had to borrow money to complete the outbuildings and so on, and he come down quite liberal with his money. Of course his secu- rity's all right, and Char. That I'll warrant — a close-fisted old thief ! And. Now, now, remember he's Kate's uncle. Char. Well, when I marry Kate, if— if I ever do And. What? Brid. Charley ! DAISY FARM. n Char. No, I don't mean /^a/— don't catch up a fellow's words, mother ; of course we know that I am going to marry Kate Cole ; hang it, the engagement's been of long enough standing — the fact's public property. What I was going to say is that I shall stipulate that her uncle, Simeon Cole, Esq., retired inn- keeper and reputed money-lender, shall not favor my house with his presence, certainly not more than once or twice a year. I hate Simeon Cole ! I And. Now, now, Charley, Charley, don't use such strong language. Mr. Cole's never done you any harm, and he don't in any way interfere with your engagement to his niece ; and Kate's as dear and good a girl as ever lived, {busy with sajnpies of corn, etc.) Brid. Hear, hear, and so she is, and better. Char. Well, who said she wasn't ? Of course I'm awfully fond of her, and — and all that sort of thing ; but I don't go spooning about, and neglecting my clothes, and letting my hair grow long, and fight shy of my food, to show my affection. I — where is she now, I wonder ? she might be here to be a bit of a companion to a fellow, I think. She don't know how soon I may be off. And. She's somewhere in the neighborhood — she was here a bit back. Brid. Yes, she walked to Ladmoor with Mr. Craven. Char, {bursting out) There ! that's not the thing, you know. (Andrew ^^/j to fire, r.) Brid, What, Charley ? Char. Why, walking about with Mr. Craven, or whatever his name is. You don't know who he is, and simply because he happens to come and lodge here and pay decently well, you — you And. Now look here, Charley. I'm a simple sort of man, and don't pretend to know more of human nature than my neighbors, but 1 can tell a gentleman as soon as most. Mr. Craven's a gen- tleman. I'm not above, and your dear mother ain't above, taking a reasonable sum for finding Mr. Craven in board and lodging at Daisy Farm, so long as he chooses to remain. He's a kind man — a considerate man ; he's in poor health, but don't complain ; he likes our simple, homely ways, and has endeared himself to us by a hundred little kindnesses that have pleased us both. Kate's safe enough in his society, be sure ; and not an- other word against Mr. Craven, or you and me'll fall out, {gets over to L.) Brid. Besides, Charley, remember if it hadn't been for him Kate might have been drowned — he risked his life to save her, and in his delicate state of health 12 DAISY FARM. Char. Oh, delicate state of health I I'm in a delicate state of health. And. Yes, but you don't risk your life. Char. I wasn't there — he was — girl gets upset in a boat — man sees it who knows how to swim, and jumps in, as a matter of course, and saves girl. Nothing very remarkable in it that /can see. Brid. Still, Charley, if he hadn't acted as he did you would have lost your future wife. Char. Well, let's drop Mr. Craven, mother, for we shall never agree about him. Craven speaks outside. Brid. Here he is — and Kate too. Now don't be rude to him, or cross with her, Charley, please, dear. Enter Kate a7td Craven, l. c.from l. Kate. We've had such a walk, Mrs. Armstrong — suck a walk, Charley. Char. Ha ! hope you enjoyed it. Kate. Oh, wonderfully. Char, {aside to her) Ha ! such pleasant company, eh ? Kate. Oh, yes, Mr. Craven has been most amusing. Char, {aside) Devil doubt him. {turns, goes up to window) Crav. Detestable young man that — what on earth can she see in him ? Oh woman ! woman ! {at fire) Char. Well, you didn't have an accident to-day — eh, Kate ? — no tumbling into the water, or or Crav. No, not altogether without a risk, though ; a bull came very threateningly towards us crossing the ten acre meadow. Char, {sneeringly ; advances c a little) Ha, indeed ! and what did you do this time, sir, eh ? Crav. What I always do with an unpleasant brute — looked at him with utter contempt, {looking steadfastly at Charley) Char. Oh, and the Crav. The unpleasant brute ? Oh, he — he — a — turned on his heel — his hoof, I mean — and retired. (Charley turns up c.) They generally do. (Andrew, Kate, and Bridget have been talkitig up c. — aside) What on earth does that sulky young ruf- fian do here — here, where all is peace and comfort and simple- hearted content ? Bah ! he's the fly in the amber — no, rather the wasp in the honeycomb ! If that bright girl marries him, she's — she's — well, she's not as bright as I take her to be. If ever there was a pleasant family group upset by an unwelcome addition, it is here with Mr. Charles Burridge. He's a bad 'un ! DAISY FARM. 13 Enter Cole, l. c. Cole. — How do — how do all — glad to see you ! Ah, Andrew ! Mrs. Armstrong, blooming as usual. (Bridget down) You're a perennial plant, ma'am — there's no difference in you sum- mer or winter, autumn or spring. He ! he ! he ! Simeon Cole is a hard-featured, miserly-looking elderly man, whose joviality comes in a very forced way from his lips, and his general tone and appearance are by no means pleasant. During the dialogue between CHARLEY and Kate he takes off his hat and gloves with great precision. Char, {aside to Kate) I tell you I don't like it. Here, come where we can talk a bit. That fellow Craven never takes his eye off one. Has he got any money ? Kate. I don't know, but I'm sure he's very generous ; he's always giving to poor people, you know, and buying things he can't want. Char. Is he though ! I must have a weed or I shall drop. Kate. Oh, there are lots of them in the kitchen garden. Exeunt, L. c. Crav. Ha, ha ! You're a child of nature, you are. [aside) I'd like to join them ; but two's company and three's none. {sighs) Ha ! not even for himself, {after a look after the^n) I'll go and smoke a pipe up my bedroom chimney. Exit, R. i e. Brid. You're in a good humor to-day, Sim — who have you been getting the best of now, eh .? And. Ay, ay, well said, old woman. Ha ! ha ! Cole, she knows you, eh ! Cole. Not a bit, man, not a bit. She never knew me, never cared to look for a bit of goodness or generosity in me — never. Brid. Why, you see that would have taken such a long time, Sim, and I've always had my hands full of work. Cole. Yes, a toiling, moiling time you've had of it, and serve you right. When Andrew there and me were rivals And. Here, drop those times. Cole. Bridget's had enough hard trials, and if she ^zV/ throw me over and marry a vagabond — {crosses to COLE.) Brid. Don't, don't, Andrew ; we know all I suffered at David Burridge's hands, but he's dead and gone, and there's no reason his son — my son — should hear bad reports of his father in our house. Andrew, {takes his hand) I fear he's heard of them already. Cole. Like enough, like enough, for if ever a rascal gave the lie to the old saying, " Folks born to be hanged'll never be drowned," David Burridge was 14 DAISY FARM. And. {bursting out) Look here, Cole. He is drowned, ain't he.? Cole. Yes, oh ! he's drowned all right, that's positive, Andrew Armstrong, that's tnore than positive — he's at the bottom of the ocean, safe enough. And. Well, there let him lie. Cole. He could always do that, whether he was let or not. And. {with Bridget) To-morrow's the anniversary of our wedding day, and we don't want to talk of unpleasant matters. Bridget and I have both suffered for our foolish, wicked quarrel of years back — it was more my fault than Brid. No, Andrew, no dear, that I'll never allow. I was madly jealous and vexed without a cause when I married David Burridge, and I found out my mistake when it was too late. If I suffered through the long years, j(?« suffered too, but when we got the news of his death, and you said to me one day, with the same old loving smile and with the same honest hand held out that you'd grasped mine with so many years ago, — " Bridget, we have yet some years before us, let us hope. Shall we wipe out the wicked past, and be as we were before we parted ? " {rises) what could I do but fall upon his neck and cry myself blind with joy and happiness, to learn there was the old love lingering still. (^goes up with Andrew.) Cole. Ah, it's wonderful how a love will last, and a hate too — a hate for anyone who's wronged j/^« (aside) As you did, Mr. Andrew Armstrong (Andrew sees Bridget out, r. I e.) ; and I'll lime you yet, my ancient bird — I'll lime you yet. {to Andrew) What's this absurd news about Pembridge's Bank ? And. {at fire) All I know is that I've heard ugly reports, and I've drawn out every shilling only this morning. Cole. And got it here f And. And got it here. Cole. Idling — no interest — waste of capital — catch me listen- ing to such reports. I'll risk the trifle /have there, and take my interest cheerfully. And. I've worked too hard for my small capital to risk it for a day ; and after all the money I've expended on improvements, thanks to your help, Cole. Cole. Don't name it — I've ample security, more than ample. And. Hang it — we know that — whoever heard o{ you lending a shilling if you didn't see it in the distance stretching into eighteen pence. I say, after all I've laid out here, only a poor 400 or so is what I can truly call my available cash — so I drew it out of Pembridge's. Cole. Like a coward. And. {annoyed, turning on him) Eh ? Cole, {cringingly) Which you used not Xo be. DAISY FARM. 15 And. Ha ! that thrashing I gave you behind Digby's barn some four and twenty years back pretty well proved, eh — Sim Cole, Esq. ? Cole, /remember it. And. Yes, you were insolent about Bridget. Cole. I said she'd throw you over — well ? And. Well, I threw you over for saying it. We're grown older since then. Cole. Cole. A trifle. (L. C.) And. And