^PS 3503 I .fl5587 J 1920 Copy 1 ^enisoris Select Plays by jEindscy OBarbee ^.S.T)enison ^Company publishers • Chicago iDrice 35 cents '^ Plays for Schools and Colleges AARON BOGGS, FRESHMAN By Walter Ben Hare. Comedy in 3 acts; 8 males. 8 females. Time, 21/^ hours. Price, 35 Cents. AFTER THE GAME By Lindsey Barbee. Comedy in 2 acts; 1 male, 9 females. Time, 1% hours. Price, 25 Cents. ALL A MISTAKE By W. C. Parker. Farce-comedy in 3 acts; 4 males, 4 females. Time, 2 hours. Price, 35 Cents. ALL ON ACCOUNT OF POLLY By Harry L. Newton. Comedy in 3 acts; 6 males, 10 females. Time, 2^4- hours. Price, 35 Cents. AS A WOMAN THINKETH By Edith F. A. U. Painton. Comedy in 3 acts; 9 males, 7 females. Time, 2i/^ hours. Price, 35 Cents. AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW By Lindsey Barbee. Comedy in 3 acts; 6 males. 14 fe- males. Time, 2% hours. Prlce,*35 Cents. THE CLASS SHIP By Edith F. A. U. Painton. Commencement play- let; 3 males, 8 females. Time, 35 minutes. Price, 25 Cents. CLUBBING A HUSBAND By Edith F. A. U. Painton. Comedy in 3 acts; 12 fe- males. Time, 2 hours. Price, 35 Cents. A COLLEGE TOWN By Walter Ben Hare. Farce-comedy in 3 acts; 9 males, 8 females. Time, 214 hours. Price, 35 Cents. THE DEACON ENTANGLED By Harry Osborne. Comedy in 3 acts; 6 males, 4 fe- male.s. Time, 2 hours. Price, 35 Cents. AN EARLY BIRD By Walter B. Hare. Comedy in 3 acts; 7 males, 7 fe- males. Time, 2V4,. hours. Price, 35 Cents. THE FIFTEENTH OF JANUARY By Lindsey Barbee. Comedy in 3 acts; 11 males, 10 females. Time, 214 hours. Price, 35 Cents. THE GRADUATE'S CHOICE By Edith F. A, U. Painton. Commencement playlet; 12 females. Time, 35 minutes. Price, 25 Cents. T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 154 West Randolph Street CHICAGO Out of the Stillness Comedy-Drama in Three Acts BY LiNDSEY BARBEE AUTHOR OF "After the Game," "At the End of the Rainbow" "Tht Dream That Came True," "The Fifteenth of January," "The King- dom of Heart's Content, " "Ruth in a Rush, " "Sing a Song of Seniors," "The Spelt of the Image," "The Thread of Destiny," "Tomorrow at Ten," "A Trial of Hearts," "A Watch, a Wallet and a Jack of Spades," "When the Clock Strikes Twelve," "The Whole Truth," "In the College Days," "Let's Pretend — A Book of Children's Plays, ' ' etc. CHICAGO T. S. DENISON & COMPANY PUBLISHERS OUT OF THE STILLNESS 1^ A \ cN O T I C E PRODUCTION OF THIS PLAY ■*■ is free to amateurs, but the sole professional ri^tts are reserved by the author, who may be addressed in care of the Publishers. Moving picture rifehts reserved. ^^ ^^ COPYRIGHT. 1920 (ByT LINDSEY BARBEE ©GI.0 5 5 730 OCT -8 1920 OUT OF THE STILLNESS FOR EIGHT MALES AND NINE FEMALES WITH YOUTHFUL BIRTHDAY GUESTS CHARACTERS. {Named in order of appearance.) Marion Deering To Whom There Comes a Great Experience Bobby Deering Her Nephew AlMEE \ Billy J Virginia / Miles ' « , , , r^. , , ^ Marjory Bohhy s Birthday Guests George \ Betty \ JuNiE y Jane Carroll An Artist Lucy A Maid Mrs. Deering Mother a la Mode Byrne Seymour An Artist Sheridan Blair The Man Next Door Eileen Deering The Would-be Reformer Natalie Deering A Young Widow Alfred Ty^yis... Who Steals Hearts — and Other Things Aunt Lizzie Who Meets the Highwayman Jerry The Would-be Reformed Bess Roberts A Guest at the Dinner Dance Tom Morgan Her Escort Cecile Tevis . . Quick of Wit — and Wily of Stratagem Henry Jerome Who Arrives Unerpectedly Hamilton Whitney Of the Secret Service Scene — A Summer Home. Time — The Present. Time of Playing — Two Hours and Thirty Minutes. 3 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Act I. The hall in Mrs. Deering's country home. A summer afternoon. Act IL Again the hall, but this time facing the stairway. Three weeks later. Act III. Same as Act II. The next morning. (During the act the curtain is lowered for a moment to indicate a passage of time.) STORY OF THE PLAY. Marion Deering, after the death of her brother in France, refuses to be comforted and grieves because death has raised an insurmountable barrier. So mor- bid is her attitude that she even refuses to meet John Carey, her brother's best friend, whom he has met and known overseas. In order to be near her, John Carey, under the name of Sheridan Blair, rents the estate ad- joining the Deering's summer home and becomes in- volved in the mysterious proceedings which subsequently develop. For the Deering house, formerly occupied by a Ger- man agent, is said to contain in a secret hiding place a document of great importance to the United States government. For the possession of this document, Al- fred Tevis, using his friendship with Natalie