PS 3545 I.P61 E2 11908 i Copy 2 r .s THE Easiest Way A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS BY Cugene Walter Note. — This play is here privately printed and not for circulation. All its dramatic rights are fully secured, and proceedings will be immediately taken against anyone who attempts to infringe them. NEW YORK Printed at the Goerck Art Press 1908 ^ THE Easiest Way An American play concerning a peculiar phase of New York life, in Four Acts and Four Scenes - _ - _ BY Cuserie Walter -. <^. j^^ «^10 LIBRARY or GOiiGiiiSS Twc Copie* -{ecsived Ci lo. Copyright 1908 by Cugene l©a(ter CHAR A CTERS of the PL A Y John Madison Willard Brocton Jim Weston Laura Murdoch Elfie St. Clair Annie Synopsis Act I. Mrs. William's ranch house or country home, perched on the side of Ute Pass, near Colorado Springs, Colorado. Time: Late in an August afternoon. Act II. Laura Murdock's furnished room, second story back. New York. Time: Six months later. Act III. Laura Murdock's apartments in an expensive hotel. Time: Two months later. In the morning. Act IV. The same as Act. III. Time: The same afternoon. Description of Characters LAURA MURDOCK, twenty-five years of age, is a type that is not uncommon to the theatrical life in New York, and which has grown in importance in relation to the profession since the business of giving public entertainments has been so utterly re- duced to a commercial basis. At an early age she came from Australia and settled in San Francisco. She was gifted with con- siderable beauty and an aptitude for theatrical accomplishment that soon raised her in a position of more or less importance in a local stock company playing in that city. A woman of intense superficial emotions; her imagination is without any enduring depths, but for the passing time she can place herself in an attitude of great affection and devotion. Sen- sually, the woman had marked characteristics, and with the flattery that surrounded her she soon becam.e a favorite in the select circles who made such places as ''The Poodle Dog" and "Zincand's" famous. In the matter of general dissipation she was always careful not in any way to indulge in excesses which would jeopardize her phy- sical attractiveness, or for one moment diminish her sense of keen worldly calculation. In time she married. It was, of course, a failure. Her vacil- lating nature was such that she could not be absolutely true tO' the man to whom she had given her life, and after several bitter ex- periences, she had the horror of seeing him kill himself in front of her. There was a momentary spasm of grief, a tidal wave of re- morse, and then peculiar recuperation of spirits, beauty and attrac- tiveness that so marks this type of woman. She was deceived by other men in many various ways, and finally came to that stage of life that is known in theatrical circles as being "wised up." At the early age of 19 she married again with equally disas- trous results, and later the attention of a prominent theatrical man- ager being called to her, she took an important part in a unique New York production and immediately gained considerable repu- tation. The fact of her two marriages and that she had gone through, before reaching the age of womanhood, more escapades than most women do when they are about to depart life after having lived it to the full, was not generally known in New York, and there was not a mark upon her face or a single coarse mannerism that betrayed it. She was soft-voiced, very pretty, very girlish. Her keen sense of wordly calculation led her to believe that in order to progress in her theatrical career she must have some other influence outside of her art and dramatic accomplishment, so she attempted to infatuate, with no little success, a hard-headed, blunt and sup- posedly invincible theatrical manager, who, in his cold, stolid way, gave her what love there was in him. This, however, not satisfying the woman, she played two ends against the middle, and finding a young man of wealth and position who could give her in his youth, the exuberance and joy utterly apart from the character of the theatrical manager, she adopted him and for a while lived with him. Exhausting his money she cast him aside, always spend- ing a certain part of the time with the theatrical manager. The young man became crazed, and at a restaurant tried to murder all of them. From that time up to the opening of the play her career was a succession of brilliant coups in the matter of gaining the con- fidence and love, not to say some money, of men of all ages and all works in life. Her fascination was as undeniable as her insincerity of purpose. She had never made an honest effort to be an honest woman, although she had imagined herself always persecuted, the victim of circumstances, and was always ready to excuse any vicious- ness of character which led her into her peculiar difficulties. An unsci*upulous aunt was adopted to act as a shield for her moral transgressions, and while acknowledged to be a mistress of her business — that of acting — from a purely technical point of view, her lack of sympathy, her abuse of her dramatic temperament in her private affairs had been such as to make it impossible for her to sincerely impress audiences with real emotional power, and, therefore, without the said influences, which she always had at band, she remained a mediocre artist. At the time of the opening of our play she has played a summer engagement with a stock company in Denver, which has just been terminated. She has met there John Madison, a man of about twenty-seven years of age, whose position was that of a dramatic critic on one of the local papers. Laura Murdock, with her usual wisdom, started in to fascinate John Madison, but found, for once in her life, she had met her match. John Madison was good to look at, frank, verile, but a man 6 of broad experience, and not to be hoodwinked. For the first time Laura Murdock felt that the shoe was pinching on the other foot, and without any possible indication of reciprocal affection she was slowly falling desperately, madly, honestly and decently in love with him. She had for the past two years been the special favorite and mistress of Willard Brocton. The understanding was one of pure friendship. He was a man who had a varied taste in the matter of selecting his women, was honest in a general way, and perfectly frank about his amours. He had been most generous to Laura Murdock, and his close relations with several very prominent the- atrical managers made it possible for him to always secure her desirable engagements, generally in New York. With all her past experiences, tragic and otherwise, Laura Murdock found no equal to this sudden, this slowly increasing love for the young Western man. At first she attempted to deceive him. Her baby face, her masterful assumption of innocence and childlike devotion made an impression upon him. He let her know in no un- certain way that he knew her record from the day she stepped on American soil in San Francisco, to the time when she had come to Denver, but still he liked her. And at the beginning of this play we find both these people thoroughly understanding each other and believing in each other's love. John Madison is a peculiar type of the Western man. Up to the time of his meeting Laura he had always been employed either in the mines or on a newspaper west of the Mississippi River. He was one of those itinerant reporters, to-day you might find him in Seattle, to-morrow in Butte, the next week in Denver, and then possibly he would make the circuit from Los Angeles to Frisco, and then all around again. He drank his whiskey straight, played his faro fairly, and was not particular about the women with whom he went. He started in life in the Western country at an early age. His natural talents, both for literature and general adaptability to all conditions of life, were early exemplified, but his alma mater was the barroom, and the faculty of that college, the bartenders and gamblers and general habitues who characterized them. He seldom had social engagements outside of certain disrepu- table establishments, where a genial personality or an overburdened pocketbook gives entree, and where the rules of conventionality have never even been whispered. His love affairs were confined to this class of women and seldom lasted more than a week or ten days. His editors knew him as a brilliant genius, irresponsible, unre- liable, but at times inestimably valuable. He cared little for personal 7 appearance beyond a certain degree of neatness, and was quick on the trigger, in a time of over-heated argument could