wiser. Cole. Mayhap, mayhap. And. But I could thrash you now like — like a dog. Cole, {rubbing his chin) Yes, but it might interfere with the mortgage. And. {depressed) Ah, well, you've got me there, {turns aside up, c.) Cole, {aside, pleased) I believe I have. Re-enter Craven with Bridget, r. i e. Brid. But I can't let you pay it, sir, I really can't let you ! Crav. My dear Mrs. Armstrong, permit me to have my own way. If I agree to pay you so much, or indeed in your case I may say so little, per week for board and lodging — and I receive the very best of board and lodging in the society of a delightful couple — and I choose to ask for something altogether out of the pale — entirely, in fact, out of the pale And. [to Bridget) Does he mean extra milk } Brid. No, no, Mr. Craven, neither me nor Andrew would allow you to pay one extra farthing, would you, Andrew } And. By no means. Don't know what it is : but my wife speaks my sentiment, sir, always. Crav. Then I'm dumb. Cole, {seated, R., aside) There's a pair of idiots — wants to pay something extra, and they won't let him — it's depravity ! Crav. Well, Mr. Cole, how do these east winds suit you ? Cole. Catch me in the chest, sir, dreadful. Crav. Ha ! don't like being caught there, do you ? Charming girl, your niece ! (COLE crosses to L. of R. table) Cole. You do me proud, sir. Crav. Strangely unlike /^w. Cole. Takes after her father, sir. Crav. Ha ! take much after him ? Cole. Eh ? Crav. Money, I mean. Well provided for, I suppose. Cole. ( suspiciously) Hem ! That's as things turn out. Crav. Just so. She's engaged, I believe ? i6 DAISY FARM. Cole. Ye-e-es. Crav. Approve of the match ? Cole. Partially. Crav. Sensible answer — caution is evidently one of your bumps. Cole. One of my Crav. Bumps — knobs on the nut, you know— cranium—phren- ology — Professor what's-his-name, and all that sort of thing. Cole. Oh ! {aside) Very peculiar man— don't like him. Crav. Young man has a career before him— very fond of med- ical men — like 'em so much can't bear to trouble 'em. Cole. Yes, it has always been my desire that my niece's hus- band should not be a mere farmer or tradesman, but should belong to a liberal profession. Crav. Of course, you admire liberal professions— though you a— don't always act up to them. (ANDREW ttudges his wife in the side and they both burst into laughter, much to Cole's annoy atice.) Cole, {aside) What are you roaring at ? I must go and find Kate, and put her on her guard against this jackanapes. He's no good, I'll go bail. Good-morning, sir, good-morning, {curtly) Here, come here, Armstrong, I want a word, {takes him off, L. C.) Crav. {coming c.) I don't care about Cole— object to men who are called Simeon, as a rule. Brid. Well, he didn't name himself, you know, Mr. Craven. Crav. No, his father did though. Wickedness is hereditary, Mrs. Armstrong— bad father, bad son. Brid. {starting, and with a look of pain) Oh, don't say that, Mr, Craven, don't say that it is always so. You are a clever man, have been a great traveller and know the world, and human nature, and a load of thmgs, and don't — don't say it's always so. Crav. {aside) Confound my loose tongue ! {to her) My dear hostess — I have seen the world — so did the monkey — we resemble each other — not you and I — but me and the monkey, and please pay no attention when the latter chatters, {goes to R.) Enter CHARLEY, L. C, comes quietly down, goes to R. Brid. {aside) Can't make him out, and that's a — Charley ! How quietly you come in. Crav. Quite right. Doctors can't be too panther-like — soft step — soft"\'oice soft paw — soft — well, generally soft till they make out their bill at Christmas — then they become hard — a — with the frost perhaps. Char, {aside) Mother, you get out, please. Brid. Charley, you're not going to DAISY FARM. 17 Char. No, I'm not. uneasy glance at him. who sits in chair.) Char. Mr. Craven, I'm going to say. Crav. If it's anything agreeable, my young friend, I dare say There. (Exit BRIDGET, R. D., after an Charley takes chair opposite Craw'EN, I dare say you will be surprised at what I shall. Char, Crav Char You have thought me an unmannerly cub. {slight pause) Go on ; at present I am «o/ surprised. But I'm distressed— I'm hard up. I'll confide in you because you're a gentleman, as any one can see with half an eye, and if you don't help a fellow, you won't go blabbing about to people when he confides in you. Crav. But why confide in me ? I'd much rather Char. I must. I'm like a man with a murder on his mind. I'm like a fool who sends conscience- money to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. I must speak to some one. I can't break my mother's heart. {aside) I don't kftow that. You seem fond of the place and the people in it. You're Crav. Char. well off. Crav. Char. putting scrape. Crav. Char. Crav. Am I? Look here, {rises, looks in his face) Mr. Craven, I'm myself in your power. I'm in a scrape — worse than a In three days time, unless I pay £250, I'm a ruined man. Well ? Worse — disgraced in other ways. Excuse the word — criminal ? Char, {turfiing aside) Well — you may call it so. Crav. Ha ! that's awkward ! Char. You think it odd I should ask for such a sum from a stranger. Crav. Not at all— you'd be scarce likely to ask it of any one who knew you. Char. Eh ! {aside) Is he jeering at me ? {to him) I haven't asked you for it yet. Crav. You remember Punch's advice to persons about to marry ? Char. Of course, it was, " Don't." Crav. Exactly. Now in this matter, pray follow the sage counsel of our — a — facetious contemporary. Char. What ! not marry ? Crav. No — don't ask me for the £250. Char. V^qW— I— {suddenly) But I tell you, man, I must have it! Crav. Oh, if you must have it, all / can say in the matter is i8 DAISY FARM. Char. Well? Crav. Get it. Char. Pah ! I can't ask Cole — he'd not give me or lend me a sixpence. My stepfather is an obstinate man, and would insist on knowing all, and I couldn't — I daren't tell him. It was a sudden thought of mine to speak to you. Everyone said you were generous, kind-hearted, and had taken strangely to the farm and its inmates, and Crav. And so you thought you'd throw yourself on my gener- osity — and so on. Char, {suddenly and pleased) Just so — you have hit it exactly — you read me like a book. Crav. I never read books, now, they're so deuced bad. What security could you offer t Char. Anything in the world. Crav. That's more than ample. Define it. Char. Well — I — let me see — {aside, delighted) He'll do, it, and I'm saved. Crav. You'd make any sacrifice to save your honor — your liberty, perhaps ? Char. Any you could name. Crav. Kate, for instance ? Char, {starting) What ! {aside) He's not in jest — there's a look in his eye that tells me he's in earnest, {to him) What do you mean ? Crav. I mean, supposing you could obtain the money and clear yourself — wipe away all dangers or discomfort — would you undertake to give up all claim to the hand of Miss Kate Cole ? Take a moment or two to think of it. Char, {aside) What a strange fellow. But where can I turn for the money ? Kate seems to care less for me — much less for me than she used, {to him — Craven goes to the fireplace) Sup- pose I said yes — what then ? Crav. Then I should be confirmed in my suspicions. Char. Eh ? Crav. Concerning your character — and it would be out of my power to assist you even then. Char, {after drawing a long breath) Oh ! Then you have simply been treating me like an idiot. Crav. How should a man be treated who confides in one little better than a stranger .? Bless your stars you haven't told me more, {crossing, L.) Char, {slight pause) The days of duelling are over, Mr. Craven, but were they not, I'd put your courage to the proof be- fore to-morrow. Out of respect to the others here, I refrain from administering Crav. There, there, you go and administer your drugs — square DAISY FARM. 19 the money — walk your hospital — pass your examination, and be- come a licensed poisoner to your fellow-creatures. And be as- sured that pleasing as it would be to you to call me out, I shall never return the favor by calling ^^« in, by no means, {turns aside to R., in front) Char, {aside, with intensity) Don't let temptation come in my way this day or night — if it does — {turns abruptly, meets CribbagE, who has entered with a box with knives and forks, and a table-cloth, door in F, She stops, etc. CHARLEY pushes past her impatiefitly) Here, get out of the way ! (Exit, L. C.) Crib, {turns, looking out after Charley) Oh, I wonder if they teach manners at the hospital where you re a studying. Bringing you up as a gentleman, are they, that'll cost 'em a pretty penny — Ah ! {starts at finding herself near to Craven) Laws ! I hope he didn't hear me. Crav. Your young master is a subject on which our senti- ments, Cribbage, are strikingly similar. Crib. Young master ! He ain't no master of mine. I've never known but two masters — him as pays me my wages, and hired me from t'other Crav. T'other ! Might I inquire who was t'other ? Crib, Work'us — where I was brought up liberal, I'm what master c^Us a wafer and a stray, you know. But laws, it's all the same a hundred years hence, ain't it 1 Crav. You're quite a philosopher. Crib. What sort of a hossifer's that ? Crav. One who takes things quietly. Crib. What, a sort of a prig ? Crav. They sometimes degenerate into that, like all folks who over-ride their hobbies. Crib. Oh, they're horse soldiers, eh .? Well, now, as sure's my name's Cribbage Crav. Yes, but why Cribbage t Crib. Why, you see, when I was left a hinfant in the most mysterious manner at the 'Ockley Union, the master and a friend were having a game of that name, and were dreadful put out at me intruding at such a particler time. The master was quick- tempered, and when he sees the cause of the interruption he went on dreadful. " What's this," says he, " what's this," says