PS 2-1 fdnx HoUin^er Corp. pH8.5 ^-;^.V 2 The Secret of Mertoii A PLAY By David H. MacAdam, ST. LOUIS, MO. (Copyrig-ht 1898, by the Author. L. >^^'^.^ < ^'^'V 4<\ ^' THE SECRET OF MERTON. A PLAY. DEAMA TIS FEIitiON^. Sm Hugo Merton. - Hubert Merton, Bertram, Justin McCarty, - Farrone, Maxwell, Mr. Mortimer, Lady Ann Merton, Miss Annette Annesley. Mrs. Seward, . Maria Simpson, Lord of Merton. Half brother to Sir Hugo. Old gamekeeper and senHcnt. An Irish servant. A London detective. A servant. Solicitor. Mother of Sir Hugo. Relative of Lady Merton and resident at Merton Hdl. Old housekeeper. A waiting maid. Ladies and, Gentlemen and Attendants. ACT I. tiCEtiK l.—Lihrari/ at 3Ierton H(dl. Two servants, Maria Simpson and Justin McCarty dusting and (trranging furniture in the library. Maria. No, Justin, that's not it. I care not for dancing, balls and company but, what I like not here is an air of mystery. I never know whafs goingr on. It's a beautiful house, but there's queer people in it, and altho' I've almost grown up here I get more tired of it every day. Justin. Faith, Miss Maria, there's quare people everywhere,- but when the wages and eatin' is good we can stand the quarness. Now here I am, twenty-four years of age and a pretty sound bit of a man if I say it myself {drumming his chest ) and I don't care how quare they be or what whispering and colloguing goes on when I am well paid and well fed and have a chance— My gracious, Maria! What a beauty you are this morning. ( Approaches her amorously. ) Maria. Here, Justin, you hold off. I want no nonsense, now. I say I don't like it and I think— I think I'm going to quit. (Looking furtively at Justin.) Justin. Quit? Not much you ain't, and I tell you, Maria (raising his arm and a.^suming a tragic attitude), if you goes I goes. We moves as a unit — we rises, we falls together. Maria. Shut up, Justin; who gave you a right to talk that way':* What have you to do with me'? Justin. (Throwing down his dusting bru.'^h and wringing his hands.) Hear her! Hear her! 'Evens and earth; what have I to do with her'? Aye, what indeed. But turn it "round, turn it 'round, Maria; what have you to do with me'? Maria. (Laughing.) That's what I said. 2 The Secret of Mekton. Justin. No, no— I mean— it's you, you Maria Simpson, that has to do with me, Justin McCarty. Why, I have no lieart— it's yours. I dream of you night and day. Your my sun, star, moon and queen rose. My — Maria. [Interrupting.) Your granny, Justin; gibberish!^ Your sun, moon, star! You pastoral and most countrytied ass, is that the way they make love down in Ireland? Justin. {Folding his arms and surveying her solemnly.) Miss Simpson, when I speaks love you call me an ass— that's a nice way for a young woman to talk. That's not the way they do in Ireland or any other country where hearts prevail. No, siree! They looks love, they sighs love, they acts love, and so it goes and grows— it isn't made at all. You can't make it, it comes like the fruit and flowers. Maria. Well, well, Justy; don't let's us quaxn-el. I'll take it back. You ain't just an ass, but only a little assish. It's all the same anyhow. I really think I'll quit— honest now— I really mean it. Justin. But why':* Is there anything particular wrong now'::' Maria. Why, yes; everything is wrong. Lady Ann is prouder and stiffer than ever. Sir Hugo stalks 'round like a Black Prince, and poor Miss Annesley keeps her room, and her eyes are red with weeping. The house is like a funeral. It's two months since the old master died and things get worse instead of better. In a few days Mr. Hurbert will arrive and then I suppose we'll all be pack- ing. He, they say, will have a new set. Justin. Have you ever seen this Mr. Hurbert':' Maria. No. and few here have. You see, Justin, the stor-y runs this way: Old Sir Hugo Merton married twice. His first wife was an Italian lady and liked not England, and never came to Mer- ton. She died two years alter marriage, leaving one son, Hurbert. For some reason the old man never brought this boy home, and a year or two after his wile's death he married again, the present Lady Ann. There was trouble between them, and Mrs. Sevard, the housekeeper, tells of bitter quarrels. Indeed, I heard one of them myself. It was shortly before the old baronet's last illness, and in this very room. He used to take a small cup of coffee every night before he went to bed , and it was my business to bring it to him. I came in softly by that side door [pointing) and she, Lady Ann, was standing before him, tall and fierce, and her eyes a flashing and he a sitting in that arm chair a poor, weak old man, and I heard her say: "You will disgrace your own name and the House of Merton if you push aside the rightful heir and instal an Italian bastard as master here." The old man seemed convulsed with passion and cried : ' ' Silence, Ann ! Your foul tongue dishonors a pure and holy memory. Hurbert is my first born and I will protect his rights." I tell you Justin [lowering her voice), if Sir Hugo had not died sud- denly a few days after this, I believe there would have been wild and wicked work to make him change his will. But he was taken away, and except the incomes left my lady and young Sir Hugo, the estate goes to Hurbert Merton, who is now expected to arrive. The Secret of Mekton. :} {A hell riny.'i.) Maria. There! I'm called. You keep still about what I've told you or — {»S7(e runfi ojf.) Justin. [Dnstiny.) Well, what's it all to mc. I does my work and cares nothing for their schemes