go some dis- tance with his fists, and his whole career is best described as "happy-go-lucky/' He realized fully his ability, that he could do almost anything fairly well and some things especially well, but he never tried to accomplish an}1;hing beyond the earning of a comfortable living. Twenty-five or thirty dollars a week was all he needed ; with that he could buy his liquor, treat his women, some times play a little faro, sit up all night and sleep all day, and in general lead a life of good-natured vagabondage that had always pleased him and which he had chosen as a career. The objection of safer and saner friends to this form of liveli- hood was always met by him with a slap on the back and a laugh, "Don't you worry about me, partner, if I'm going to hell I'm going there with bells on," was always his rejoinder, and yet when called upon to cover some great big news story, or report some tremen- dously vital event, he settled down to his work with a steely de- termination and a grim joy that resulted in work which classified him as almost a genius. Any great mental effort of this character, any jLisuaL achievement along these lines would be immediately fol- lowed by a protracted debauch that would upset him physically and m.entally for weeks at a time, but he always recovered and landed on his feet, and with the same laugh and smile again went at his work. If there had been opportunities to meet decent women of good social standing he had always thrown them aside with the declara- tion that they bored him to death, and there never had entered into his heart a feeling or idea of real affection until he met Laura. He fell for a moment under the spirit of her fascination, and then, with that cold logic he analyzed her, and found out that exteriorly she had every sign of girlhood, ingenuousness, sweetness of char- acter and possibility of aft'ection, but that spiritually and mentally she was nothing more than a moral wreck. He observed keenly her efforts to win him and her disappointment at her failure, not that she cared so much for him personally, but that it hurt her vanity not to be successful with this good-for-nothing, good-natured vaga- bond, when she had met men of wealth and position whom she made kneel at her feet. He slowly observed her changing point of view and from her kittenish ingenuousness she became serious, womanly, really sincere, he knew that he had awakened in her her first decent affection, and he knew that she was awakening in him his first de- sire to do things and be big and worth while, and together these two drifted toward a path of decent dealing, decent ambition, decent thought, and decent love until at last they both found themselves 8 and acknowledged all the wickedness of what had been and planned for all the virtue and goodness of what was to be, and it is at this point that our first act begins Elfie St. Clair is a type of a Tenderloin grafter in New York, who, after all, has been more sinned against than sinning, but who, having been imposed upon, deceived, ill-treated and bull- dozed by the type of men who prey on women in New York, had turned the tables and with her charm and her beauty gone out to make the same slaughter on the other sex as she suffered with ma^iy of her sisters. She is a woman without a moral conscience, whose entire life is dictated by a small mental operation. Coming to New York as a beautiful girl she entered the chorus. She became famous for her beauty. On every hand were the rich and despicable stagedoor vul- tures ready to give her any thing that a woman's heart could de- sire, from clothes, to horses, carriages, money and what not, but Elfie St. Clair, at this time, with a girl-like instinct, fell in love w-ith a man connected with the company, and during all the time that she might have profited and become a rich woman by the at- tentions of these outsiders, she remained true to this man until finally her fame as the beauty of the city waned The years told on her to a certain extent, and there were the others coming as young as she had been, and as good to look at, and where before the auto- mobile of the millionaire was at hand for her, she found that through her trust ill her lover that it was there for some one else, but she was content with her joys until finally the man deliberately jilted her and left her alone. What had gone of her beauty had been replaced by a keen knowledge of human nature and of men, so she determined to give herself up entirely to a life of gain. She knew just how much champagne should be drunk without injuring one's health; she knew just what physical necessities should be indulged in to pre- serve to the greatest degree her remaining beauty. There was no trick of the hair-dresser, the modiste, the manicurist, or any one of the legion of people who devote their time to aiding the physical fascinations of women, which she did not know. She knew exactly what perfumes to use, what stockings to wear, how she should live, how far she should indulge in any dissipation, and all this she determined to devote to profit. She knew that as an actress, per se, she had no future ; that the time of a woman's beauty was limited ; she was conscious of the fact that already she had lost the youthful litheness of figure that had made her so fascinating in the past, so she laid aside every Sen- timent, physical and spiritual, and determined to choose a man as her companion who had the biggest bankroll and the most liberal 9 intention. His age, his station in life, the fact whether she Hked or disliked him should not enter into this scheme at all, she figured that she had been made a fool of by men and there was only one revenge, the accumulation of a fortune to make her independent of them once and for all. There were, of course, certain likes and dislikes that she en- joyed, and in a way she indulged them. There were men whose company she cared for, but their association was practically sexless and had come down to a point of mere good fellowship. WiLLARD Brockton, a New York broker, was an honest sensualist, and when one says an honest sensualist, the mean- ing is a man who had none of the cad in his character, who took advantage of no one, and allowed no one to take advantage of him. He honestly detested any man who took advantage of a pure woman. He detested any man who deceived a woman. He believed that there was only one way to go through life, and that was to be frank with those with whom one dealt; although he was a master hand in stock manipulation and the questionable practices of Wall Street, he realized that he had to play his cunning and craft against the cunning and craft of others in the deep game of speculation. He was not at all in sympathy with this mode of living, but he thought it was the only method by which he could succeed in life, and he measured success in life by the accumulation of money, and he considered his business career as a thing apart from his private existence. He never associated, to any great extent, in what is known as Society of Fifth Avenue. He kept in touch with it simply to main- tain his business position. There is always an inter-relationship among the rich in business and private life, and he gave such enter- tainments as were necessary to the members of New York's exclu- sive set, simply to make certain his relative position with other suc- cessful Wall Street men. As far as women were concerned, the certain type of actress, such as Laura Murdock and Elfie St.. Clair, appealed to him ; he liked their good fellowship. He loved to be with a gay party at night in a cafe, he liked the rather looseness of living, which did not quite approximate the disreputable, and, in fact, his was a Bo- hemian nature. Behind all this, however, was a rather high-sense of honor, he detested and despised the average stagedoor Johnny, and he loathed the type of man who sought to take young girls out of theatrical companies and accomplish their ruin. His girl friends were as wise as himself. When they entered into an agreement with him there was no deception. In tlie first place he wanted to like them, in the second place he wanted them to like him, and lastly, he wanted to fix the amount of their living 10 at a definite figure and have them stand by it. He wanted them to understand that he reserved the right at any time to withdraw his support or transfer it to some other woman, and he gave them the same privilege. He was always ready to help anyone who was unfortunate, and he always hoped that some of these girls whom he knew would finally come across the right man, marry and settle down, but he in- sisted that such an