he, " to come and upset one's calkylations, and throw one off one's game just as one's a winning ?" "Give it a name," says the matron. "Suttingly," says the master, "call the little creetur Two for his heels, or one for his nob, or " " Scuse me," says the matron," " it is not an 'im, it's an 'er." " Call her Cribbage, then," says he, almost malevolent ; " and you can add peg if you like, and don't bother no longer," So you see, from a 20 DAISY FARM. hinfant I've been Cribbage ; and then I got a place here, and a good place, too — a good missis, a good master, and a Crav. Quite right, and you're a very good young woman, Cribbage, and go about your work cheerfully ; and whenever that young man with the high color, who has a peculiar habit of strolling in to ask you the time about twenty-five times a day, a.nd you make a match of it, count on a wedding dress and plum cake from yours truly, {crosses to her^ C.) Crib. Laws, now, you don't mean it. Crav. I think I do. Crib. Go along ! {ivith a playful shove in Craven's ribs) Why, Jarge has never said nothing — Jarge hasn't. Crav. Jarge, as you term him, has a pair of eyes which are large and expressive — not to say goggly, and they have said quite sufficient for folks like you and me, Cribbage. Crib. Laws, what a gentleman you are ! I never ! {sniggers) You're that cool I believe if you was in Indy. {During this^ Cribbage is laying cloth on l. h. table.) Crav. I've been there. Crib, {laying table) Laws ! hot there, ain't it ? Crav. I've known it warm. Crib. All blackymoors there, ain't they ? Crav. A sprinkling. Crib. What's the natives like ? Crav. Close as oysters. Crib. Know how to make rum, I reckon. Crav. That's the West Indies. Crib. Oh, is that another Indy ? Crav. Quite a different Indy-vidual. That's situated in the tropics. Crib. Of course — I've often heard master say, " Let's change the tropic^"' so there must be more than one of 'em. Crav. You travelled much, Cribbage .^ {getting round to R., at back.) Crib. I've been twice to Ladmoor, that's nine miles, and once to Barnside, that's eleven. Crav. Quite a rover — go by rail ? Crib. No. Crav. How ? Crib. Legs — they never has collisions. Crav. Ha, ha ! how about knock-knees ? (Exit, R. i E.) Crib. That's a good fellow, that is ! He's one who can look you in the Hi ! When I see him thrash big William Bags who was pelting little half-crazed Ted Wilkins, and then see him wipe little Ted's eyes and taking him by the hand, com- fort him, and talk pleasant all the way to his mother's cottage — says I, Mr. Craven, Esquire, you're a gentleman ; and so — so — DAISY FARM. 21 was Jarge a gentleman, for when I told him of it he gave bully Bill another thrashing a top o't'other. Enter ANDREW, a little aftttoyed, atid sits L. of R, table. And. Cribbage — what are you doing ? Crib. Nothin'. And. Then go and finish it somewhere else. Crib. Ha ! (aside) Master's been a takin' a leaf out of his stepson's book, I think. There's a storm brewin' in this here house, I fancy, for I nev^er see such threatenin' lookin' weather in the shape of temper since I oh, I'm a goin', master. (Exit L. I E. sharply, as ANDREW /z^r«j- towards her impatiejitly .) And. There's something on the lad's mind, and he won't tell me what it is — he darent tell me what it is — he has all his father's secret and suspicious ways — and if his mother knew — but there, there — she must never know anything against her boy and never shall if /can help it, (crosses L.) A Tramp appears at door, looks i7i, then enters dowii c. He is about fifty, shabby, but not ragged. Wears a comforter and slouch hat, grizzly week's beard. And. I fear more for that lad's future than I do for anything else in the world ; but when I remember his father's nature — his — [looks up and sees Tramp) Well, my friend, and what may your business be ? Tramp. Ask your pardon for want of ceremony, but I want to talk a bit to you, sir, on particular business, but perhaps we shall be interrupted. Hadn't we better go somewhere a bit, more private than this .? And. I never saw you before to my knowledge, and anything you've got to talk about you can say out here. I haven't got any secrets myself, and I don't want to hear no one else's. What's your business, please, and let's have it short, and to the point. (crosses, l). Tram. You shall, Andrew Armstrong. Have you got a good memory for faces .'* And. Yes, as good as most, mayhap better than most. Tram. Then look at mine, {with a twitch of one hand he takes off the wrapper round his neck, throws off his hat with the other, and fiings back his shaggy hair, disclosing his face thoroughly. Andrew staggers back in horror.) And. No ! no ! no ! it can't be ! it can't be you, David Bur- ridge ! it can't be — eh ? {utterly overcome, sinks into chair, L., and only stares blankly at BURRlDGE.) Tram. Don't take facts upon hearsay again — /never did. The papers told you the whole crew was drowned — my name pub- lished amongst 'em ; but when the " Conway Castle," foundered 22 DAISY FARM. off Gibraltar, two of the crew escaped by a miracle — one was Jack Walters, able-bodied seaman ; the other, David Burridge, steerage passenger, and husband of the woman you've married. And. {dazed in his ?nanner, and scarcely able to speak) Stop ! wait ! hold hard a bit, and — and — let me get my breath — man, muffle up your face awhile, and let no one see you till — till {in a hoarse voice) I've thought of what's to be done, {turns aside.) Tram. Aye, think of that, {leisurely puts round his neck his large neckerchief and takes his hat in his hand.) And. This is so sudden — so terrible ! it will break her heart — she must not know — she must never know, {turns to Tramp) What — what — do you intend doing ? {crossing to him.) Tram. One of two things. Remain here, and And. {in horror) No ! no ! no ! Tram. Or, if provided with the needful, to go away — another country — Australia, say. You know I had a hard domestic life of it — my fault, no doubt ; that's over, and I shouldn't care much to renew it. There, that's owning up. But my wife's committed a certain crime, and you've got to pay for it. And. {with power) She committed no crime, but the law would call your conduct now a crime, and rightly too. You know, David Burridge, that when I pay you your demand it is because I would lay down my life to save the woman you took from me one moment's sense of shame. This cruel news breaks up the home that has been so happy, for {sadly) I should not remain another day beneath the roof of Daisy Farm. Tram. What— oh, if you are going, /^better remain. And. You must not be seen — it must never be known that you — that you — would you kill her — the — the — mother of your son ! Tram, {doggedly) You've heard my views — and you know there's no sentiment in me. And. Your price, man, then — your price for your departure — and your silence. How much — say — decide quickly — your price ! Tram. £500. And. I have drawn all the ready money I possess from the bank this morning, and you shall have your hush money, David Burridge. There {business with pocket-book) — a few are county notes, but most are Bank of England, and Tram, {taking one) Here, what's this one? Cut in two, and stuck together all wrong like \m\.\\ pink paper. That's strange ! {Music swells) And. Yes, yes, but it's good and will pass ; and there — there — Tram, {takes them greedily) Ha, ha, ha ! This is the only money my marriage ever brought me — and — I won't have this one, it's got the mark of blood upon it. {Music swells) And. I did not heed that, but it's nothing — now, there's the money— so — so, David Burridge — I implore you, man ! DAISY FARM. 23 Tram, {places notes in old purse) All right ! You'll never see me again unless they refuse to change that £10 note with the bit of pink paper, and the twenty-pounder with the stain of blood. Don't forget 'em, Andrew Armstrong — don't forget 'em. (Exit, L. C. and "R., pas sifig window) During this speech Andrew has been forcing hint up towards door L. C. Andrew sinks on seat, then he rises with an effort apparently to go after him. Enter Craven and Bridget, r. i e. Crav. Well, I can't compliment you on your visitors if that awful looking cad who's just left you's a specimen. Armstrong, my friend, you're ill. Brid. What's the matter, Andrew dear ? How pale and trem- bling you seem. Andrew, why don't you speak ? And. {skritiking from her) I — I — I've been a bit upset — I shall be better directly {sinks into a chair) — better directly, dear {in a broken voice), ever so much better, {his head sinks on his arm — the others seem concerned at his emotion) Act Drop. ACT II. Scene I, — The Reindeer public-house, a better class roadside, half ale-house, half inn. Fireplace, L. H, door in fiat r. c. The roojK is a sort of kitchen-parlor, comfortable but common. The time is evening, late on. There are one or two tables and some chairs about the stage. WiGFALL, fishmonger and church-warden, is seated in armed Windsor chair, L. C. DoBSON, the landlord, is seated near him, Gaffin, a grocer, and Grabham, a stationer near. They have spirits and water and some are smoking. Charley at fireplace stand- ing twirling a stick, and with his wide-awake on. His manner is sharp, sneering, and offensive, and he has evi- dently been drinking to drown his care. Music to take up curtain. Dob. {a grimy old publican) I must say, Mr. Wigfall, as I agree with your sentiments on the subject in totum. I consider you to be a party as should be inwariably looked up to — inwariably. Gaf. {a thin, lanthorn-jawed, serious man in black clothes) Suttingly, suttingly ; and my young friend, if he will pardon the liberty I take in calling him so, would show better sense if he listened to the remarks as emanates from my lips. 24 DAISY FARM. Wig. {a sleek, pompous, elderly man) Though I say it as shouldn't say it, I agree with you, Mr. Gaffin. Mr. Burridge