and quarrels. O, this money, money and pride! How they do corrupt the great! Nothin' but schemeing and plotting and what the prayer book calls "hatred and malice and all uncharitableness." But, 'pon my soul, this young Hurbert comes to a dangerous place if all's true that Maria says — he'd better stay away — but that's hisown affair. But what a lovely lass is my Maria; and when the day comes that I make her Mrs. McCarty, there won't be a prouder man in the British Empire. ( Sinyfi. ) O! Maria, Maria, is a lovely lass, Though she calls her lover an ass, an ass: But her eye is soft when her tongue is bad, And she's learning to love this Irish lad. O! Maria, Maria's a lovely lass — Faith, that's poetry and I am — {Enter Sir Hugo.) Sir Hugo. Close the windows, the air is chill, and leave the room. [Exit .Justin. (Aside.) Bedad, he scowls like an angry bear.] Sir Hugo. {Advances to one of the icindown and looks out on the knvns and woods.) And so a stranger is lord of Merton and all its ancient splendor. A sallow-faced Italian with a soft Southern tongue usurps the station of an English nobleman and my mother — myself — become the pensioners of his bounty. They call this law — the will of my father — whose dotage did destroy his moral sense and becloud the use of intellect. I call it wrong and foul injustice and a libel on the dignity of race by which the false takes issue with the true, and that which should not be is put in eminence and made the thing which is against all justice and common sense. O mother, mother! how poorly didst thou play the cards for so great a prize. [Binys a hell.) {Enter Maria.) Sir Hugo. Tell my Lady Ann I would speak with her. Exit Maria, talkiny to her.-ielf. {Aside.) Humph! He orders me around as if I were a slave. "Tell my Lady Ann!" Why not "please," or "kindly tell?" He looks dark and threatening this morning and yet he's a handsome man, were he not so stern. He needs a woman to soften him. Aye, if he were in love he would be gentler. {Enter Lady Ann.) Lady Ann. Good morning, son.- I thought ere this you were in the woods or had joined the hunt at Briarly. Sir Hugo. Nay, mother; I have no heart for sports afield when we are soon to cut adrift from Merton Hall and must seek shelter in the city's smoke or board and lodging in some English watering place: mayhap, a French resort where cheap cafes abound. 4 The Secret of Mekton. Lady Ann. {Leaning against the carved mantel surveys her son steadily.) Your thoughts do dwell too much on our misfortune and not on means to remedy it. Why should we leave at all? Sir Hugo. (QuicMy and rvith surprise.) Nay, mother. I thought that was settled. When Hurbert comes he will be master here and shall we stay as tolerated guests to watch his rule and defer to his authority where all have done our bidding? Shall we, as base sti- pendiaries, accept a second place and cringe before this foreign- born youth who, by a mad man's act, is made master here? Lady Ann. Hugo, when pride by circumstances is sore beset, then patience is true wisdom— it is the art of waiting— and when confronted by unalterable facts it boots us not to rail against them. We have been rash and passionate, and now 'tis time we did adopt another course. Sir Hugo. [Laughing conteniptuously.) AVhatV Is this my mother? That fierce and most impatient lady who did so furiously contend with my dead father? Another course! What mean you? Lady Ann. [Sternly and ivith emphasis.) I mean to clearly hold in view the end that we desire, and lend our powers to accomplish it. All things yield before the centered and determined will, and when two combine the torrent of their purpose overmasters all. There is but one life between us and supreme succession here — that life may fail. Sir Hugo. Mother! May fail! How? Lady Ann. I know not how, but life is alwaj^s frail and when -its thin and wavering flame meets the tempest of opj)osing will it flickers first and then expires. Why should we flee the coming of this boy? "Tis true, he is the heir by will; but we who should be first stand next, and by right and justice we should be first. He comes here, then, an alien and a stranger, with sacred principles op- 130sing and without a friend to welcome or sustain. The spirit and genius of ovir house oppose, and they have resistless force and never fail to blight the foes of Merton. Let us stay to meet him. Aye, meet him with a smile upon our lips, and words of courtesy. We know not what may happen, but this we "know; that where right and courage are there must be means of vindication. Sm Hugo. ( Who has heen ivalking up and down, stops in front of Lady Ann.) 'Tis strange that my proud mother should counsel such a course. I know not what you mean, and methinks there is strange suggestion in your words. What can change the situation save accident, and that rarely comes when wanted. When think you he will arrive? Lady Ann. This dispatch is all I know. It came this morning from Apsden station. ( Hands him a dispateh. ) Sir Hugo. [He reads.) "London— Thursday— Lady Ann Mer- ton. I hope to kiss your hand on Saturday or sooner. Love to my brother Hugo. Hubert Merton." It is a friendly and a simple note and bespeaks a guileless natiire. Lady Ann. [Passionately.) Yes, words come easy to the for- tune favored. 'Tis dark misfortune that is hard of speech. ' 'Guile- less " say you? An Italian nurtured youth by plotting priests be- The Seckiot of Merton. 