Deering, the young widow, as a wedge, becomes a member of the Deering house party and begins a systematic search for the treasure, assisted later on by Cecile Tevis, pre- sumably his sister but in reality his wife. Cecile, acting upon Tevis' suggestion that she throw suspicion on Blair, gives a crystal reading; and, relying upon the old tradition of a resident ghost, attempts to abstract the envelope from its hiding place behind the secret OUT OF THE STILLNESS panel. To her dismay the envelope is missing and Tevis concludes that Blair has turned the trick. Next morning Blair declares that, at the request of the secret service department, he has been keeping Al- fred Tevis under surveillance, and, the head of this de- partment subsequently appearing, Tevis and his wife are accused of the theft of the important document, which, as it is soon discovered, is not in their posses- sion. At the crucial moment Jerry enters. Jerry — who has allowed himself to be regarded as a highway- man and who has been engaged as chauffeur by Eileen, Marion's younger sister, an advocate of reform — has been hidden by Eileen in the room which contains the sliding panel, in order to be safe from a pursuing party. Endeavoring to find a means of escape, he touches the panel, detects the envelope and discovers an opening which resolves itself into a passage, leading into the garden — a passage by which the former German occu- pant had made his escape. Jerry produces the paper — and the mystery is solved. In the meantime a great change has come Into Ma- rion's life. At the suggestion of Sheridan Blair, who becomes her close friend, she is made to believe that death is no barrier and that a message can be carried from the spirit land ; and, feeling that Bob is near, she hears his voice and comes into an infinite peace and serenity. Blair reveals his true identity — and wins her love. SYNOPSIS FOR PROGRAM. Act I — The excitement of a birthday party — the thrill of a ghost story — the arrival of the highwayman — and then the stillness of a summer afternoon. Out of the stillness comes — the Voice. OUT OF THE STILLNESS Act II — The music and merriment of the dinner dance — the hiding place behind the tapestry — the pic- ture in the crystal — and, afterwards, the ghost ! Act III — The deepening of the mystery — the hand at bridge — the interference of Blair — the sudden ap- pearance of Jerry — and the unexpected climax. Out of the stillness — comes the blessing. COSTUMES. In Act I, Marion, Natalie, Jane and Mrs. Deering wear pretty summer gowns, Natalie with a large gar- den hat; Eileen wears a sport suit; Lucy, a conven- tional maid costume with white apron and cap. Aunt Lizzie is attired in a linen coat and a small traveling hat. The children all wear dainty summer clothes. Seymour is in black coat, white trousers and turned-in soft shirt; Blair and Tevis are in immaculate summer flannels; Jerry is in riding suit, boots, gauntlets, etc., with a blue-bordered handkerchief prominently featured. In Act II, Marion, Eileen, Natalie, Cecile and Mrs. Deering are in formal evening gowns, Cecile affecting a style much more extreme and more striking; Aunt Lizzie's gown is high-necked, long-sleeved and built more upon the Jrines of comfort than elegance ; Bobby wears a little summer suit with white socks and slippers. The men are all in evening clothes or Tuxedos save Jerry, who wears a chauffeur's uniform. In Scene II, Cecile is in trailing Avhite robe and veil. In Act III, Mrs. Deering, Natalie, Marion, Eileen and Aunt Lizzie are in simple morning gowns. Cecile is more ornate and has a long coat, a hat and veil in latter part of the act ; Jane wears a simple traveling suit. The men all wear summer morning suits ; Bobby is in khaki uniform; Mr. Jerome in Palm Beach suit with Panama hat. OUT OF THE* STILLNESS PROPERTIES. Act I. Piano with bench. Table with lamp, vase, books, etc. Four chairs and a hassock. Telephone stand and chair. Draperies, rugs, etc. Birthday cake with candles for Marion. Tennis rackets for Eileen and Seymour. Book for Blair. Tea cart with pitcher and glasses for Lucy. Traveling bag for Aunt Lizzie. Act IL Tapestry for wall. Tray of punch glasses for Lucy. Paper and pencil for Blair. Money, paper and key for Tevis. Crystal and powder pufF for Cecile. Act III. Table, cards, score cards, pencils and newspaper for Lucy. Garden shears for Marion. Flowers for Seymour. Handbag for Jane. Gun for Bobby. Letter for Tevis. Official envelope for Jerry. OUT OF THE STILLNESS SCENE PLOT. Act I. /7 Chair Window q ^^^ Seat ^pi^gO^^^^^ ChaTrD Acts II and III. Stairs _-, _ Chair D Door r-j . cm