may belong to a learned profession, he may be {oratorically waiving his pipe) a walking his hospitals, and a studying his chemistary, and his phizzyoUogy, and also his Farmer's copea — he may be a learning how to take off limbs and cure the various ailments of our suffering nature, but {indignantly) he is not to come down here to play " my lord " over responsible parties who pays their way. Others, No, no ; course not ; quite right. Dob. I must say as his sentiments was Mackyvellian, quite Mackyvellian. Char. Well, this is a house of public entertainment, I presume, and I don't see what prescriptive Wig. There you are with your medical language again. Pre- scriptive indeed ! Char. Don't see what prescriptive right he has to dogmatize and lay down the law unquestioned — no, no more right than he has a vested interest in that chair — the easiest in the room, I observe. Wig. Sir, if I am a fishmonger, I'm a gentleman, at least I consider myself one. Trade's the backbone of this prosperous country. I consider it an honor to be a tradesman. P'raps you consider it more respectable to do 'em. {sfnokes with self-satis- fied air) DOBSON nudges Gaffin, Charley laughs sjteeringly as he crosses to R. table and sits ; the others go through the action of talking. Grabham is reading a county news- paper. Dob. His father was a bad lot before him. Many a hour he's spent in this room drinking deep, and talking savage about everybody — specially his poor wife, as was a gentle fool to him. Now the late lamented Mrs. Dobsori Gaf. Which of 'em, Dobson, which of 'em ? Dob. {dignified) I said the late one Mr. Gaffin. The two Nearly ones is passed into what a party might call obliviufn. She wouldn't have stood such conduc'. Gaf. She was just the least bit of a tartar, eh, Dobson ? Dob. {quietly) The cream on 'em, sir, the cream on 'em. But {smoking) I tamed 'em, I tamed 'em all three. Enter George with letter, r. Geo. Evenin', gentlemen- {seeing Q\iK^\.YN) Ah, you're 'eer, Master Charles. Char, {rather alarmed) Yes — what — what is it ? Geo. Why here's a letter as was left at our house marked DAISY FARM. 25 immegiate and important, and you'd gone off so sudden like, saying you didn't know whether you was comin' back or no, misses sent me after you with it. {takes letter out of pocket and hands it) I'd a main sharp walk on it, and {looking at glasses) the wind be moity dry. Charley has opened letter and seems stroftgly agitated, but endeavors to master his emotion, and conceal it from the others. Geo. (L. C, aside, with half grin, after looking at the others drinking) Now if anyone were to arfer me pint o' ale now — dang me if I wouldn't take it. Char, {who has just caught the remark, with an effort) Here, bring him some beer, (aside) This is the final blow, {rests his head oti his haftds in deep thought) Gaf. {to DOBSON) What was his father like ? d'ye recollect him ? Dob. Well, I can't say I do, to call him to mind ; it's many a long year since I set eyes on him, and I've known so many scoundrels since his time that I've mixed 'em up like. Enter GiRL with beer. Geo. {takes it) Thankee ; my dooty, gentlemen, {drinks) Wig. (r. c, who has been looking through his glasses at George) We must draw the line at ploughmen in this parlor in \ht future^ Mr. Dobson, if you wish to retain the cream of your customers. Hem I good evening. (Exit, R. D.) Char, {half furiously, to Dobson) Here, order in a bottle ot champagne. Dob. Certainly, sir. D'rectly. (Exit, R, hurriedly.) Char, [aside) It's bound to be poison ; but I'm in the humor for poison now. {direct) George, you can go. Geo. Ah ! yes. No message ? Char. No. Geo. Then I wish present company good evening, {meets Dobson r., Dobson with champagne) Oh, that's the stuff, eh ? Dob. Yes, my friend — Moet. Geo. xMow it ! I'd like to do that at three shillings a hacre. He, he ? (Exit,R.) Dob. Had the cork drawed at the bar. {puts it on table by Charley, who hurriedly pours himself out some in a tumbler) Dob. {looks at him, then at his empty glass, then significantly at Gaffin) Going to have anything more, Gaffin ? Gaf. K— {looks significantly across at Charley, who is paying them no attention) N — no, Mr. Dobson, I think not. Dobson, 26 DAISY FARM. you're not going to let that half tramp, half hawker that's upstairs stop, are you ? He's no good, I'm certain, and the sooner he's off the premises the better for your house's credit, and our comfort you know, (at D. R. F.) Dob. No, no, I wouldn't have him stop the night in the house, but he was took with a sort of fit like, and Gaf. Yes, yes, but don't let's find him here to-morrow evening. Dob. Oh, all right ! (Exit, L. 3 E.) Gaf. {to Charley) Good — a — good — a {being unnoticed, he goes outhuffi'y, D. R. F.) Char, {reading letter which he has hastily crushed into his side pocket) " I write this to you in the hope that your sense of shame, your regard for me, and your own honor, and most of all — for — for — " {his voice breaking) " for your mother s sake, you will return and clear up this terrible business. You know I am in poor circumstances, and — " {bursting out and rising) Why did he ever give me his books to keep, and let one shilling pass through my hands, when he might have known the result "^ The money must be paid, or he is a ruined man, and has no alternative but to expose me — to hand me over to the punishment I deserve. Poor, struggling Doctor Graham, it would be a sore trial io you to place your wayward pupil in a felon's dock, but — {after a slight struggle, and with a gulp, striking the table) He'll do it — he must do it ! I'll — bah ! let's have some more of this. {J>ours out champagne and drinks, then crosses to fireplace, L.) Enter DoBSON, L. 3. E., leading on the Tramp. Z^^ Tramp seems a little dazed in his mariner as if he had been sud- denly roused whilst sleeping off the effects of drink. Dob. There, there, my friend, you'll be all right. It's the open air that you want, take my word for it. Tram. Oh, thank you for nothing. I'm not thinking of inflict- ing my company on you any longer. I'm bound for Longnor, and I can walk it if I have been a bit off my head and so on. Here, what's your bill, eh ? {pulls out large leathern purse ; as he does so Charley looks round unperceived — the Tramp has his back to him.) P'raps you thought if you let me stop here I couldn't afford to pay. Dob. I never mentioned such a Tram. Ha, ha ! you meant it though. I'm rich enough to pay my way if I'm a bit seedy to look at. We cattle dealers don't care to do the grand, but we carry about a tidy sum on occasion. Ha, ha ! look there at that greasy old pocket-book — there — there — there, {takes out some of the notes with a coarse air of osten- tation) Look there, my generous host ; ever ready to welcome the traveller if he hasn't got a torn coat, and a ragged waistcoat, DAISY FARM. 27 and a weather-beaten old hat, eh ? I shall put up at Longnor to- morrow night, where the landlord of the " Dragon " won't be so squeamish. That's a 50-pounder, that is {rises) — ever see one before ? Dob. I'll assure you, if you'll only change your mind, I'll make you very comfortable, and Tram. Bah ! that's a queer fellow, that is {looking at ftotes), but he's good for a tenner, if he is cut in half : gummed all crooked, too, and Ha ! {with a slight shudder) I don't like the looks of that one, {shoves them into book and puts it ifito his side pocket) Now, good-night. Let's see, nearest road's along the "Duke's Drive " — there {flings down a crown) that'll pay you for what I've drunk, a crown. Bother the change. Good- night, mister, good-night, {goes out, a little staggery) During this speech Charley has watched the scene with all the intensity of a gambler whose last stake is at hazard, his countenattce plainly showing the evil thought suggested at sight of the money. Dob. This'll be a warning to 77te. Char, {endeavoring to speak cahnly^ and master his agita- tion) That fellow might come to grief, Dobson, if the night were a moonless one. Dob. Moon or no moon, a man who's had a sort of fit, and been drinking hard like him ain't partickler safe along the ridge of them rocks overlooking the Bakewell-road. I've heard of more than one nasty accident " Lover's Leap " way, and nobody ever knew if they w^i- accidents or Char. Of course they were — a man might grow dizzy there in his soberest senses. I've done so myself often, {drinks again) I'm going now, Dobson. I'll pay you for that wine to-morrow. Good-night. He draws a long breath aside ; his teeth are firmly set, and his face wears a half dogged, half wild look ; he takes up a heavy stick at back, and is going oiit after giving it a slight swing, apparently to try it. Dob. Good-night, sir. That's Mr. Gaffin's stick you've taken — he's left it here. Char. What ! Oh, yes, I see. I often use one just like it, and fancied I'd brought it out with me this evening — thank you. {looks at Dobson, who looks at him in the face. Charley drops his eyes, and turns aside uneasily — takes his stick from Dobson) I — a — a — remember now. (Exit, r.) {Music swells^ (Dobson crosses to fireplace) (Change) 28 DAISY FARM. Scene II. — Front. Landscape, Enter CRAVEN.. Crav. When a man reaches the age of forty he either devel- opes into a fool or a clever fellow. I can scarcely say which category I come under. I should think myself a clever fellow if I wasn't certain I was a fool. I can't get that girl out of my head. If she marries this young whelp what a life he'll lead her ! Can she really care for him 1 I can't believe it. — (Enter Kate.) Dear me, Miss Cole ! Talk of the — a — the angel, and Kate. You think it strange I should be out so late, and alone. The fact is, I am very unhappy, Mr. Craven. Crav. Do you always go out late when you're unhappy ? If I'd done that sort of thing I should have passed my nights al fresco for many years, Kate. Why, what