5 set, who learned scheming with his mother's milk. Why hath he stayed so long awayV What strange influences did he control to fix his father in unnatural course against your claim and mine, his true wedded wife? Aad now, when sudden death hath decomposed our plans he comes with smiles and gentle words to grasp the place and honor of our native right. A bastard foreigner usurps your station — rises like an apparition of the deep and, smiling, thrusts us down. ''Kiss my hand!'' I would some deadly taint did there attach and he would wither from the touch. Sm Hugo. [Laughing rudely.) Bravo! Bravo! In right royal style disclaimed. That is like the Lady Ann of old. But what say youV ''Bastard!" If that were so we might despoil his claim. Lady Ann. Nay. I speak of my belief, and not what we could prove in court. Sir Hugo. But, mother, it is a harsh and most unworthy term. LAt)Y Ann. We talk alone; and when by passion torn, I am not scrupulous of words. Let it pass — there! I am calmer now. Surely, I must learn self control if I would think out the problem that doth us confront. Yes, it is my judgment that we should await his coming and meet him as relations true. We know not what strange happenings may come to our relief. And now, Hugo, as we do fa- tigue ourselves by painful questioning, let us cease it for the present. Come, Sir; let us ride to Apsden and inquiry make about the London trains. Let Lady Ann and Hugo be seen upon the road and in pleasant guise. 'Tis never well when things are adverse to let the world see it in our action. Sm Hugo. Why, mother! You have not been on horseback for a year. Lady Ann. It matters not. My hand is light, my seat sure. I have not lost the art. Qouie{fondlj), my son. my knight. Order the horses — we will see fair Merton's fields and woods. Sir Hugo. As you will, sweet mother: but, think a moment. He may arrive to-day. This is Friday. Lady Ann. Well, what of it? Sir Hugo. To-morrow is Saturday. What can happen in a day'? Lady Ann. [Ahstraciedh/.) To-morrow! To-morrow! (She wfdks to windoiv and looks out and i-eturns. ) Hugo, it is written: "We know not what a day may bring forth." Let us front the future with a fixed, unmoving eye. Naught to cowards, but all to those who on themselves rely. But, now I must have action — change — order the horses: I will shortly come. • [Exit.) [Enter Mrs. Seward, old housekeeper. ) Sir Hugo. Good morning, nurse: I hope the night was kind to thee'? Mrs. Seward. I am well, Sir Hugo; but the night was dark and windy and the Merton woods did moan, and Arva's stream hoarsely called at times and banished sleep. Sir Hugo. ( Smiling. ) Wliaf? Can it be that you, most saintly 6 The Secret of Merton. and devout old lady, who, sixty years have spent at Mcrton, must sleepless be because a rain-swelled stream bespeaks its trouble on the midnig-ht air? Surely, you believe not in the CLuaint old lines my father often quoted : "When Arva's stream at night doth call, Then danger cometh to Merton Hall." Mrs. Seward. Nay, Hugo; I know not. I know that Heaven rules and that trouble cometh not without its Will. But I cannot rid myself of the folk-lore of this ancient ho'use, and surely, Arva's voice hath been heard of many times when e're a Merton died. Sir Hugo. ( Laughing. ) Aye, and will be heard again, for it hath rapids and, in places, rocky banks, and when the rains do freshen it or favoring winds do blow, the murmm- of its water is heard within these walls. Mrs. Seward. Your father died in summer time, Sir* Hugo, and heat and drought prevailed, but the night before his sudden death I heard the swell of Ai-va. Sir Hugo. Pish! Old nurse, you deal in fears and fancies. Such things are idle and come to those who dream of portents vague and when age or weakness doth disturb the brain. Now, you are a most religious woman and given much to prayer. Often, as a boy, I've watched your long devotions and wondered what a time you spent upon your knees and what good it brought you, for save to live at Merton and be a kind and loving nurse, and guide to its most unruly childi^en, I could see no other fruit. But all the world says prayer brings a blessing; then, Mother Seward, pray now with all your power. Pray, I say, and bring to Merton the aid we need; for darkness closes 'round us. Mrs. Seward. Your brother comes soon? Sir Hugo. Yes — my brother as you call him — I wish your prayers could blight him ere he came — Mrs Seward. Hush! Hush! Dear boy, speak not of an ab- sent brother thus. It may be his coming will a blessing prove. Sir Hugo. Ah, nurse! You ever hope for good though evil cometh oftener — but here's my mother; we will ride abroad like lovers — look, good nurse! Saw you ever a more gracious, graceful lady? ( Enter Lady Ann. ) Lady Ann. (Dressed for riding.) Now, son, I'm ready. Good morning. Mother Seward. Should a gentleman arrive while we are absent, you know your orders. ( Exit Sir Hugo and Lady Ann. ) (^.s they ride off down the <(vemie Mrs. Seward UKitdies them from, the -portico. ) Mrs. Seward. Mother and son! How like and what a noble pair. Yet one is from a stranger stock and lacks the sweeter spirit of the house. She is too proud, and Hugo, too. I do mistinist their future — to learn humility is doubly hard for cold and stern natures, and yet, without it there is no light of heaven — nor sure protection. The SecivMot of MEitTON. 