arrangement could only be possible by the honest admission on the woman's part of what she had done and been, and the thorough understanding of all these things by the man in- volved. He was gruff in his manner, determined in his purposes, honest in his point of view. He was a brute, almost a savage, but he was a thoroughly good brute, and a pretty decent savage. At the time of the opening of this play he and Laura Murdock had been friends for two years. He knew exactly what she was and what she had been, and their relations were those of pals. She had finished her season in Denver and he had come out there for the purpose of accompanying her home. He had always told her that whenever she felt it inconsistent with her happiness to continue her relations with him it was her privilege to quit, and he had reserved the same condition. II ACT I. Scene. The scene is that of the summer coinniry ran^h house of Mrs. Williams, a friend of Laura Murdock's, and a prominent society woman of Denver, on th-e side of Ute Pass, near Colorado Springs. On each side of the stage are the parts of the house, nearly all the stage being devoted to the peculiar sort of court that is built in these country homes and covered by a peaked roof. Up stage where this end^ is siipposed to be the part of the porch overlooking the canyon, a sheer drop of 2,000 feet, while over the roof and through the porch one can see the rolling foothills and lofty peaks of the Rockies iwith Pike's Peak in the distance, snow-capped and colossal. The porch is strewn until rugs and willozv furnitme. There is a curtain at the back of the porch or court, by zi^hich the sun can be shut off , but this is noiv dran^n. A tea service is on a table and everything has the appearance of luxury and zi^ealth. It is late in the afternoon and as the scene progresses the quick tzvi- light of a canyon, beautiful in its tints of purple and amber, be- comes later pitch black, and the curtain goes dozvn on an abso- lutely black stage. The cyclorama or semi-cyclorama must give the perspective of greater distances, and be so painted that the various tints of tzmlight may be shozvn. The entrances are R and L in tzvo being doors zvhich open into each side of the ranch house. The doorzvay is half concealed by Japanese hangings of bamboo and bead curtains. At Rise. [Laura Murdock is seen up R stage leaning a bit over the balustrade of the porch and shielding her eyes zinth her hand from the late afternoon sun as she seemingly looks up the Pass to the L as if in expectation' of discovering the approach of some one. Her gozim- is simple, girlish and attractive, and made of thai summery, filmy stuff zuhich zvomen utilize so ef- fectively. Her hair is done up in the simplest fashion zmth a part in the centre, and there is about her every indication of an effort to assume that girlishness of demeanor zvhich has bee^i her greatest asset through life. Willard Brockton enters from L; he is a man six feet or more in height, stocky in build, clean shaven and immaculately dressed. He is smoking a cigar, aH^d upon [entering takes one step forzvard and looks over' tozvard Laura in a semi-meditative manner.] Will. Blue? Laura. No. Will What's up? Laura. Nothing. Will. A little preoccupied, if you ask me. Laura. Perhaps. 12 Will. What's up that way. Laura. Which way? Will. The way you are looking. Laura. The road from Manitou Springs. They call it the trail out here. Will. I know that. You know I've done a lot of business west of the Missouri. Laura \With a half -sigh.] No, I didn't know it. Will. Oh, yes; south of here in the San Juan country. Spent a couple of years there once. Laura. [Still zvithout turmiig.] That's interesting. Will. It was then. I made some money there. It's always inter- esting when vou make money and it's mighty dull when you don't. Still- ^ ^ - Laura. [Still leaning in an ahsent-tninded attitude.'] Still what? Will. Can't make out why you have your eyes glued on that road — or excuse me — trail. Expect some one ? Laura. Yes Will. One of Mrs. William's friends, eh? Laura. Yes. Will. Yours too? Laura. Yes. Will. Man? Laura. Yes, a real man. Will. [Catches the significance of this speech. He carelessly throws the cigar over the balustrade. Moving for the first time he comes down C and sits in a chair with his back to Laura; she has not moved more than to place her left hand on a cusfvion and lean her head rather zvearily againsi it, looking steadfastly up the Pass.] a real man. By that you mean Laura. Just that — a real man Will. Any difference from the many you have known ? Laura. Yes, from all I have known. Will. So that is why you didn't come into Denver to meet me to-day, but left word for me to come out here? Laura. Yes. Will. I thought that I was pretty decent to take a dusty ride half- way across the continent in order to keep you company on your way back to New York and welcome you to our home, but maybe I had the wrong idea. Laura. Yes, I think you had the wrong idea. Will. In love, eh? Laura. Yes. In love. Will. A new sensation. Laura. No; the first conviction. 13 Will. You have had that idea before. Every woman's love is the real one when it comes. Do you make a distinction in this case, young lady? Laura. Yes. Will. For instance, what ? Laura. This man is poor ; absolutely broke ; he hasn't even got a good job. You know, Will, all the rest, including yourself, gen-- erally had some material inducement. Will. What's his business? Laura. He's a newspaper man. Will. H-m-m. Romance? Laura. Yes, if you want to call it that — Romance. Will. Do I know him ? Laura. How could you, you only came from New York to-day and he has never been there. [She turns and comes down and sits near him. He regards her with a rather amused, indulgent, almost paternal expression. In contrast to his big, bluff physical per- sonality, zmth his iron-grey hair and his bulldog ex- pression, Laura looks more girlish than ever. This is imperative in order to thoroughly understand the character.] Will. How old is he? Laura. 2y, you're 45. Will. No, 46. Laura. Shall I tell you about him? Will. That depends. Laura. On what? Will. Yourself. Laura. In what way? Will. H it will interfere in the least with the plans I have made for you and for me. Laura. And have you made any particular plans for me that have anything particularly to do with you? Will. Yes, I have given up the lease of our apartment on West End Avenue, and I've got a house on Riverside Drive. Everything will be quiet and decent, and it'll be more comfortable for you. There's a stable nearby and your horses and car can be kept over there. You'll be your own mistress and besides I've fixed you up for a new part. Laura. What kind of a part? Will. One of Charlie Burgess' shows, translated from some French fellow. It's been running over in Paris, Berlin and Vienna, and all those places for a year or more, and appears to be an awful hit. It's going to cost a lot of money. I told Charlie he could put 14 me down for a half interest, and I'd give the money providing you got the leading role. Great part, I'm told. Kind of a cross between a musical comedy and an opera. Looks as if it might stay in New York all season. So that's the change of plan. How does it strike you? Laura. T don't know. Will. Feel like quitting? Laura. I can't tell. Will. It's the new^spaper man, eh? Laura. That would be the only reason. Will. YouVe been on the square with me this summer, haven't you ? Laura. What do you mean by ''on the square"? Will. Don't evade, there's only one meaning when I say that, and you know it. I'm pretty liberal, but I draw the line in one place. You've not jumped that, have you, Laura ? Laura. No, this has been such a wonderful summer, such a won- derfully different summer. Can you understand what I mean by that when I say "wonderfully different summer" ? Will. Well, he's 27 and broke, and you're 25 and pretty, and he evidently being a newspaper man has that peculiar gift of gab that we call romantic expression, so I guess I'm not blind and you both think you've fallen in love. That it? Laura. Yes, I think that's about it ; only I don't subscribe to the ''gift of gab" and the "romantic" end of it. He's a man and I'm a woman, and we both have had our experiences. I don't think, Will, that there can be much of that element of what some folks call hallucination. Will. Then the Riverside Drive proposition and Burgess' show is off, eh? Laura. I didn't say that. M^ill. And if you go back on the Overland Limited day after to-morrow, you'd just as soon I'd go to-morrow or wait until the day after you leave? Laura. I didn't say that, either. Will. What's the game? Laura. J can't tell you now. Will. Waiting for him to come? Laura. Exactly. Wilf. Think he is going to make a proposition, eh? Laura. I know he is. Will. Marriage? Laura. Possibly. Will. You've tried that twice and took the wrong end. Are you going to play the same game again? 