on earth cds^you have to make you unhappy ? Crav. What have I to make me happy, you mean ! Look at me — a lonely old bachelor Kate. That must h^ your fault. You needn't be, I'm sure. Crav. {aside) Now, if 1 were a vain man I might look on that as — hem ! She can't care for young Burridge. Kate. You, who have mixed in all sorts of London society, why- — — Crav. Believe me, society's much the same everywhere. Ex- cept that London society is rather more detestable than any other, it differs but little from the rest of the world. Kate. Do you find all society detestable, then ? Crav. {aside) I'll swear she can't care for him. {to her) No, indeed ; some society — or, rather, the society ot somebody, I find dangerously delightful. Kate. Why " dangerously ? " Crav. Everything's dangerous that tempts a man to make a fool of himself. Kate. I'm s>nx^ you couldttt make a fool of yourself. Crav. Nature having anticipated the operation, eh ? Believe me, you're mistaken. We all deserve the appellation at times. For instance, when we care for, or think we care for, somebody totally unworthy our affection. Kate, {aside) Poor dear man, he's been thrown over by some heartless woman or other, {to hijft) It would be difficult, Mr. Craven, for you to find anyone worthy of so generous and so brave a man's regard. Crav. {aside) I'm very sorry for the young fellow, but it's plain as a pike-stafifshe don't care twopence for him. [to her) Ah, Miss Cole— Kate— may I call you Kate ? Kate. I wish you always would. Who has a greater right to do so 1 DAISY FARM. 29 Crav. {aside) Poor Burridge I Much as I despise him, I can't help pitying him ; but he'll get over it. Kate. You know you saved my life. Crav. But if I saved it for another ! Kate. Another life ? What do you mean "i {aside) He's very strange in his manner. He often complains of his head. I hope there's nothing going to be the matter with him. Crav. Kate — since I tnay call you Kate — if — if I had known you, say, some fifteen years ago, 1 might have been a happier man. Kate. Indeed } Why, I should only have been four years old. Crav. {aside) How damn'd matter of fact some women are ! {to her) After all, it's right, you know, for a husband to be older than his wife. Kate. Of course — a little older. But why do you speak to me on such a subject ? You're quite odd. Crav. Odd f I'm aware of that, and I'm tired of it. I want to be even. Supposing — supposing — of course if present arrange- ments were to fall through, and you found out that some one who ought to care iox you, really only cared for himself — could you, do you think, ever — hem ! — care for somebody else ? Kate. Somebody else ? And who might that somebody else be ? Crav. Some one who would appreciate you as you deserve to be appreciated ; some one whose experience would — Kate. Oh, no ! no ! I can't bear experienced people, Crav. {blankly) Cant you ? Ha, I'm afraid I atii rather ex- perienced. Kate. You ? Oh, Mr. Craven, I see what you are thinking of — you — you do not like Charley, and would counsel me to think twice before I Crav. Just so. To think a thousand times — taking a day, we'll say, to every think — that would take up over two years. {aside) And by that time Mr. Burridge would be transported to a certainty. Kate. I am sure you will like him when you know him better. Crav. Yes, I should like to know him better, {aside) I couldn't know him worse. Kate. But you ought to make some allowance for the errors of youth — you should indeed, at — 3ii your time of life. Crav. Hang it all, I might be eighty ! It's this confounded white hair of mine. But I'll soon make an alteration there. I'll — I'll begin to dye to-morrow. Kate. Not at all, Mr. Craven. I'm sure you've many years be- fore you yet. Crav. Yes — Hal ha ! I don't think you quite understand me. Kate. No, no, perhaps I don't ; but I must say good evening. 30 DAISY FARM. for I've got some work to take Mrs. Armstrong-, and if I wait any longer I'm afraid I shall find Charley out. {shakes ha?ids ; Exit) Crav. {lookiitg after her) Ay, ay, young lady, you'll find Charley out one of these days, be certain ; and when she does she'll — she'll forgive him. He'll break her heart, but she'll try and mend it by herself without a murmur. Oh, woman, woman, should the time ever come when there shall be female juries in- stead of men, I pity those of the softer sex who may rely upon your clemency, but I'll swear that every 7nale scoundrel brought before you will escape scot-free. Exit. (Change) Scene III, — ''Lover's Leap" on the ''Duke's Drive" over- looking the Bakeiv ell-road, Derbyshire, a winding road j the stage runs across, showing at the back a sudden declivity, with another road, supposed to be below, whilst the back of the scene represents the other side of the mountainous land- scape. The idea supposed to be suggested by the scene is that of a dangerous road on the side of high rocks. Trees and brushwood at the edge of the road and painted on the opposite side past the road, and river running between. After a slight pause the Tramp is heard singing As we go rolling home, As we go rolling home, Happy is the {hiccup) that sees us. Sings as he enters, then passes his hand across his brow and appears to pull himself together. Iram. Here, here, hold hard a bit, old man, hold hard ! Phew ! curse these Derbyshire roads, they're as full of flints as a — as the heari of a union porter ; my feet are blistered and my head splits. I'd better have stopped at that fellow's house than have tried to reach Longnor to-night. I shall stop short at Fairfield and get a bed there, {shivers) There's a wind on these rocks that cuts a man through. Ha ! ha ! {with a half tipsy chuckle) got the rhino ail right though ! Let's see, what did I pay that — pay that — {sits on ledge of road and pulls out pocket-book in order to see notes by light of moon) Oh, a crown, I remember, and — {passes hajid over brow) I'll have no more drink to-night. Ha ! ha ! "cattle dealer " — that was a happy notion — (Charley comes on stealthily behiftd him) That was an uncommon happy notion, eh ? {to his old pocket-book) my old friend, who holds so many important documents, to say nothing of my portrait {conceitedly) when younger. Ha ! ha ! and the money which — (Charley grasps the^right hand in which he holds the purse and necker- DAISY FARM. 31 chief suddenly ; the Tramp seems utterly overcome by the suddenness of the attack) W — wh — what's this — are you going to — going to rob me ? Char, [iji undertone, but with fierce determination) Don't raise your voice, or I'll fling you down those rocks as sure as you're a living man. Tram, {confused and alarmed) What — what — what do you mean t Char. I want that money, I Tram. Hold off— I Char, {graspifig hifn with even greater power) V\\ ha^fe \i — I'll have it, man. Don't resist. Some day — some day I may — Ha ! {as Tramp tries by a violent effort to fling him off, but gets thereby nearer the edge of the cliff) I tell you I must, and will. The Tramp, by a violent effort, almost disengages himself from the other s grasp, but by the violence of the attempt and resistance ^Charley he falls backwards down the rocks, with a wild cry , as he does so, clutching some shrubs, and a small tree, which burst from their earthen bed, and the noise of the stones and earth falling is dis- tinctly heard. Charley staggers back a moment horror stricken, but on perceiving the old pocket-book on the ground, seizes it. Char. I've got it— got it all ! {goes to edge of cliff, and leans over on one knee, the moon shining fully upon him) And— and not a living soul has seen the deed ! Goes to L., and e^ats, followed by Craven, who has entered down sloping rock in u. E. r., but who has not seen the attack. Music loud at Craven's exit. Act Drop— Quick. ACT III. Scene. — Daisy Farm. Same as Act T. Morning. George is standing finishing a mug of milk by table. Cribbage is taking away the loaf, &^c., off which he has been breakfasting. Music. Geo. {after his draught, drawing a lon^ breath) Theer ! Crib. Pretty good milk that, ain't it, Jarge"? 32 DAISY FARM. Geo. Ay, it be so. If I warn't in love I could finish anotlier mug full. Crib. You in love. I pity the young woman. Geo. Ah, you're a 'ard 'arted gal, and always was. Tom Wild, the wheelwright, told me you was when I first come to the farm. Crib. Tom Wild was a stuck-up feller who spent half his time in 'ilin' his 'air and t'other half in partin' it. Never see such a lump o' conceit. Pretty 'air it was, too, after all the trouble he took. " It's what's called a warm /^tzz^burn," he says. "Oh, "I says " is it, indeed ! It's what I calls red 'ot carrots," says I ; and then he turned that scarlet with rage that you couldn't be certain where his forrid left off and his 'air begun. Don't come talking to me of your Tom Wildses. Geo. Law, I wish I could talk XxV^yoii, Cribbage. You're a downright dictionary for words. You pours 'em out like regler torrents. Where do you get your notions from ? Crib. Where do you get them red cheeks of your'n ? Come of theirselves, don't they ? Geo. Oh, father was a red 'un afore me, so was mother ; and grandfather, he was redder than any on us — regler old 'ouse a- fire, he was. He ! he ! Then there's sister Susan, and brother Robert, they're a'most as bad. I'm the palest of the lot, /am. Crib. Ah, it's well to be you, to be able to talk about fathers and mothers, and grandfathers, and brothers, and sisters. I never knew none of my relations. Never had none, as a body might say. Geo. You needn't be without relations — it's your own fault. Crib. However, I'd rather be alone. I'm my own missis. Geo. [getting close to her, L.) And mine too, ain't you. Crib ? Crib. Oh, don't come a cribbing me. Geo. Look here {wiping his mouth) — I arn't had one this marning. Crib, {surprised, standing back) One what ! Geo. [grinning sheepishly) He ! He ! He ! In the middle of his chuckling, Craven enters R. I. E. — George stifies his laughter, and looks idiotically con- fused. Crav. (R.) Cribbage, what color shall that silk dress be, eh ? Crib. Laws, Mr. Craven, I don't understand you. Exit, L. i E. George attempts to assume an air of ease, and leisurely saunters softly to the door, very U7icomfortable at Craven's ^rt^-^, which is fixed on him. As he gets to the door Craven calls — he abruptly pulls up. Crav. {seated, R.) Here— you. DAISY FARM. 33 Qteo. My name ain't Hugh — it's Jarge. Crav. True. Geo. {aside.) Don't care about hem^ you'd at. Crav. Your name, you say, is Geo. Jarge William Warriner — that's my name. Crav. [stroking his chin rejiectively, ^//«^ George; slowly) George William Warriner ! Geo. " A Englishman, and not a Foreigner." Grandfather made that rhyme the time of Bonyparty's " goings on." Crav. Your grandfather's facts were, no doubt, undeniable — his metre was faulty. You were at Dobson's public-house last night ? Geo. Yes, sent there by Missis, with a letter. Crav. With a letter — yes —for Mr. Burridge ? Geo. Master Charley — yes. Crav. Past ten when you got there ? Geo. {beginnimr to move about u?teasily) Ye — es — that is — I think Crav. Don't think. Be sure. Geo. {wipi7ig his forehead, aside) What's up now ? Crav. Did you observe the time ? Geo. What time ? Crav. Time you were there. Geo. I was there about five minit. Crav. Did you observe what time he left ? Geo. No, I went afore him. Crav. Did he seem agitated when he read the letter ? Did he say anything ? Geo. Yes. Crav. What ? Geo. " Give him a pint o'ale," he says, meaning me. Crav. Nothing more .'' Geo. Couldn't ha' drunk more ; had to get home. Crav. Do you know what time he came home last night .'' Geo. No, nor no one else. Crav. Why .? Geo. 'Cause he never came 'ome at all. Crav. Oh, thank you, George — your replies have been most intelligent. Here's a half-crown to drink my health with. Geo. Thankee, sir. (going) I've got a half-crown out of him, but he ain't got nothing out of Jarge. Exit, L. C. Crav. If an Old Bailey witness was a profession, my bucolic friend would certainly distinguish himself therein, (crosses, L.) Not been home all night. Enter Andrew, l. C; his face is pale and careworn, and bears a striking contrast to its cheerful aspect at the com- mencement of the piece. 34 DAISY FARM. Crav. (L.) Well, Armstrong, have you seen to that? And. (C.) Yes, Mr. Craven ; yes, sir. I can never sufficiently thank you for your sympathy and honest help to me at this sad time. You're a true man, sir {^grasping his hand). I knew you w^as from the tirst, and it's been a big relief to me to have such a one to turn to in my sorrow, {turns aside, a?td by an effort masters his emotio7i ; crosses to /ire, R.) Crav. Say no more about that. I hate to be thanked if I do a kind and friendly act at times. I've done so many bad ones that it's only like striking a balance, and {sighing) the per contra gets the best of it, I'm afraid. You still adhere to your resolu- tion to go ? And. How can I stop here } I could never look at her with- out feeling my own meanness. I have no right here. Crav. You mean she has no right here. The farm's yours — let's be logical. And. My love's too deep for logic, sir ; everything I have is hers — might have been years, years ago, but for the shadow that crept between us and darkened my life for, — oh, so long. It wasn't that she married some one else. Had she become the wife of one who would have cared for her and treated her well, I'd have been content to have stayed here and watch without bitterness the happiness that I had missed. But, sir, when I see her drooping day by day, when I see her faithful, true, and honest to the man who cared nothing for the woman at his side, I couldn't stay, Mr. Craven. I should have gone mad if I'd stayed. I went away, and good fortune smiled upon everything I undertook, and when I came back, better off than I'd ever hoped to be, she was alone, and I brought her here to Daisy Farm to be its mistress, and the roses came back to her face, and the old smile and the old cheerful spirit — and now — now — {crosses, L., breaks dowii) Oh, this blow is too bitter to be borne ! {sinks into chair, L., his face in his hands) Crav. (r. C, after passing his hands across his eyes) My dear Armstrong, you won't imagine because I show no emotion that I feel no sympathy. (Andrew turns) I feel for you deeply, but you've asked me to arrange many things for you and if I've tears in my eyes I shan't be able to see to do them. (ANDREW silently grasps his hand ; aside, R.) This scarcely comes up to the requirements of my advertisement — " Wanted, cheerful apartments at a farm-house." {sits L. of R. table) Mark Tapley would have been remarkably jolly here. And. I have a brother in America, a wildish fellow, who has caused me many a heart-ache {crossing to Craven), and it must appear to her as if he had got into some desperate fix or other, and no one but me could get him clear. This will account — must account, in fact, for my going away, and when I am gone DAISY FARM. 5$ — you — you — it's too much to expect of you, sir, and you've known us so short a time — who — who else can I ask — who can I confide in ? Crav. I'll lie through thick and thin for you, my friend, and though eveHtually I shall be looked on by Mrs. Armstrong as a villain of the deepest dye, I'll bear it. And. She's coming — how I know her footstep ! [imploringly) Do your best to help me — do your best, {goes out at back, but lingers by the door) Crav. This is my invariable luck. Because I'm a quiet sort of fellow I continually find myself the centre of a regular ex- plosive circle, like the little bit of wood in the Catherine wheel. Enter Bridget, l. i e. Craven, I'm so glad to see you. I've been— Crav. {puts her gently into chair, R. c, and sits beside her, L.) You've been crying — you're cut up at your husband's strange manner. You don't wish to bother him, and you'd like me to explain a bit. Brid. Oh, if you would Crav. It is unfortunate, Mrs. Armstrong, that we can't all be " only children " — it would do away with that excessively dis- agreeable excrescence — the British Brother. He's a bore in every way. If he's older than you he takes your money — if younger, he borrows it. I was heavily afflicted with brothers myself. They Tiave all disgraced themselves, and they are all alive. / am the only respectable member of the family, and each brother passes himself off as me on every possible occasion. Brid. You always make one forget one's griefs, Mr. Craven ; still you know Crav. Now don't grieve. It doesn't pay. At this moment I am in exceedingly bad health. I am mixed up with a family row which will ruin some of my dearest relations ; I am restricted to three cigars a day when I have smoked my diurnal dozen for sixteen years ; and I'm enveloped in a sound, washable, good wearing, warranted-not-to-shrink Chancery suit that'll last me my life. But I don i grieve, {crosses to chair, R.) Your hus- band unfortunately possesses a brother. Brid. Robert. Oh, don't mention hijn. He has been a cruel drag upon poor Andrew, and has caused him many a wretched hour, many a sleepless night. Crav. Just so. It is the fraternal nature so to do. Now Robert Armstrong, after all, is your husband's brother, and — well — you know, the voyage to America now-a-days is nothing at all — actually nothing — a pleasure trip. Brid. {rising, alarmed) Voyage to America ! {sits) 36 DAISY FARM. Crav. A nine days' wonder — nothing more — you go on board, and by the time you've read your newspaper, had a chat with the Captain, seen your luggage all correct, had a glass or two of grog, picked up an acquaintance or so, pulled yourself together, and paid the steward, you're there. Brid. Voyage to America ! Crav. New York — next door — over the way — round the corner — why, why, my dear Mrs. Armstrong, I know people who think no more of going to America than they do of driving into the city or going to Greenwich for a fish dinner. Brid. But — but you cannot mean that Andrew thinks of cross- ing the ocean. The terrible Atlantic where so many — many — oh ! {sinks into chair again) Crav. Bah ! not half so dangerous as crossing Fleet Street, and ever so much more pleasant. The boats are floating pal- aces, and at this time of the year the sea's as smooth as a bald head. The diet is unlimited, the motion almost imperceptible, the vessel replete with every comfort, and carries an experienced surgeon. He'll soon be back — only a matter of a month or two. Brid. {rising and crossi7ig to hi?n) A month or two, Mr. Cra- ven — you don't know how many months — how many years An- drew and I have been apart, [crossing, L.) Crav. Now look at the matter in the right light — your hus- band wants to save his brother's — his own — your name — from disgrace ; he can only do so by going over himself, and arrang- ing the unpleasant business with Robert's principals. Brid. [half sobbing) He never had any principles. Crav. His employers. You shouldn't baulk so generous a re- solve on his part — you Brid. {turning suddenly to him) You say truly, Mr. Craven. Andrew's good name is dear to me, and I must not allow selfish considerations to stand in the way of what is right and brotherly. I should have known better, but his strange, wild, changed man- ner alarmed me. Of course he is wiser than /am, and if he says he must go, of course he must, {sinks into chair, L.) Crav. There, I knew your sound common sense would come to the rescue. It's natural after all — the announcement being so sudden — that you — yes, yes — just so, of course, {aside) This is glorious ; he'll get off with comparative ease. I think I've smoothed the way rather well. Brid. {in chair, dreamily) Yes, Andrew was always a kind, good, noble fellow; and if it will ease his mind to see his brother and set