7 Scene II. — Time, fiame duy—aftcrnoon. Pluce, yameJcecper's lodge in the 3Ieiion imods. [Enter Lady Ann in ridiny h(d)il (tnd carrying whip-- just dismounted.) Lady Ann. In evil as in virtue we need the help of others. Man or woman cannot sin alone, for "tis to others we are bad or good. I must now have help in my design, and where better seek it than from this old and trusty friend of Merton. though he bo some- what wild and strang-e. (Enter Bp:rtram. ) Beirtram. Why, Lady Ann! You here and alone! ( He doffs his cap and approaches. ) Lady Ann. Good Bertram, thou lookest hale and well — the years are kind to thee. Bertram. My lady, Merton air is good, and I live a quiet life. "Why should I not be strong? But last week I did outwalk Sir Hugo when shooting on the farther hills, and he did confess it as we reached this spot. Yes, yes ( laughing), this old frame hath vigor left and will have many year — Lady Ann. I have been riding with my son and left him at the crossing of the park. My horse is yonder. (Pointing.) Thou art the oldest friend we have in all the country "round, and T thought I'd like to see thee and grasp thy honest hand once more — before, before we lose the right to thy support. Bertram. Lose the right — the right. How canst that be? This is Merton and I am Merton too, for aye. Lady Ann. Thou knowest, Bertram, of the other son — Hubert. He comes soon and must be master here. We talk not much of our affairs with outside people, but, you are Merton to the core, and faithful and discreet. He comes to-night, perhaps — or, certain, to- morrow. Bertram. I understand, my lady. I know the story many a year, and when I went abroad with master last I saw the boy at Turin. Lady Ann. Saw him! What was he like? Bertram. No more a Merton than a girl born — whom he doth much resemble — a pleasant face with ej^es of blue and thin drawn features. A weak and washy lad whom I thought and wished would early die. And yet, withal, he had some spirit, for he did clasp my hand and looked boldly in my eye: ''And you are Bertram,"' said he, "the man who keeps the woods, at home, and art faithful always to our race."' Yes, my lady, I remember well his words. Lady Ann. Well, it matters not — he comes and Hugo yields his place. Alas! It rends our hearts. Bertram. What? Yields? He leaves not here! Lady Ann. Not quite at first, but, surely, in a little time. By will and law this Italian boy must reign at Merton. Bertram. (Much aqitated.) I had not thought of this — "tis strange and terrible. What? Sir Hugo leave his home and a pal- lid foreigner be lord of Merton? It must not be. Great heaven, 8 The Secret of Merton. lady! — The very stones would rise in insurrection and shake the pile about his ears. Lady Ann. Ah, Bertram, I knew thy honest heart would feel the blow, but — what canst thou doV Bertram. I know not, but I would give my life. Aye, soul itself, if that be more, to save Sir Hugo. My tall and gallant boy whose fierce, dark eye doth show the spirit of his noble line. Why, I've taught him all he knows— to shoot, to ride, to swim and sail the angry waves, and who can equal him? Lady Ann. We cannot help it, Bertram, and must accept the doom. Unless the Italian's life does fail, there's no escape. Bertram. When comes this stranger? Lady Ann. To-day — perhaps to-morrow. We know not yet. Good-bye, Bertram; thy place is sure if we go or stay — I'll see thee later on this matter. Bertram. I'll never stay to see Sir Hugo go. Good day. my lady. Be sure I'll think upon your words, and, mayhap, there'll open some relief. I ne'er saw a wild and rocky pass that daring- footsteps could not cross. (Exit Lady Ann.) Bertram. [Alone.) It is a situation dark and damnable, and fitting outcome to the foUy of old Sir Hugo with that Italian woman. I do well recall that I did warn him. "It is not well, my lord," I said, "to wed this foreign lady who has no English ways and is not fit to rule at Merton Hall," and he was wroth and did reply in scorn and even struck me with his whip, and straight repented and did ask my pardon with true Merton grace — and now he's dead, and comes this foreign son to push Sir Hugo from his seat. It shakes me sore and makes me desperate. God keep this Hubert from my path to-night. [Exit.) (End of first act.) ACT II. Scene I. — Place — Merton woods, near the gavielceeper's lodge — A wild and windy night, with rain. Time — About nine o'clock night. (Enter Bertram. ) Bertram. I cannot sleep and methought I heard a cry amid the raging of the woods. It is no night for poachers, and those abroad must helpless be in this wild wind and rain. Hark! There it is again — a faint halloo, and towards the hazel copse — I'll answer make. (Shouts.) Ah! he replies. Again — I'll light a torch and wave if for a sign. (He lights a pine knot and ivaves it to and fro.) He calls and comes. I hear steps amid the undergrowth. He calls again. (Calling.) This way, now. {Enter a tall young man mth garments wet and torn.) Stranger. Thanks, thanks, my friend. Your friendly call and light hath led me here to shelter, for I am much fatigued and worn. The Skckjot of Mekton. !) Bertram. Who art thou thus to roam the Merton woods at night, when storm and rain prevail^ Stranger. A most unwise, adventurous youth, I fear. I took the |-rass path from the mill at Briarly— they told me there it led to Merton Hall — and so swift the darkness came that 'mid the shadow of the trees I lost it and have been wandering since, with many a fall. But, kind sir, I am cold and wet. Will you not take me in and question afterwards. Bertram. To Merton Hall, you say? What woulds't thou there y Stranger. {Smi.Uug. ) Faith, I want nothing now but shelter and some food. Bertram. Come in. {They enter the lodge together.) Bertram. Here is hot coffee and