15 Laura. Yes, but with a different card. Will. What's this young man's name? Laura. Madison — John Madison. IVill. And his job? Laura. Reporter. Will. Fine matrimonial timber. I suppose you think you'll live on the extra editions. Laura. No, we're young, there's plenty of time; I can work in the meantime and so can he, and then with his ability and my ability it will only be a matter of a year or two when things will shape themselves to make it possible. Will. Sounds well — a year off. Laura. If I thought you were going to make fun of me, Will, I shouldn't have talked to you. Will. I don't want to make fun of you, but you must realize that after two years it isn't an easy thing to be dumped with so little ceremony. I know you have never given me any credit for pos- sessing the slightest feeling, but even I can receive shocks from other sources than a break in the market. Laura. It isn't easy for me to do this. You've been awfully kind, awfully considerate, but when I went to you it was just with the understanding that we were to be pals. You reserved the right then to quit me whenever you felt like it, and you gave me the same privilege. Now, if some girl came along who really captivated you in the right way, and you wanted to marry, it would hurt me a little — maybe a lot — for after all a woman has her vanity, but I should never forget that agreement we made, a sort of two weeks' notice clause, like people have in contracts. Will. [Gets up. He is evidently very much moved. Walks over and looks over the canyon. Laura looks after him. Will has his hack to the audience and Laura, who is seated unth hands clasped in her lap, evidently suffering from some emotion herself.] I'm not hedging, Laura. If that's the way you want it to be, I'll stand by just exactly what I said, but I'm fond of you, a damn sight fonder than I thought I was, now that I find you slipping away, but if this young fellow is on the square and he has youth and ability, and you've been on the square with him, why all right. Your life hasn't had much in it to help you get a diploma from any celestial college, and if you can start out now and be a good girl, have a good husband, and maybe some day good children, why I'm not going to stand in the way, only I don't want you to make any of those mistakes that you made before. Laura. I know, but somehow I feel that this time the real thing has come and with it the real man. I can't tell you, Will, how much different it is, but everything I felt before seems so sort of earthly i6 — and somehow this love that I have for this man is so different. It's made me want to be truthful and sincere and humble for the first time in my life. The only other thing I ever had that I cared the lest bit about, now that I look back, was your friendship. We have been good pals, haven't we? IVill. Yes, it's been a mighty good two years for me. I was al- ways proud to take you around because I think you one of the pret- tiest things in New York, and that helps some, and you're always jolly, and you never complained. You always spent a lot of money, but it was a pleasure to see you spend it ; and then you never of- fended me. Most women offend men by coming around looking untidy and sort of unkempt, but somehow you aUvays knew the value of your beauty, and you always dressed up. I always thought that maybe some day the fellow would come along, grab you and make you happy in a nice way, but I thought that he'd have to have a lot of money. You know you've lived a rather extravagant life for ten years, Laura. It won't be an easy jot to come down to cases and suffer for the little dainty necessities youVe been used to. Laura. I've thought all about that, and I think I understand. Will. You know if you were working without anybody's help, Laura, you might have a hard time getting a position. As an acv tress you're only fair. Laura. You needn't remind me of that. My part of my life is my own. I don't v/ant you to start now and make it harder for me to do the right thing ; it isn't fair ; it isn't square, and it isn't right. YouVe got to let me go my own way. I'm sorry to leave you, in a way, but I want you to know that if I go with John it changes the vSpelling of the word mistress into wife, and comradeship into love. Now, please don't talk any more. Will. Just a word. Is it settled? Laura. [Rising impatiently.] I said I didn't know, I would know to-day, that's what I'm waiting for. Oh, I don't see why he doesn't come. Will. [PoinMng up the Pass^.] Is that the fellow coming up here? Laura. Jumping tip quickly and running tozvard the balustrade , saying as she goes.] Where? Will. [Pointing] Up the road there. Oti that yellow horse. Laura. [Looking.] Yes, that's John. [She zvaves her handker- chief, and putting one hand to her month cries] Hello! John. '[Off stage with the effect as if he was on the road zmnd- ing up tozvard the house.] Hello yourself! Laura. [Same effect.] Hurry up, you're late. John. [Same effect, a little louder.] Better late than never. Laura. [Same effect.] Hurry up. John, [little louder.] Not with this horse. 17 Laura. [To Will, 7cifh enthusiastic expression.'] Now., Will, does he look like a yellow reporter? Will. [With a sort of sad smile.] He is a good looking chap. Laura. [Looking dozen again^ at John.] Oh, he's just simply more than that. [Turns quickly to Will.] Where's Mrs. Williams? W^ill. [Motioning zviih tJiumb toward L side of ranch Jwiise.] Inside, I guess, np to her neck in bridge. Laura. [Goes hurriedly over to door.] Mrs. Williams! Oh, Airs. Williams ! Mrs. Williams. [Heard off stage*.] What is it, my dear? Laura. Mr. Madison is coming up the path. Mrs. Williams. [Off stage.] That's good. Laura. Shan't you come and see him? Mrs. Williams. [Same.] Lord, no! I'm six dollars and twenty cents out now, and up against an awful streak of luck. Laura. Shall I give him some tea? Mrs. Williams. [Sanie.] Yes, do, dear, and tell him to cross his fingers when he thinks of me. [In the iiieautime, Will has leaned over the balustrade evidently surzwying the young man, who is supposed to be eouiiuig up the path, with a great deal of in^- terest. Un.dcrnca.th Jus stolid, businesslike demeanor of squareness, there is undoubtedly zvithin his heart a very great affection for Laura. He realised that during her whole career he has been the only one ivho has influenced her absolutely. Since the time that they lived together he has alwmys dominated and he has akvays endeavored to lead her along a path that meant the better things of a Bohemian existence. His coming all the ivay from Nezv York to Denver to accompany Laura home zvas simply another exam- ple of his keen interest in the zvoman and he suddenly finds that she has drifted azuay from him in a manner to zMch he could not in the least object, and that she had been absolutely fair and square in her agreement zvith him. Will is a man zvho, zvhile rough and rugged in many zvays, possessed many of the finer instincts of refinement, inherent though they may have been, and his meeting zinth John ought, therefore, to shozv much significance, because on his impressions of the young man depend the entire justification for his atti- tude in the play.] Laura. [Turning tozmrd Will and going to him, slipping her i8 hand invohintarily through his arju and looking eagerly zmth him over the balustrade in almost girlish enthusiasm.] Do you like him? Will. [Smiling.] I don't know him. Laura. Well, do vou think you'll like him? Will. Well, I hope I'll like him. Laura. Well, if you hope you'll like him, you ought to think you like him. He'll turn the corner of that rock in just a minute and then you can see him. Do you want to see him? Will. [Almost amused at her girlish maimer.] Why, yes, do you? Laura. Do I ? Why, I haven't seen him since last night ! There he is. [Waves her hand.] Hello, John! John. [His voice very close nozu.] Hello, girlie! How's every- thing ? Laura. Fine ! Do hurry. John. Just make this horse for a minute. Hurry is not in his dictionary. Laura. I'm coming down to meet you. John. All — right. Laura. [Turns quickly to Will.] You don't care; you'll wait, won't you? Will. Surely. [Laura hurriedly exits R and disappears. Will continues to gaze over the balustrade. He sees the tzoo meet underneath, shozi's the slightest trace of his emotion, takes a fresh cigar from his case, lights it, goes dozvn C. and