all right, he shall go to America without one word from me to keep him back. Crav. Just so — highly sensible. Brid. {slowly, and with deter 7nination) But /'// go with him. DAISY FARM. yj Crav. Oh ! {utterly staggered j sits) Brid. I am terribly afraid of the sea, it is true. Crav. {rises, crosses to her) And with good cause, my dear Mrs. Armstrong, — the sea's a treacherous, smooth-faced scoun- drel, with a temper there's no trusting — a duck-pond one mo- ment, a maelstrom the next. Look at the list of disasters in a single month, and don't dream of venturing upon it. Brid. I never have done so yet. Crav. {quickly) Then it would be simple madness. The ef- fects of a first sea voyage are something indescribable — a sort of compound of severe biliousness, softening of the brain, nervous exhaustion and the horrors. Now your husband has been abroad — crossed the ocean twice, and liked it. Brid. It was only to Ireland. Crav. Just so ; but then it is notorious that that voyage, though comparatively short, is detestable. You have just time enough to get ill, and when you get well the land gets all the credit for bringing you round. If he stood that he'll laugh at the Atlantic. Brid. Then I shall laugh with him, Mr. Craven, {^rises) Andrew shall not go so far away across the seas without his wife by his side — her proper place. I can speak freely to you, as we both do, and I own I could not let him leave me alone here. He has never done so for a single day since our marriage, and I could not bear that he should go, leaving me here with the bitter memories of a bygone time alone for company, {goes to him) I dare not be left here by myself, Mr. Craven ; such wild thoughts enter my head sometimes that I fear I am almost going mad ; but one word from Andrew in his kind and reassuring voice seems to restore me to my old self at once. Ah, Mr. Craven, no woman does a true, good man the wrong I did my husband without suffering for it, as I suffer for it sometimes, even when I seem most cheerful and content. Crav. She's just as good as taken her passage. Andrew re-appears at door, L. C. half comi7ig on. And. I wonder if he's broke it to her ? Brid. I'll get neighbor Radcliffe to look after the farm for awhile — he'll do so willingly, and Cribbage would die rather than desert her post. She will make it as comfortable for yoti, Mr. Craven, as we have tried to do, and she is a favorite of yours, you know. Crav. Oh, don't consider me. I'm a citizen of the world, I can start for anywhere in general, and nowhere in particular at ten minutes' notice, any time. / don't remember myself with luggage. I travelled through Europe with what was on my back and nothing more. I left collars in every town in France and 38 DAISY FARM. Belgium — a detective might have traced me by them just as the boys play hare and hounds with little bits of paper. And. {adva7icing^ C.) Well, Bridget darling, has our kind friend broke the sad news ? Brid. Andrew, your griefs, are mine, and we will go together, and see to poor Robert's safety. And. {in broketi voice) No, darling — that cannot be — the task must be mine alone — you — you must not go with me. {turns aside.) Brid. (surprised and shocked) Not — not go with you, Andrew } And. No, no, dear — the business is one that — that you could not assist me in — and Robert lives far away from the big cities, and I shall have to take long journeys mayhap, and rough ones, too, before I find his home ; and when 1 do I shall have much to settle and arrange, dear, and what — what is it, Bridget, dear one, — what — (Bridget has grown faint during this speech, and now sinks upon chair almost insensible) What — {turning to Craven) what shall I do ? Crav. {aside, to him) ^^firin. She must be argued and per- suaded out of her determination to go with you, iox every reason. And. But I cannot leave her ill, and this separation will kill her. {goes up, c. and theti down to fire, R., and sits.) Crav. {aside) Separation will kill her ! The self-conceit of these husbands. It's only we bachelors who really know what modesty means, {crosses to her) Now, my dear Mrs. Armstrong, let me beg of you not to give way. Everything shall be done for the best, believe me. Brid. {at table) But it is not for the best to part Andrew and me. There can be no reason why I should thus be separated, even for a time, from him. I wish to share any perils by land or sea that may await him. It is only right I should do so. It is cruel of you to abet him in this resolution. Crav. {aside) I feel every inch a co-respondent, {goes up C. with Bridget.) Enter Cribbage, L. I E., with pail, which she places by side of dresser, L. And. {rises, advances, C.) Here, lass, I wish to speak to you. Crib. What have I been a doin' now f And. {in undertone) A —a great misfortune has befallen me, and I shall have to leave Daisy Farm for a while. I've alw^ays trusted you from the first day you came here. You've been a real help and comfort to us, my lass, and I'm go\x\%— {broken voice)— Vm going to — to leave her in your charge. You know what I mean by that— watch over her— cheer her with a merry song or bit of gossip when she's downhearted — keep all annoy- ance from her — make her lonely life as happy as it can be when DAISY FARM, 39 I'm — I'm away, {turns aside ; he has held Cribbage's hand in his and spoken the latter part of the speech looking straight into her face.) Crib, {in low tone, but with intensity) But, master, you're — you're not going away for long, {sees his pained look, and with a sudden tone of horror, but still in a low voice) Not — not {ox good ! — oh ! {turns aside, hardly able to contaifi her sur- prise and grief . A'ii'D'R¥yf grasps her hand to ettjoin silence.) And. Hush, woman, I hardly know — it will depend — anyhow, you will do what I ask you. Crib, {mastering her agitation) Yes, master, I will. Truth- ful and true, whilst I've a breath in my body. — If such service as money can't purchase, and such devotion as only kindness can, can save my dear mistress a single tear, or one moment's un- happiness. they're ^^r'j-, master, her'swo^N more than ever. And. Heaven bless you, my dear. When I picked you out from amongst your motherless companions, says I, that face'U suit me. I'll trust those eyes, I says, and I was right, my dear, I was right. Crav. {to Bridget, coming down l.) Well, I can't put the case in a stronger light than I have done. Brid. No, you cannot. Crav. {aside, to Andrew) I've exhausted every argument, but when once a woman has taken a notion, attempting to persuade her out of it is like pulling away at a hook in a fish — it makes it stick the faster. (Enter Kate, down C.) Now, here's another recruit in our service. Miss Cole, I appeal to you. Here's Mr. Arms- trong finds it necessary to go abroad for a short time — at least, not abroad — only to America. Kate. America ! Crib, (l., aside) Don't call " Merriker " abroad! Then p'raps he don't call Merricans foreigners. Exit, L. I. E. Crav. No distance, you know — for a 7nan j of course for a woman Kate. Why the difference ? Crav. Well, you know, woman's proper place is her home. Kate. Just so ; that's wherever her husband is. Brid. You're right, Kate dear. Crav. But surely if you had a husband you wouldn't insist upon going about with him everywhere. Look how ridiculous it would make him look. Kate. Ah, I wouldn't mind that — if anyone's to be made look ridiculous I'd rather it should be he than /. Crav. But if unpleasant business took him to New York for a month or so, you don't mean to say that Kate. That I'd go with him — certainly. Crav. If you were actually in his way ? {both retire up C.) 40 DAISY FARM. Brid. Andrew, say, dear, {crossing, R.) Is it alone the danger of the voyage and the rough travelling that induce you to per- suade me thus ? You have no other motive but my comfort in refusing to take me w^ith you — have you ? And. [unable to contain himself) Yes, Bridget, yes, I have another motive — a powerful and terrible one that compels me to go alone. I cannot tell you more at present. I — (Craven, c. and Kate, l. c, advance C. a little j breaks down as Bridget eyes him with a hurt look.) Brid. [goes to door, R. I. E., before she speaks) It is the first secret, Andrew, between wj y may it — oh, may it be the last, {turns aside, evidently greatly vexed. Exit, R. D., with in- dignant look at Craven, Y^kty. following. Andrew crosses to fire.) Cole, {outside) Pretty swindling ! the robbers — the scoundrels ! Crav. Cole's voice ! For once in his life that most unpleasant person is actually a relief, {.crosses to L.) Cole, (entering in a rage, L. c, back) Well, well, well, this is very pretty. Crav. What's the matter, Mr. Cole ? Cole. What's the matter, what's the matter ? but you're a lucky man — you're a lucky man. {futs down hat on chair, c. at back.) Crav. In what way ? (sits.) Cole. You hadn't a penny in Pembridge's Bank, I'll be bound. You've got yours at an army agent's, or at a snug private bank in London, or invested in something as safe as houses — not country banking houses — they're not safe. If I come across old Jonas Pembridge I'll — I'll call him names, {up and down, C.) And. Has Pembridge's Bank gone, then ? Cole. Gone ! Why did it ever come ? Ha, but it'll go hard with them, swaggering about in their grand carriages and in their big houses, and — oh, these robbers don't get off scot-free as they used to do. [chafes^ Crav. {seated at table, L.) Had you anything in Pembridge's ? And. (in chair, r., at fire) I drew all I had out for I heard the rumor of coming failure, and I was just in time. Crav. I hope you hadn't much in there, Cole. Cole, (c.) More than enough to make a man mad when he loses it. Every shilling of it scraped aiid starved for. I was always such a careful man. Crav. Ah, some folks can be too careful. It's the dainty people who keep their eyes on the crossing for