bread and meat. But, stay! Here are dry clothes and shoes. Stranger. (Having chcmged his outer clothing sits Ijefore the fire and eats. ] I am a stranger in this damp and most inclement clime, and would I ne'er had come. I had business with the Lord of Mer- ton, and as the afternoon was line and warm I thought I'd walk from Briarly, and took the woodland path and so lost my way and caught the brunt of this wild storm. Bertram. ( Regardi'ng him .'iteadih/.) And knowest thou well the Lord of Merton. that thou cumest at this untimely hour and in such solitary guiseV Stranger. Good man, I am much fatigued and sleepy. I feign would rest a while, if thou wilt forego your questions. Sir Hugo and his mother. Lady Ann, are lord and lady at the Hall, are they not? I wish them well and mean no harm to them or any one — but, let me sleep a moment, for I am much o'erwrought. On this settee let me recline — ten minutes rest will restore my strength. Bertram. Aye, sleep your fill; I will go out awhile. ( The stranger lies down and soon falls into heavy slumher. ) Bertram. {Outside.) What strange chance is thisV Who is this guest who comes to me unsought? Great God! Could this be he? Delivered to my hands — all alone, at night, in this place re- mote, with storm and darkness holding all the world, and not an eye to see him come. Could this be he? Then circumstance, or ac- cidence, or Providence, or what the power be that makes occasion for the deed — that speaks by opportunity and not by words — that points in silence and doth lead the way now clearly doth advise and guide. O, Lady Ann! When you didst ask me: "What canst thou do?" Thou little knew of such a chance as this. Ah! Hugo! In all the world old Bertram has best jjower to serve thee now. They call me "mad," these fools around, but I can see a chance. But soft — no error make. I must be sure. He slumbers heavily, and must have cards or paj^ers in his coat. {Enters the lodge anel looks at the sleejjer.) Bertram. It is a noble face, yet delicate and womanish and not unlike the boy I saw in Italy— he hath the Merton nature, too, 10 The Secret of Merton. to sleep secure in sullen, unknown company. It never thinks of danger, and trusts without knowing. But, here's his coat and pocket book. ( Examines papers. ) Bertram. [Starts hack aghast. ) 'Tis so! 'Tis so! My hopes and fears alike confirmed. My God! To think — { Bet veats from the room.) Now, by the living Lord, I saw the crest of Merton, "the antlers interlocked," the name, Hubert. Who would believe it? Was ever happening more wild and strange? 'Tis he, by proof un- doubted — I am distraught to think — to think of such a thing. [He staggers ahout and sobs. ) A foe doth threaten Merton, and Hugo's place by him is claimed — and on a night of storm that foe unarmed and friendless doth rise upon the lonely hearth of Bertram's lodge. Alone — with me who am all Merton, and who, to serve Sir Hugo, would lose a fabled heaven or walk undaunted to the raving mouth of hell. Oh! foolish -sleeping boy, to trust where thou shouldst dread. Oh! Lady Ann — Lady Ann! "What can I do?" You'll see my lady. There's much old Bertram of the iron hand can do to save the House of Merton. But how? I must the means devise. The occasion's made without my will, but to frame the deed within, that's left to me — but where or how? There's the trouble. We want no tell-tale crimson in the woods — nor rotting body '.neath the soil; How, dark Bertram? How? 'Tis a famous night to work the weal of Merton's son. Hear! The storm doth roar amid the woods as tho' the banded powers of the air did wake the anger of the forest, and it did shout its wrath. Oh! 'tis a proper night — all nature con- secrates the deed — but how? That vital question doth recur again. Hark! Hear the winds adown the valley sweep and now, methinks, I hear the ocean's voice its distant thunders add. But, hark! there is at times a murmur on the gust that is not rushing air nor yet lamenting branch. A sort of keen — a hoarse, metallic note contin- uous — that swells and then declines. Ha! I have it now — again! Aye, I know it well — again, again doth night and storm and nature point the way. 'Tis Arva's voice a-calling forth the means. The fierce, dark stream is raging towards the sea. 'Twill sweep great branches and why not a lighter load? All traces vanish where rushing water goes. Ha! ha! ha! I have it now. {Laughing fntn- tically.) Aye, so runs the legend old: When Arva's voice at night doth call, Then danger cometh to Merton Hall. For once we'll contradict the prophecy. When Arva's voice at night doth call. Then cometh aid to Merton Hall. Thanks, thou mighty stream — thou didst call betimes. Aye, Sir Hugo, aid most prompt and sui^e. A blow, or, mayhap, a jjush, and away the stranger goes. Your foe swift seaward swept and not a trace — away to meet the vastness of the sea, and back to Italy perchance — But still the matter m^st be arranged, and how? (He re-enters the lodge.) Bertram. He sleepeth still — a fair young face — a tall and shapely lad, and though neither hair nor cheek is of Merton hue, TiiK Skukiot of MEirroisT. 