sits rather dejectedly on one of the zvillozu chairs. After a short interval Laura cosines in more like a 16-year-old girl than anything else, pulling John after her. He is a tall, finely built specimen of Western manhood, a frank face, a quick nervous energy, a mind that zvorks like lightning, a prepos- sessing smile, and a personality that is zvholly capti- vating. His clothes are a bit dusty from the ride, but are not in the least pretentious, and his leggirts arc of canvas and spurs of brass, such as are used in the army. His hat is off and he is pulled on to the stage from the R entrance, mere sort- ing them out. A latch key is heard in the lock, but she does not notice it. Will quietly enters and stands at the door looking at her. He holds this position as long as possible, and when he speaks it is in a very quiet tone.] Will. Going- away? Laura. [Starts, rises and confronts him.] Yes. Will. In somewhat of a hurry, I should say. Laura. Yes. Will. What's the plan? i Laura. I'm just going, that's all. Will. Madison been here? Laura. He's just left. Will. Of course you are going with him? Laura. Yes. Will. West? Laura. To Nevada. Will. Going — er — to get married? Laura. This afternoon. Will. So he didn't care then? Laura. What do you mean when you say "He didn't care?" Will. Of course you told him about the letter, and how it was burned up, and all that thing, didn't you? Laura. Why, yes. Will. And he said it didn't make any difference? Laura. He^ — he didn't say anything. We're just going to be married, that's all. Will. Did you mention my name and say that we'd been rather companionable for the last two months? Laura. I told him you'd been a very good friend to me. [During this scene Laura answers Will with dif- ficulty, and to a man of the world it is qtiite apparent that she is not telling the truth. Will looks over toward her in an almost threatening way.] Will. How soon do you expect him back? Laura. Quite soon. I don't know just exactly how long he'll be. Will. And you mean to tell me that you kept your promise and told him the truth? Laura. I — I. [Then with defiance.] What business have you got to ask me that? What business have you got to interfere anyway? 71 JVill. [Quietly.] Then you've lied again. You lied to him and you just tried to lie to me now. I must say, Laura, that you're not particularly clever at it, although I don't doubt but that you've had considerable practice. [Gives her a searching look and slowly walks over to the chair at the table and sits dozvn, still holding his hat in his hand and without removing his overcoat.] Laura. What are you going to do? Will. Sit dovv^n here and rest a few moments; maybe longer. Laura. You can't do that. Will. I don't see why not. It'sjny own house. Laura. But don't you see that he'll come back here soon and find vou here ? Will. That's just exactly what I want him to do. Laura. [With suppressed emotion almost on the z^erge of hysteria.] Vve — I've never asked any favor of you, but I want to tell you this. If you do this you'll ruin my life. You've done enough to it already. Now I want you to go. You've got to go. I don't think you've got any right to come here now, in this way, and take this happiness from me. I've given you everything I've got, and now I want to live right and decent, and he wants me to, and we love each other. Now, Will Brockton, it's come to this. You've got to leave this place, do you hear? You've got to leave this place. Please get out. Will. [Rises and come to her.] Do you think I'm going to let you interfere with my plans? Do you think I'm going to let a woman make a liar out of me? I'm going to stay right here. I like that boy, and I'm not going to let you put him to the bad. Laura. I want you to go. Will. And I tell you I won't go. I'm going to show you up just as you ought to be shown up. You've tried my patience just about as far as I can stand. I'm going to tell him the truth. It isn't you I care for, he's got to know. Laiira. [Loses her temper and is almost tiger-like in her anger.] You don't care for me? It isn't me you're thinking of? Who's the liar now? You are. You don't care for this man. AU my life, since the day you first took me away,, you've planned and planned and planned to keep me, and to trick me and bring me down with you. When you came to me I was happy. I didn't have much, just a little salary and some hard work. You say I'm bad, but who's made me so? Who took me out night after night? Who showed me what these luxuries were? Who put me in the habit of buying some- thing I couldn't afford? Who got me in debt, and then, when I wouldn't do what you wanted me to, who had me discharged from the company so I had no means of living? Who followed me from 72 one place to another ? Who, always entreating, tried to trap me into this Hfe, and I didn't know any better? I knew it was wrong, yes, but you told me everybody in this business did that sort of thmg, and I was just as good as anyone else. Finally you got me and you kept me. Then when I went away to Denver, and for the first time found a gleam of happiness, for the first time in my life Will. You're crazy. Laura. I am crazy. You've made me crazy. You followed me to Denver, and then when I got back you bribed me again. You pulled me dov/n, and you did the same old thing until this hap- pened. Now I want you to get out, you understand. [Goes over and pushes him.] I want you to get out. Will. Laura, you can't do this. Laura. [Screaming.] No, you won't; you won't stay here. You're not going to do this thing again. I tell you I'm going to be happy. I tell you I'm going to be married. [She pushes him toward the door. He doesn't resist her very strongly. Her anger and her rage are entirely new to him. He is surprised and eannot understand.] You won't see him. I tell you you won't tell him. You've got no business to. I hate you. I've hated you for months. Now you've got to go — you've got to go — you've got to go. Will. Laura, I tell you I'll stay. [Tries to speak, hut he doesn't interrupt her. She's losing control of herself.] Laura. I want you to get out. I want you to get out. I hate you. I hate you. Will. I'll come back. Laura. I hate you. I hate you. [Shoves him out of door and slams it, and swaying on her feet, with her hand on the knob, as if afraid he woidd force his zvay in.] Get out. Get out. Get out ! [As she stands almost screaming these words, Annie ap- pears at the portieres and looks at her, and then the curtain falls.] 73 ACT IV. Scene. The same scene as Act III. It is about two o'clock in the afternoon. At Rise. When the curtain rises there are two big trunks and one small trunk up stage. These trunks are marked in the usiia!^ theatrical fashion, the small trunk is of the steamer type. There are grips packed, umbrellas and the usual paraphernalia, that accompanies a zvoman when she is nmking a permanent de- parture from her place of living. Through the windows the snow can be seen falling. Seated on a trunk up L is Laura, Iter hat and zvraps are near her and she is evidently ready to leave at a moment's notice. Annie, rather disconsolate, is dozmt R seated in a chair near the table and facing her mis- tress. Laura is pde and perturbed. Annie. And ain't yuh goin' to let me come to yuh at all, Miss Laura ? Laura. I don't know yet, Annie. I don't even know what the place is like that we're going to. Mr. Madison hasn't said much. There hasn't been time. Annie. Why Ah've done ma best for yuh, Miss Laura, yes Ah have. Ah just been with yer ev'ry moment of ma time, an' Ah worked for yer, an' Ah loved yuh, an' Ah doan wan' to be left 'ere all alone in this town 'ere in New York, Ah ain't the kind of colored lady knows many people. Can't yuh take me along wid yuh. Miss Laura, yuh all been so good to me. Laura. Why I told you to stay here and get your things together. and then Mr. Brockton will probably want you to do something-. Later I think he'll have you pack up just as soon as he finds I'm gone. I've got the address that you gave me. ; I'll let you know if you can come on. Annie. \ Suddenly.] Aint yer goin' to give me anything at all jes to remember yer by? Ah've been so honest Laura. Honest? Annie. Yes'm, honest. Laura. You've been about as honest as most colored girls are who work for women in the position that I am in. You haven'^ stolen enough to make me discharge you, but I've seen what you've taken. Don't try to fool me. What you've got you're welcome to, but for heaven's sake don't prate around here about loyalty and honestly, I'm sick of it. Annie. Ain't yer goin' to give me no recommendation? Laura. [Impatiently looking around the room.] What good would my recommendation do? You can always go and get another po- sition with people who've lived the way I've lived, and my recom- 74 mendation to the other kind wouldn't amount to much. Now shut your noise. I don't want to hear any more. I've ^iven you $25 for a present. I think that's enough. [Annie assumes a most aggrieved appearance. Laura's impatience increases. She glances at her watch and goes to the window and looks out.