fear of mudding their boots that get run over by the hansom cabs j after all, your life's of more importance than your upper leather. Cole. (C.) Very likely, sir ; but why not preserve both, sir ? — ■ DAISY FARM, 4I that's my argument. But the Pembridges '11 find a ticklish creditor in Simeon Cole, And, {seated) I told you of the report I heard ; you might have saved every farthing. Cole, {at back, corner of table) And this very day — this very day I was going to complete a bargain that'll bring me hundreds, I won't say thousands, though I might. I've nicked old Thred- der, and I'd have paid the deposit down before he reached Willott's, He offered more than me, but the sight of the bank notes would have done the business, for Willott's hard up, and at his wits' end for want of money. And, What, Squire Willott of Cole. Of Radcliffe — that's the man — selling a portion of the estate dirt cheap — dirt cheap. He doesn't know that the Midland Railway's going to run through it, and they'll have to pay a pretty penny for the privilege. But he will know it to- morrow, or the day after. I've seen the plans at Duncan's offices. Ha ! ha ! and I had as good as £6,000 in my pocket if this — this vile establishment of Pembridge's hadn't — hadn't — but I'll nick old Thredder yet. And. {rising) How .'' Cole. How ! Ha ! ha ! Look there ! [producing a promissory note fro?n his breast pocket) look there, dear Andrew Arm- strong, look there — " payable on demand." Ha ! ha ! you can help an old friend and schoolfellow ; and, oh, how delighted you'll be to do it. And. What do you mean ? Cole. You know what I mean, my dear old friend — you know ; I've got you under my thumb — you know you raised money on mortgage — you know you've given me bills, and that they'll have to be met when due, and you know that bit of paper means money down. But you've got it handy — you've got it handy. And. I ! — got that — that money handy ! Cole. Of course — you were so full of forethought, you know — • you drew what you had in Pembridge's out, you say, and have it here. And. {a little staggered) W — what ! Cole. Bless us, how dull this man is ! The money — out of the bank — it'll just help me to my bargain. Ha ! ha ! now for it, old friend, {nervously opening and shuttitig his hatids.) And. Simeon Cole — I — I haven't ^^/ the money. Cole. Then you lied, eh ? And. No, {rises) I had it when I mentioned it to you, but it's gone since. Cole, [fiercely) But you must get it back, sir. And. Impossible ! You cannot have one shilling of that money, now. 42 DAISY FARM. Cole. Why— you — you impostor — you dishonest impostor, I And. Better words, or VW.— {shakes fist at him.) Cole. Don't raise your finger against me. I'll ruin you — I'll sell you up. Enter Bridget and Kate, r. d. Brid. What is the matter, Andrew ? is Simeon Cole persuad- ing you against going abroad ? Cole. Going abroad ? Brid. To America, at once. Cole. Oh, indeed ! a runaway ! a fraudulent bankrupt, eh ! (Andrew again turns upon him, but restraijts himself by a violent effort.) Enter Charley, l. C. ; he looks haggard and pale. Brid. What does this mean, Simeon } Cole. What does it mean } It means that I've been tricked and swindled. I don't forget those days of long ago, Bridget Armstrong. Though you've kept civil tongues I've seen the sneer on your lip many a time. Now my turn's come, and that turn will be " turn out'' Andrew, my dear friend, who thrashed Simeon Cole behind Digby's barn. Ha \ ha ! (j- alone, if preferred. Price, 25 Cents. AN EVENING WITH PICKWICK. A Literary and Dramatic Dickens Entertainment. — Introduces the Pickwick Club, the Wardies of Dingley Dell, the Fat Boy, Alfred Jingle, Mrs. Leo Hunter, Lord Mutanhed and Count .Smorltork, Arabella Alien and Bob Allen, Bob Sawyer, Mrs. and Master Bardell. Mrs. Cluppins. Mrs. Weller, Stiggins, Tony Weller, Sam Weller, and the Ladv 'I'ravellei. Price, 25 cents. AN EVENING WITH COPPERFIELD. A Literary and Dramatic Dickens Entertainment. — Litroduces >hs. Copperfield, l^avie, the Peggotys, the Murdstones, Mrs. Gummidge, Little Em'ly, Barkis, Betsey Trotwood, Mr. Dick and his kite, Steerforth, the Creakles, Traddles, Rosa Dartle, Miss Mowcher, Uriah Heep and his Mother, the Micawbers, Dora and Gyp, and the wooden-legged Gatekeeper. Price, 25 cents. These " Evenings with Dickens " can be represented in whole or in part, require but little memorizing, do not demand experienced actors, are not troublesome to pre- pare, and are suitable for performance either on the platform or in the drawing room. THE GYPSIES' FESTIVAL. A Mii>ic.^l Entectainment for Young People. Introduces the Gypsy Queen, Fortune Teller, Yankee Peddler, and a Chorus of Gypsies, of any desired number. The •■•cene is supposed to be a Gypsy Camp. The costumes are very pretty, but simple ; the dialogue bright ; the music easy and tuneful ; and the drill movements and calisthenics are graceful. Few properties and no set scenery required, so that the entertainment can be represented on any platform. Price, 25 cents. THE COURT OF KING CHRISTMAS. A CHRISTMAS ENTERTAINMENT. The action takes place in Santa Claus land on Christmas eve, and represents the bustling preparations of St. Nick and his attendant worthies for the gratification of all children the next day. The cast niaj- include as many as 36 ch.aracters, though fewer will answer, and the enter- tainment represented on a platform, without troublesome properties. The cos- Ilk lumes are simple, the incidental music and drill movements graceful and easily W managed, the dialogue uncommonly good, and the whole thing quite above the r .-average. A representation of this entertainment will cause the young folks, from six to sixty, fairly to turn themselves inside out with delight, and, at the same time, enforce the important moral of Peace and Good Will. Price, 25 cents. JRECEiV TL ] ' PUBL I SHED. ILLUSTRATED TABLEAUX FOR AMATEURS. A new series of Tableaux I'lvants, by Martha C. Weld. In this series each description is accompanied with a full-page illustration of the scene to be represented. - PART L— MISCELLANEOUS TABLEAUX.— Contains General Introduction, 12 Tableaux and 14 Illustrations. Price, 25 Cents. PART II.— MISCELLANEOUS TABLEAUX.— Cont.iins Introduction, 12 Ta- bleaux and 12 illu'^trations. Price, 25 Cents. SAVED FROM THE WRECK. A drama in three acts. Eight male, three female characters. 'lime, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. BETWEEN TWO FIRES. A comedy-drama in three acts. Eight male, three female characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. BY FORCE OF IMPULSE. A drama in five acts. Nine male, three female characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. A LESSON IN ELEGANCE. A comedy in one act. Four female characters. Time, thirty minutes. Price, 15 Cents. W^ANTED, A CONFIDENTIAL CLERK. A farce in one act. Six male characters. Time, thirty minutes. Price, 15 Cents. . SECOND SIGHT. A farcical comedy in one act. Four male, one female charac- ter. Time, one hour. Price, 15 Cents. THE TRIPLE WEDDING. A drama in three acts. Four male, four female characters. Time, one hour and a quarter. Price, 15 cents. l^WAny 0/ the above zvill be sent by jnail^ postpaid, to any address^ on recei/>t c/ihe annexed priLes^,^^i HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St.,^New York. HELM EI ACTOR'S MAKE ^ Priici!< r.l and rystetnatic Guide to the ^. LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 014 455 171 PRICE, 25 CENTS. VvTlTH EXHAUSTIVE TREATMENT ON THE USE OF THEATRICAL Wigs axd Beards, The Make-up and its requisite materials, the different features and their management, typical character Masks, etc. With Special Hints to Ladies. Designed for the USE OF Actors and Amateurs, and for both Ladies and Gentle- men. Copiously Illustrated. CONTENTS. L Theatrical Wigs. — The Style and Form of Theatrkal Wigs and Beards. The Color and Shading of Theatrical Wigs and Beards. Directions for Measuring the Head. To put on a Wig properly. n. Theatrical Beards. — How to fashion a Beard out of crep6 hair. How to make Beards of Wool. The growth of Beard simu- lated. HL The Make-up — A successful Character Mask, and how to make it. Perspiration during performance, how removed. IV. The Make-up Box. — Grease Paints. Grease paintL in sticks; Flesh Cream ; Face Powder; How to use face powder a a Itqutd cream ; The various shades of face powder. Water 3n6tique. Nose Putty. Court Plaster. Cocoa Butter. Cr^pe 1 arvd Prepared Wool. Grenadine. Dorin's Rouge. "Old Maj Rouge. "Juvenile" Rouge. Spirit Gum. Email Noir. Be Grease. Eyebrow Pencils. Artist's Stomps. Powder Puffs. Hart Peet. Camels'-hair Brushes. V. The Features and their Treatment. — The Eyes : blind- ness. The Eyelids. The Eyebrows : How to paint out an eyebrow or moustache ; How to paste on eyebrows ; How to regulate bushy eye- brows. The Eyelashes : To alter the appearance of the eyes. The Ears. The Nose : A Roman nose; How to use the nose putty; A pug nose ; An African nose; a large nose apparently reduced in size. The Mouth and Lips : a juvenile mouth ; an old mouth ; a sensuous mouth ; a satirical mouth ; a one-sided mouth; a merry mouth ; A sullen mouth. The Teeth. The Neck, Arms, Hands and Finger- nails : Fingernails lengthened. Wrinkles: Friendliness and Sullen- ness indicated by wrinkles. Shading. A Starving character. A Cut in the Face. A Thin Face Made Fleshy. VI. Typical Character Masks. — The Make-up for Youth : Dimpled cheeks. Manhood. Middle Age. Making up as a Drunk- ard : One method ; another method. Old Age. Negroes. Moors. Chinese. King Lear. Shylock. Macbeth. Richelieu. Statuary. Clowns. VII. Special Hints to Ladies. — The Make-up. Theatrical "Wigs and Hair Goods. Sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, on receipt of the price. HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, O Murray Street, New York,