11 the features and the oval brow are like the race. He wakes — now — (Stranger openK his ci/cs end starts into a sittiny posture.) Stranger. Where am I? Yes, I do now remember. Thou art the forester that gave me aid. Why lookest thou at me thusV It seems as though some care or trouble did disturb thy soul. But, no, 'tis in my eyes — the host that saves and aids is always friendly. Tell me, my man, how far are we from Merton Hall"? Bertram. Scarce half a mile by shortest path. Stranger. And is it late at night? Bertram. No, my master, 'tis scarce ten o'clock. If thou art Sir Hugo's friend I can guide thee to the Hall and it will scarce ten minutes take. Stranger. (Risiny and loidkiny about and stretchinq himself.) I surely am his friend and would wish to reach his home — 'tis late and stormy, but sleep, and food, and warmth have restored my strength and — thou sayest ten minutesV Bertram. Aye, sir, or even less. Stranger. Can we see the lights from hereV Bertram. Nay, the trees obscure — but 'round the shoulder of yon hill you can look down upon the castle. Stranger. (Aside, smiUny to himself.) I wonder if it be too late. It was my fancy to valk in unknown and put my arms around his neck and say: "Brother Hugo, I am here.'* It may not be the way to do in this cold England, but 'twas my humor and in friend- liness devised. This stern-browed man and lonely lodge are poor w^elcome for my father's son. Stranger. Do they retire early at the hall? Bertram. It's midnight ere the lights are out. I know their customs well. Now, and for an hour or more you'll find them in the library — I will guide thee gladly there and would wish you'd go, for I have business in the woods to-night and must leave thee here alone. Stranger. { Laughing.) Ha! it will be famous sport — to walk in like a wraith at night. I'll carry out my adventure. Yes, my friend, my coat and shoes are partly dried — I'll go. Now make ready. Have you a lantern? Bertram. ( Trembling. ) So! Thou wilt go? All things favor. Yes, I've lanterns enough — [They make readij and leave the lodge. ) Stranger. Is the path secure? Bertram. 'Tis easy walking but we have a bridge to cross. Stranger. Lead on, my guide, lead on, and let thy lantern shine upon the path. Surely, "tis seldom such a visitor, in such a guise, did come to Merton Hall. Bertram. Why didst thou choose it so? Stranger. O, it was a boyish notion. I thought to do it in strange fashion. Bertram. We near the bridge—it is narrow and not wide enough for two — 'tis used by woodsmen only. As we step down the bank you must go first. 12 The Secret of Merton. Stranger. It seems a dark and rushing stream — see — the risen water does near the planks o'erflow. Is it not dangerous? Bertram. No; the planks are Merton oak and heavy. Stranger. (He hesitates and looks at Bertram and then adi'ances. ) Well, on I must, but a slip and all is gone and all my hopes — Bertram. ( Aside. ) Then go — they will — here's for Sir Hugo. ( As the stranger steps toxoards the pkmks Bertram strikes him heavil}/. He falls unconscious against a tree which saves him. from the water.) Bertram. Hell's blight upon that sapling, which makes new work to do. I must now pitch him in — ( He stiimhles and the light goes out. ) Bertram. Damnation! — Black as pitch! I must now fire up, or I myself will seaward go — in this slippery mud. I wonder if I killed him with that blow — old Bertram's list rarely missed its pur- pose, with a little lead to aid it. [As he strives to relight the lantern a gas-ping noise is heard.) Bertram. Great God! He's living yet; but in he goes, when I can make a light. (Strikes a match which is blown out hi/ the wind.) Bertram. Curse that blast — I have poor art for hunter born. (Strikes again. Lights the lantern and .sef.s it down and advances to the body.) Stranger. (Faintly.) What has happened? Had I a dread- ful fall? That flash of light— that face! 'Tis old Bertram I saw in Italy. (Calls.) Bertram! Help! Bertram, whisper. (Mutters some words. ) (Bertram starts back and drops the lantern, which is extinguished.) Bertram. (Tramping 'round among the trees as if crazy.) I can- not — I cannot do it — let heaven or hell jjrepare the way and call me on. I cannot do it. He hath called my name and said the Merton sign my master taught me years agone — the sign of distress. I cannot do it. No, never now! Oh! great and dreadful God that doth in light and darkness live, I cannot do it, though Thou didst marshal me and flaming angel beackoned on. Nay! Come what will, he's safe forever now, though cruel hurt has cracked his skull. No — murder's out — let Bertram on a scaffold die — let every knave that does to executions flock, to gloat on misery, behold Bertram hanging by the rope while Merton 's gossips prate of his disgrace. I cannot do it and that's an end. (Comes hack to body and after several efforts relights lantern.) Bertram. He limp and silent lies — he's dead, perhaps, and if it be so, then both to Arva's stream are given. ( Puts his ecw to the chest of body.) Ha! There is a trembling pulse — a faint breathing yet. He lives and may be revived. I will dash some water in his sweet and quiet face. Ah! Hubert, if I've killed thee I will not survive thee long. He breathes a little stronger. Well, we must be going now — damn your flickering flame — I need both hands. (Dashes the lantern in the river. ) If Bertram know not the way through Merton TiiK Secret of Merton. 