^ Laura. I wonder where John is. We'll never be able to make that train. [There is another interval in which her anxiety is made ap- parent, then the bdl rings.] That must be he, Annie — go quick. [Annie Xes and opens the door .in the usual manner. \ Jim's voice outside. Is Miss Murdock in? Annie. Yes, sir, she's in. [Laura is up C stage and turns to receive visitor. Jim- enters. He is nicely dressed in black and has an ap- pearance of prosperity about him, but in other re- spects he retains the old drollness of enunciation and manner. He Xes to Laura m a cordial way and holds out his hand. Annie Xes, after closing the door, and exits through the porticrs into the sleeping apartment.'] Jim. How-de-do, Miss Laura. Look like as if you were going to move ? Laura. Jim Weston, I'm mighty glad to see you. Yes, I am going to move, and a long ways, too. How well you're looking; as fit as a fiddle. Jim. Yes. \Sitting on a trunk.] I am feelin' fine. Where yer goin'? Troupin'? Laura. No, not exactly. Jim. [Surveying the baggage.] Thought not. You'd have to be an A Number One star to carry all this junk along. I've heard about ye in the part you're playin', and I was kinder glad to see ye gettin' along so well. What's comin' oflf now? Laura. [Very simply.] I'm going to be married this afternoon and then I'm going West. Jim. [Leaving the trunk and walking toii'ard her and hold- ing out his hands.] Now I'm just glad to hear that. Ye know when I heard how — how things was breakin' for ye — well I aint knockin' or anythin' like that, but me and the missus have talked ye over a lot. r never did think this feller was goin' to do the right thing by yer. Brockton never looked to me like a feller would marry any- body, but now that he's goin' through just to make you a nice respectable wife' I guess everything must have happened for the best. [Laura doesn't ansiver, and after Jim has shaken hep hand it falls listlessly to her side. She averts her 75 eyes.] Jim. Y'see 1 wanted to thank you for what you did a couple of weeks ago. Burgess wrote me a letter and told me I could go ahead of one of his big shows if I waned to come back, and offering me considerable money. He mentioned your name, Miss Laura, and I talked it over with the missus and — well I can tell ye now, when I couldn't if ye weren't going to be hooked up — we decided that I wouldn't take that job, comin' as it did from you [slowly] and the way I knew it was framed up. Laura. Why not? Jim. [Embarrassed.] Well, ye see, there are three kids and they're all growing up, all of them in school, and the missus, she's just about forgot show business and she's playing a star part in the kitchen, juggling dishes and doing flip-flaps with pancakes, and we figgered that as we'd always gone along kinder clean like it wouldn't be good for the kids to take a job comin' from Brockton because you — you — well — you Laura. I know. You thought it wasn't decent. Is that it? Jim. Oh, not exactly, only — well you see I'm gettin' along pretty good now. I got a little one night stand theatre out in Ohio — manager of it, too. The town is calied Gallipolis. [With a smile.] Maybe you don't know much about Gallipolis or where it is. Laura. No. Jim. Well it looks just like it sounds. We got a little house, and the old lady is happy, and I feel so good that I can even stand her cookin'. Of course we aint makin' much money, but I guess I'm gettin' a little old fashioned around theatres anyway. The fellows from newspapers and colleges have got it on me. Last time I asked a man for a job he asked me if I knew anything about the Greek drama, and when I told him I didn't know the Greeks had a theatre in New York he slipped me a laugh and told me to come again on some rainy Tuesday. Then Gallipolis showed on the map, and I beat it for the West. [Jim notices by this time the pain he has caused Laura, and is embarrassed.] Sorry if I hurt ye — didn't mean to, and now that yer goin' to be Mrs. Brockton, well I take back all I said, and while I don't think I want to change my position, I wouldn't turn it down for — for that other reason, that's all. Laura. [With a tone of defiance in her voice.] But, Mr. Weston, I'm not going to be Mrs. Brockton. Jim. No? Laura. No. Jim. Oh— Oh— Laura. I'm going to marry another man, and it'o going to be altogether different. I know what you meant when you said about the missus and the kids, and that's what I want — just a little home, 76 just a little peace, just a little comfort, and — and the man has come who's going to give it to me. You don't want me to say any more, do you? Jim. [Emphatically, and tmth a tone of hearty approval.'] No, I don't, and now I'm just going to put my mit out and shake yours and be real glad. I want to tell ye it's the only way to go along. I ain't never been a rival to Rockefeller, nor I ain't never made Harriman jealous, but since the day my old woman took her makeup off for the last time and walked out of that stage door to give me a little help and bring my kids into the world, I know that was the way to go along, and if you're goin' to take that road, by Jiminy, I'm glad of it, for you sure do deserve it. I wish yer luck. Laura. Thank you. Jim. I'm mighty glad you sidestepped Brockton. You're young, and you're pretty, and you're sweet, and if you've got the right kind of a feller there ain't no reason on earth why you shouldn't jest forgit the whole business and see nothin' but a lot of sun- light and laughs and good times comin' to ye. I'm mighty glad 1 come, and the old woman will be just tickled to death. She just feels as if she knew you after I told her about them hard times we had at Farley's boarding house, so I feel that it's paid me to come to New York, even if I don't get the business I was looking at. [Goes over to her.'] Now I'm goin'. Don't forget Gallipolis's the name and sometimes the mail does get there I'd be awful glad if you wrote the missus a little note tellin' us how you're gettin' along, and if you ever have to ride on the Wheeling & Lake Erie just look out of the window when the train passes our town, because few do stop there, and make up your mind that the Weston house- hold is with you forty ways from the Jack day and night. Good-bye and God bless you. Lmira. Good-bye, Jim. I'm so glad to know you're happy, for it is good to be happy. Jim. You bet. [Moves toward the door. She follows him after they have shaken hands.'] Jim-. Never mind, I can get out all right. [Opens the door and at the door.] Gool-bye again. Laura. [Very softly.] Good-bye. [He exits and closes the door. She stands motionless until she hears the outer door slam, then she sinks into chair in deep thought] I wonder why he doesn't come. [She goes up and looks out of the zvindozv and turns dozwi stage, mechanically goes up stage again, inspects all the trunks and bag- gage, walks dozvn stage and sits in a chair, her apprehension and nervousness increasing every moment. She goes up to the portieres and opens them a little.] Annie, are you getting the things together? 77 Annie's Voice. Yes'm I'm mos' packed. [Laura returns to the windoiu and looks out. The hell rings.] Laura. Hurry, Annie, and see who that is. [Annie enters, Xes, opens door, exits, opens the outer door.'] Annie's Voice. She's waitin' for yer, Mr. Madison. [Laura hurries doztm to the C of stage. John enters, hat in hand and his overcoat on, followed by Annie. He stops just as he enters and looks at Laura long and searchingly. Laura instinctively feels that something has happened. She shudders and remains firm. Annie Xes and exits.'\ Laura. [With a little effort.] Aren't you a little late, dear? John. I — I was detained down town a few minutes. I think that we can probably carry out our plan all right. Laura. [After a pause.] Has anything happened? John. I've made all the arrangements. The men will be here in a few minutes for your trunks. I've got the railroad tickets and the license. You didn't have to be there with me. One of my friends arranged that, but Laura. But what, John? [He goes over to her, holds out both hands into which she limply places hers. She intuitively understands that she is about to go through an ordeal. She seems to feel that John has been acquainted with some fact which might interfere with their plan. He looks at her long and searchingly. He, too, evidently is much wrought up, but zvhen he speaks to her it is with a calm dignity and force which so truly shows the character of the man.] John. Laura. Laura. Yes? John. You know when I went down town I said I was going to call on two or three of my friends in Park Row who used to work with me on Western newspapers and who came to New York. Laura. I know. John. I told them what I came East for and my good luck and all that sort of thing, and who I was going to marry. Laura'. WelJ? John. It's pretty tough for me to go through this, Laura, but I've got to do it. They said something about you and Brockton, and when I tried to force something out of them I found ttiat they'd said too much but not quite enough. Laura. What did they say? 7^ John. Just that — too much and not quite enough. One of the boys down there has gone through a lot with me. He was too much of a man to talk a lot, and he knew I wouldn't stand for a great deal. Now we're pa,cked up. and I've got the tickets, and there's a minister over here on Madison Avenue waiting for us. We can get to Chicago to-morrow morning if we go, and the Over- land Limited can get us out of there to-morrow afternoon. You see then you'll be my wife. That's pretty serious business, Laura, and all I want now from you is the truth. Laura. Well? John. Just tell me tha,t what they said, or rather intimated, was just an echo of the past — that it came from what had been going on before that wonderful day out in Colorado when we made our ao-reem.ent. I don't want their word, Laura, I just want yours. We've got to be together all the rest of our lives, and the onlv way we can end right is to start right, and the only way to start right is to tell the truth. Just say to me that all this gossip is ancient history and don't cut any figures with the things that have hap- pened since vou left Denver. \She is silent and almost ready to break dozini.] Dear. I don't want to hurt you. Tell me that you've been on the level, for I've been just as true as a, man can be, and that's the God's honest fact. [Laura summons all her courage, looks up into his loving eyes, shrinks a moment before his anxious face and Speaks as simply as she can.] Laura. Yes, John. I have been on the level, and all that you've heard was just an echo. John. \Very tenderly.] I knew that, dear, I knew it. \He takes her in his arms and kisses her. She clings to him in pitiful help- lessness. His manner is changed to one of almost boyish happiness.] Well now everything's all readv let's get on the job. We haven't a whole lot of time. Laura, vou've got trunks enouofh, haven't you? One might think we're moving a whole colony. \ Turns to her zvith a smile.] And, by the way, to me vou are a whole colony — anyway you're the only one I ever wanted to settle in. I^anra. When do we go? John. Right away. Lve arranged to have the stuff taken over. Tf we can't check it on this train why it will go through some way. The great idea is to get away. Get your duds on. Laura. All right. [John goes down to the L of stage, where a chair is, while Laura starts for her hat and coat toward the por- tieres. John takes out of a side coat pocket the mar- riage license, and with a smile commences to look it over. Just as Laura is about to reach the portieres the 79 outer door slams. She stops dead still and John looks up at her. Her back is to the stage. A iaich key is heard in the door. It opens slozvly and Will enters with coat and hat on. Laura turns around and faces him. He comes in leisurely, paying no attention to anyone. John 7'ises and becomes as rigid as a statue. Will leisurely walks across the stage and afterzvards into the rooms through the portieres. There is a tvait for a second. No one moves. Will re-enters unth his coat and hat off and goes doiim to R of stage op- posite John, sits in a chairs crosses his legs, smiles at the young man.^ Will. Hello, Madison, when did you get in? [Slozi^ly John seems to recover himself. His right hand starts up toward the lapel of his coat and slozvly he pulls his Colt revolver from the holster under his armpit. There is a deadly determination and delibera- tion in every movement that he makes. Will jumps to his feet and looks at him. The revolver is slozvly uplifted in the air, as a Western man handles a gun, so that when it is snapped dozvn zvith a jerk the deadly shot cam be fired. Laura is terror-stricken, but before the shot is fired she takes a step forzvard and extends one hand in a gesture of entreaty.'] Laura. \In a husky voice that is almost a whisper.] Don't shoot. [T'he gun remains uplifted for a moment. John is evi- dently zvavcring in his determiiration to kill, and slozvly his zvhole frame relaxes. He lozvers the pistol in his hand in a manner zvhich clearly indicates that he is not goiup; to shoot. He quietly puts it back in the holster and Will is obviously relieved, although he stood his ground like a man.] John. [Slozvly and in a low tone.] Yon said that just in time. Thank you. \A pause.] Will. {Recovering and in a light tone.] Well, you see, Madison, that what I said when I was John. [Threateningly.] Look out, Brockton, I don't want to talk to you. [The men confront. Will. All right. John. [To Laura.] Now get that man out of here. Laura. John, I John. Get him out. Get him out before I lose my temper and go to pieces or they'll take him out without his help. Laura. [To Will.] Go — go. Please g"o. 80 Will. [Deliberately.] If that's the way you want it I'm willing. [He exits into the sleeping apartment. Laura and John stand facing each other. He enters again zvith hat and coat in hand and passes over tozvard the door. Laura and John do not move. When he gets just a little to the L of the C of the stage Laura steps forzvard and speaks in a low tone and with great stress of feeling.'l Laura. Now before you go, and to you both, now I want to tell you how — how I've learned to despise him. John, I know you don't believe me. but it's true — it's true. I don't love anyone in the world but just you. You're the only decent ma,n who ever came into my life. I know you don't think that it can be explained — maybe there isn't any explanation. I couldn't help it, he forced himself upon me. I was so poor, and you were so poor, and I had to live, and he wouldn't let me work, and he's only let me live one way, and I was hungry. Do you know what that means? I was hungry and didn't have clothes to wear, and I tried, Oh. John, I tried so hard to do the other thing — the right thing — but I couldn't. They drove me. I don't want you to go now. I don't want you to believe that even for a single, little moment you weren't the only say one thing. I love you, and you're the onlv one I ever have loved. John. I — I knev/ I didn't help much, and perhaps I could have for- given you if you hadn't lied to me. That's what hurt. [Turning to Will.] I expected you to lie, you're that kind of a man. You left me with a, shake of the hand and you gave me your word, and you didn't keep it. Why should you keep it? Why should anything make any difference with you? You live here making war on un- fortunate women, beating them down, buying and selling them. Every move and every word you speak is a lie. I don't know where the responsibility of this thing lies, I only know what you've done. You keen your word, you know what a promise means, why, you pup, you've no right to live in the same world with decent fotks'. Now you make yourself scarce, or take it from me, I'll just kill vou, that's all. Will. Don't you talk to me that way. John. You'd better leave. Will. I'll leave, Madison, but I'm not eoing to let you think that I didn't do the right thing with you. When this business came off she came to me voluntarily. She said she wanted to come back. I told you that when I was in Colorado. I told you she couldn't stand the game, and you didn't believe me, and I told you that when she did this sort of thing I'd let you know. I dictated a letter to her to send to you, and I told you the truth in as few words as possible. I left it sealed and stamped in her hands to mail. She didn't mail it. If there's been a lie she told it. I didn't. 8i John. [With a quiet appeal in his voice.] Laura! [She hangs her head and averts her eyes.] Will. You see. Why, my boy, whatever you think of me or the life I lead, no matter how different it is from you, I wouldn't have had this come to you for anything- in the world. [John makes an impatient gesture.] No, I wouldn't. My women don't mean a whole lot to me because I don't take them seriously. I wish I had the