13 woods, though black the night, then nature be ashamed. Come, boj^ I'll carry thee — as once I did thy father bear when he was hurt by fall 'mid Spanish hills. Come, Hubert, these arms of iron are 'round thee now — to save — (Exit, hcarlvy the body.) Scene II. — Merton Hall — Friday night. Large apartment riddy furn- ished and lighted. Lady Ann Merton seated near fireplace behind screen. Annette Annesley at piano — Sir Hugo standing be- hind her. Sir Hugo. Sing it again, Annette — 'tis a heartbroken ballad but it suits my mood. I never did like merry music — 'tis not the art for laughing and deep vibrating chords and pensive minor notes have ever higher harmony. That sombre German air doth speak the spirit of the present scene and sweeps away upon the wind in cadence sweet — love that lives though lovers die bespeaks a grace immortal. Annette. Nay, Hugo. — Sad songs depress, for love is ever hopeful. Hugo. Hope is boim of circumstance. Who can be glad when all around is dark? Hal Hear that rushing blast which well nigh shakes this mighty house. Annette. You do infect me with your humor — I feel alarmed. ( Eises and goes to the window. ) It is an awful night, the woods are roaring like an angry sea and the rain descends in sheets. Sir Hugo. (Follov:s her and speaking low.) If thou didst love me as I do thee you would not fear while I am near. True love is guard and shield. Annette. (Pointing to the screen. ) Hush, Hugo — such words ill suit the present hour. Your mother knows not. Hugo. She will know in time, and she knows now the Merton motto, '-Steadfast ever." Lady Ann. [Calling.) Hugo! ( He goes towards his mother. Exit Annette) Lady Ann. Our present trouble does crowd all else away, but, be not rash with that young girl. She is no mate for thee, but like a sister is, with whom thy youth was passed. Sir Hugo. But, mother, if I love her as a sister and she's not my sister, then — Lady Ann. My boy, I ever trust thy honor true. Be prudent with Annette— pledge not thy heart when thy hand is bound. Sir Hugo. BoundV How";* Lady Ann. Ask me not now. But tell me.— No word yet? Sir Hugo. No sign, and it is strange. No letter, no disi)atch. Lady Ann. ( With a sigh.) To-morrow he will come. Sir Hugo. Perhaps. We know not. Lady Ann. WhyV You seem in doubt. Sir Hugo. Nay, mother; but somehow I feel relieved. You know you said "we know not what may happen," and now this strange silence and delay. May be something has happened. Be- sides, what must be, must be. The Merton 's are not wont to stand in doubt for lono-. I've my mind made up to take what comes and 14 The Secret of Merton. bear the rest. He is my father's son and it is ignoble to whimper at his coming. He hath a right — Lady Ann. A right? A poor one too — he is no son of mine, and threatens thee. Have I not a right for thee and for myself? Sir Hugo. Thou hast— but, mother, what canst thou do — Lady Ann. {3£usingly.) Naught— naught, I fear. (Pauses.) I rode home to-day by Bertram's lodge and stopped a moment to make farewell. He says he will not stay, should we depart from Merton. Sir Hugo.' He is a fierce yet faithful soul and so steeped in Merton ways that he feels our sorrows as his own. He traveled with my father years ago and now lives alone, still musing o'er the past. And sometimes, so strange he talks, that I've thought his mental balance shakes— but he loves me well. Lady Ann. Aye, well enough to die for thee. ( Bising.) I think I will retire, it nears midnight. Good-night, my son. Sm Hugo. Good-night, my mother dear. I wish you slumber sweet. Lady Ann. Trouble is a foe to rest. To-morrow, Hugo, doth antedate its pain and storm now racks the world. I fear me sleep is swept away. {Exit.) Sir Hugo. Well, things are come to a pretty pass and trouble hovers over Merton Hall; but, come what may, I must needs meet it like a man — (.4 door opens softly.) Sir Hugo. Who is there? [Enter Mrs. Seward. Mrs. Seward. Pardon, Sir Hugo. Has Lady Ann retired? Sir Hugo. Just now — you should have met her in the hall. But why art thou not abed? It is late and the night is wild. Mrs. Seward. The casements shake -with heavy gusts and rain, and I listen and cannot sleep. Sir Hugo. [Jestingly.) I tell thee, my most ancient and super- stitious nurse, that thy hearing will destroy thy health. Why dost thou listen so? Is Arva calling on the wind? Mrs. Seward. ( Solemnly. ) 'Tis even so. Hearken now and thou 'It hear it? [They stand listening. ) Sir Hugo. There's noise enough— the iron roar of storm- swept woods. Aye, I hear! The hoarse, continuous purr of run- ning water when gusts decline. Well, madam, the wind blows from the East, and Ai'va's flood is east of here. Mrs. Seward. Hugo! Hugo! It is an ancient sign— do not mock. ( Wee^nng.) I fear no evil for myself, but for thee or thine. Sir Hugo. We should not fear at all, but travel on whate're betide. But, dear old nurse, I would not see thee weep. The night is rough and dangerous but 'twill wane away as other nights of storm. Merton's mass fears not the rushing air. It is better for thee to be abed.— Good night, good night. I will upon the terrace walk and feel and view the storm. _ [Exit.) The Sfx'ret of Merton. 15 Scene III.