faith and the youth to feel the way you do. You're all in and broken up, but I wish I could be broken up just once. I thought I was on the level. I did what I thought was best for you, because I didn't think she could ever go through the way you wanted her to. I'm sorry it's all turned out bad. Good-bye. [He looks at John for a moment as if he was going to speak. John stands absolutely rigid. The blozv has 'hit him harder than he thought. Will exits. The first door closes. In a momnet the second door is slammed. John and Laura look at each other for a moment. He gives her no chance to speak. The hurt in his heart and his accusation are shozvn by his broken manner. A great grief has stolen into his life and he doesn't quite understand it. He seems to be feeling around for something to say, some zvay to get onts. His head turns toward the door. With a pitiful ges- ture of the hand he looks at her in all his sorrow.] John. Well? Laura. John, I • John. I'd be careful what I said. Don't try to make excuses. I understand. Laura. It's not excuses. I want to tell you what's in my heart, but I can't, it won't speak and you don't believe my voice. John. You'd better leave it unsaid. Laura. [Slozdy going down and sitting in a chair at the table* opposite John, looking at him.] But I must tell you. I can't let you go like this. [She goes over to him and makes a weak attempt to put her arms around him. He takes her arms and puts them bacU to her side.] I love you. I — how can I tell you — but I do, I do, and you won't believe me. [He remains silent for a moment and then takes her by the hand, leads her over to the chair and places her in it.] John. I think you do as far as you are able, but, Laura, I'm afraid you don't know what a decent sentiment is. [He looks azvay from her a few paces, gathers himself together, takes another chair, moves it tozvard her, places it back so that it faces her, and then sits astride of it. His tone is very gentle and very firm, but it carries a 82 tremendous conviction, even with his grief ringing through his- speech.} If ever I was in need of a word I am now. I don't know how to say what I want to say, and it's the first time in my life that I've been placed just this way. Laura, you're not immoral, you're just unmoral, and there isn't a particle of hope for you. When we met neither of us had any reason to be proud, but I thought that you thought that it was the chance of salvation which sometimes comes to a man and a woman when they do meet that way, and we loved — I did — wholly, truly, decently. What had been, had been. It was all in the great to-be, for us, and now, now how you've kept your word. What little that promise meant that you gave me out in Colorado when I thought you handed me a new lease of life. Laura. [In a voice that is changed and metallic. She is literally, being nailed to the cross.] You're killing me — killing me. John. No, don't make such a mistake. In a month you'll recover. There will be days when, over a cocktail glass with a lot of folks around, having a good time, that you'll look out across its rim and see me as I was that day when we came together, and you'll shudder just for a moment, and take another drink, and then it'll be all over. Why, Laura, you're as shallow as a sun-dried gulch in the desert. With you it is always the easy way — expediency is your god and you'll worship it until the end. You'll go on and on until you are finally left a wreck, physically and every other way. Just the type of the common women. You'll never make a fight. The wrong way is the easy way. It's your way and always has been — always will be. I pity you, pity you from the bottom of my heart. If you ever had a chance it was with me. You've thrown that away and you'll go down, down, down, until you've reached the very bedrock of depravity. Laura. [Still in the same metallic tone of voice. \ You'll never leave me to do that. I'll kill myself. John. Perhaps that's the only thing left for you to do. Perhaps, after all, that's the only hope, but you'll not do it. It's easier to live. [He rises and takes a step toivard his hat and coat, Laura rising at the same time.} Laura. John, I said I'd kill myself and I mean it. If it's the only thing to do I'll do it, and I'll do it before your very eyes. [She crosses quickly to the desk and takes a pistol from the drazuer. John looks at her a moment with the saddest sort of a smile flitting across his face. He goes to the chair zvhere his coat and hat are, puts his coat over his arm, takes his hat in his hand and starts to the door.] Laura. [Waiting a moment.'] You understand that when you put your hand on that door I'm going to shoot myself. I will, so help me God. , 83 John. [Stops and looks at her.'] Women sometimes work them^ selves into a fit of hysteria and act foolishly. If they had a moment's thought it might be different ; but if you think you ought to kill yourself, and you want to do it in front of me, I don't see why you shouldn't have the chance. [Raising his voice.] Annie, Annie! Annie. [Her voice off stage.] Yes, sir. John. Come here. [Annie appears at the portieres. Laura looks at John in bewilderment.] You see your mistress there has a pistol in her hand? Annie. [Frightened.] Yes, sir. John. She wants to kill herself. I just called you to witness that the act is entirely voluntary on her part. That it is neither desired or suggested by me. Now, Laura, go ahead. Laura. [Nearly collapsing, drops the pistol to the floor.] John, I — can't John. Annie, she's changed her mind. You can go. Annie. But, Miss Laura, I John. [Pcremtorily.] You can go. [Bezvildered and not under- standing, Annie exits through the portieres. In that same gentle tone, hut carrying zvith it an almost frigid conviction.] You didn't have the nerve. I knew you wouldn't. You never squarely faced a situation or a difficulty in your life, and you never will. It's the same old story of evasion. No matter what the cost, just for a moment you thought the only decent thing for you to do was to die. You were quite sure of that, and yet you couldn't go through. I am sorry for you, more sorry than I can tell. [JJe takes a step tozvards the door.] Laura. You're going — you're going? John. Yes. Laura. And — and — you never thought that perhaps I'm frail, and weak, and a woman, and that now, maybe, I need your strength, and you might give it to me, and it might be better. I want to lean on you, John. I know I need some one. Aren't you going to let me? John. I gave you your chance, Laura, but you leaned the wrong way. Good-bye. I — I hope you'll get on all right. [Exit.] Laura. John — John — I [She stands listless for a moment, then turns and walks' two or three steps right dozmv stage, again turns toward the door and her eye catches the pistol on the floor. She goes over toward it fear fid and hesitatingly, picks it up, looks at it, and then very quickly walks* over to the desk, throws it into the drazver, and shuts it quickly. She zvalks back tozi^ards the table, and as she passes she sees her reflection in the mirror. Her 84 hair has become somewhat disheveled, and the m-^ stinct of the woman of this type immediately gains hold of her and she stops and adjusts it. Then she goes dozvn to the chair at the L of the table and sits down. Annie appears through the portieres.] Annie. Miss Laura, ain't you goin' away? . Laura [Suddenly arousing herself, and with a defiant voice \- No, I'm not. I'm going to stay right here. Open these trunks, take out those clothes, get me my prettiest dress. Hurry up [^^He goes before the mirror.] Get my new hat, dress up mv body and paint up my face. It's all they've left of me. [To herself.] They vc taken my soul away with them. Annie. [In a happy voice.] Yes'm, yes'm. , ^ Lmira. [Who is arranging her hair.] Doll me up, Annie. Annie. You goin' out. Miss Laura? i . u n -^u Laura. Yes. I'm going to Rector's to make a hit and to hell with Annie. [Who is by this time zvorking frantically at the trunks.]] That's the way, Miss Laura— men ain't no good nohow ! [Laura s nerve suddenly fails her again, she staggers a little, she steps back, and sinks in a chair next the table. Her hands are clasped between, her knees, her body is bent forzmrd, her eyes are glassy, and the^ crrief is nmnging her heart. Annie m the meantime is busy at her work she has opentd a trunk and laid out a handsome gown, evidenth perfectly contented, and is singing m a low voice Bon^ Bon Buddie, the Chocolate Drop.'' The melody reaches Laura s ears; she shudders.] Laura. Oh, God ! Oh, my God ! Curtain. GOERCK ART PRESS: LEWIS W. GOERCK, 925 SIXTH AVE., NEW YORK CITY 85 -^-■iiSl Zl 360 521 5