— Lady Ann (done—Bed room. Lady Ann. Old Bertram hath a fixed and faithful heart. I wonder could he aught perform. To-morrow comes, nay, is already here, and nothing's done. But there are other days to work. The question is, how can we help ourselves V By what strong- effort can we break the chain and some deliverance reach? How weak we are! And yet they say our wills are fetterless. Ah! could my will to- night flash like lightning through the troubled air, I would use it as a sword — or, as a viewless force to organize the forms I need, and mold events obedient to my wish. That life may fail, so said I to Hugo — why not? Others have and all lives fail at some time. Now, if by will we — [Knocking at the door. ) Lady Ann. "Who calls? Maria. Please, my lady, I have a note. Lady Ann Alas! he comes. [Opens the door. ) Maria. My lady, old Bertram was in the servants' hall just now. He asked for wine, and drank and filled his flask. He seemed quite wild in manner and his dress was wet and torn. He said the storm much damage wrought — he lingered for a while and then he wrote this note and sealed it sure, and said it must reach your hand to-night. Lady Ann. Ah! Leave it there. You'r late afoot. Good night, Maria. Maria. [Aside — retiring. ) Well, I'll ever say that Lady Ann's a lady. She's stift' and proud but, what low, clear voice, and how steady in her glance. Manner is a wonderful art — would that .Justin studied it. [Exit Maria. ) Lady Ann. ( Springs to her feet and opens note, written on a rough scrap of paper. Reads. )— "He will not come. Bertram." Lady Ann. [Transfixed and wild, repeats. ) He will not come. — He will not come. Who will not come? Ah! Heavens! A hope. What dark Bertram says he means — he knows. He — will not come. What does it mean? [Walks distractedly about.) There is but one just now whose coming we do fear, and Bertram knows and says — he will not come. Will — that may mean of choice. No, no — it means he cannot come. Can not? Why? Old Bertram's hand doth shield. But, how? Curses on his vagueness — how? How? My pulses rage and a mist before me rises. But a moment since I sat here hope- less—nothing done and to-morrow here; and now, he will— he can- not come. Our foe is gone and danger's cloud dissolves. Thank God! But, what? Thank who? If he cannot— cannot come, what is it hinders? Can I then say, thank God? How came he by that death? I have not slain him; there is no guilt on us. Ah! [Sighs deeply.) I shiver and yet I burn. What change inexplicable hath o'er me swept. All hope now, and yet— Ha! Ha! [Laughs.) Why trouble as to causes when we enjoy effect? If he cannot come, 'tis very well. We want him not, and— I must calm and cheerful be. 16 The Secret of Merton. Be still, my heart! Rise, Merton 's native courage to its place — {She wanders, muttering, ^round the room and into the corridor.) (Enter Sir HUGO.) Sir HLugo. It is time I should retire if I would sleep at all. Never saw I such a storm — two great oaks upon the lawn are down. Whose form is that? Good Lord ! My mother — Lady Ann. Hugo, is it you? You are very late — Sir Hugo. Mother! In the name of heaven are you mad? Wandering in this chill corridor alone — Lady Ann. Never better, Hugo. My love, he will not — he can- not come. You know, and — O, yes, I'm very well — the night is wild, but I am very calm. You will not Merton leave. (Conies up and leans upon him.) Sir Hugo. Mother — you are disturbed. Your body trembles in my arms. Come, let me take you to your rooms. Lady Ann. Surely, son, I now can sleep, for all is well. {End of i^econd act.) ACT II L Scene. — I. — Sm Hugo. — On the terrace alone, pacing too and. fro. Several toeel's later — time, morninq. Sir Hugo. My mother's health is failing. There is a strange disquiet in her eyes, and she sits for hours in meditation, sad. Of Hubert not a word. He has disappeared — vanished as though his being had dissolved. What can I do? I am afraid to move, to speak or think of him, or inquiry make by letter. He's free to come, and has not come, and from the time of that dispatch from London, we have not heard a word. Fears and suspicions, horrible, arise! Yet I must keep them down. We Mertons must our secrets keep. Could aught have him befallen! And if so, how and where? And then this man from London, who is he? Most like an ^nissary from Scotland Yard, inspired by word from Italy. He strolls the country 'round as though an idle tourist, and I meet him in my rides, and have heard of inquiries made by him. Aye! I will do it. {Enters library, and rings a hell.) {Enter .Justin McCarty.) Sir Hugo. .Tustin, my black horse, "Dan!" .Justin. Yes, sir; wish you a groom? Sir Hugo. No; I'll ride alone. But, stay! Have you a stranger noted in the neighborhood named Farrone? A tall man with short, grey beard and rather clerical appearance? Justin. He stops at the Inn at Apsden, and has twice the castle visited, and walked about the grounds and gardens. Marie Simpson says she met him in the holly walk, and he did courteously salute her, and asked questions about Lady Ann and yourself, and said he proposed calling here. Sir Hugo. Ha, indeed! I heard he wished to see me. Justin {retiring, aside). Since Bertram is laid up with aching bones, I've seen much of Sir Hugo, and he seems a free and gal- Thk SiccRKT OF MrarroN. 17 lant gentleman, whom I like to serve. But when he takes me shoot- ing- he walks me till I 'am nearly dead; and, lately, he has seemed distressed, as if some private trouble did weiy-Ii upon liis heart. He has an anxious air, and — (Enter Maria.) Maria. .Justin, where now? Justin. Sir Hugo wants his horse. Maria. Well, order it. (Exit .Justin.) Maria. .Tustin is promoted since Bertram is laid ujd, and Sir Hug-o takes him shooting and makes of him a daily companion. It's fortunate, for if this Italian heir come not, and naught we hear of him, Sir Hugo's power here is sure, and he may the boy advance. I like Justin; but do I love him':' Yes,' and yet — no. 'Tis hard to say — I love him well enough — to like him, but not enough to marry. Marry! Marry I That's a serious thing. Once married, and then a girl's gone. She must then trust and live upon a man, and if he fails — (Entc)- .Justin, ((dvdnciuy softhi, und puts his «rm 'rnHiul her neck and kisses her cheek.) Justin. But there's no such word as fail. Maria. (Excited <(nd sl((p)jin