Hassock Telephone |uoor| — » Doo STAGE DIRECTIONS. R. means right of stage ; C, center , R. C, right center; L., left; U.E.y upper entrance; D.F., door in flat, or scene running across the back of the stage, etc. ; up stage, away from f ootHghts ; down stage, near foot- lights. The actor is supposed to be facing the audi- ence. OUT OF THE STILLNESS The First Act. Scene : The curtain rises upon a large and exquis- itely furnished hall, to which wicker and chintz furni- ture, rich rugs and choice pictures give an air of unmis- takable wealth and refinement. Conspicuous among the furnishings are a grand piano and piano bench down right of stage, a long table down left with a large chair on one side and smaller chair on the other. A few books, a vase and a handsonw lamp adorn the table, and a rug is thrown over the piano bench. There is a tele- phone table and chair at the upper left of stage, a large chair a little to the left of the stairway which is at the right of the stage, and a hassock at center. Through a large, open doorway with French windows leading into a yard beyond, the sunshine of a summer after- noon creeps in golden radiance. Right of this door which is at center of flat and reveals landscape drop beyond, is a long open window with window seat and hangings of the chintz. Small table between window and doorway. From a dining room left of doorway where a flower- bedecked table is visible, comes a crowd of merry young- sters, following Marion, who bears aloft a cake lit with ten bright candles. Marion is the finest type of Ameri- can young womanhood, possessing poise, culture and an indescribable charm. Although she is gay and ap- parently light-hearted with the children, one is con- scious that underneath it all there is a deep depression. Marion. Make way for the birthday cake ! Boys on one side and girls on the other ! And every one of 9 10 OUT OF THE STILLNESS you may blow out a pretty candle. (Sits right of table with Bobby on right arm of chair, Aimee and Junie on chair at other side of table, Virginia and Betty back of table, Marjory on hassock at center, Billy and George on piano bench and Miles on chair left of stairway.) Who is to be first, Bobby boy? Bobby. Aimee, I think. (Reproachfully.) Ladies first — always. Aunt Marion. Marion. Of course. Then Aimee will try this little pink one right on the edge. Ready .^^ (As Aimee blows.) There! Now, Aimee, suppose you make a wish for Bobby — the very nicest wish that you can think of! Aimee. The very nicest wish I can think of is about a fairy. Miss Marion. Marion. What fairy, dear? Aimee. The birthday fairy who brings a magic gift. Marion. And what is the gift? Aimee. My story book says it's a happy heart. Do you think that the fairy will come to Bobby? Marion. I'm sure she will. This very night she*ll touch his eyes — and his lips — and his hands. Aimee. Then what will happen? Marion. He'll see only the beautiful things in the world — he'll speak only the kindest words — and he'll always be very busy doing things for other people. Billy (rising). But there aren't any fairies. Miss Marion. Marion. No fairies? Why, Billy! Billy. I can't see them — or hear them — or feel them. And I'm not going to believe in anything I can't see — or hear — or feel. Marion. Somebody from Grown-Up Country has been talking to you. And lots of people in Grown-Up Country have forgotten the way to Fairyland. OUT OF THE STILLNESS U Billy (as he comes fonvard and blows his candle). Then I think my wish will be about seeing a fairy, Miss Marion. (Runs back to chair.) Virginia. That's not a real birthday wish and it isn't a wish for Bobby, either. Marion. Then suppose you take your turn, Vir- ginia. Virginia (after she blows). Well, / wish that Bobby will be so good that he won't tease me and pull my hair and break my .dolly! Marion. Bobby ! Bobby! Do you do all those dread- ful things .f* And to a little girl.'' Bobby. Girls make me tired. They can't ever take a joke. Marion (as Miles and Marjory come forward). Here are Miles and Marjory ! (Bobby slips over to has- sock.) Suppose you blow very hard — and both to- gether. (As they blow the candles.) Now, Miles, what wish are you making for Bobby.^ (Miles whispers.) It's such a faint little wish that I'll have to listen very closely. (Leans over as Marjory whispers also.) And Marjory wishes the very same thing. Now, what do you think it is, boys and girls? All. Tell us ! Tell us ! Marion. Miles and Marjory *think it would be just the very nicest thing in the world if Bobby would have another birthday party next week. Aimee. But he couldn't have a birthday party with- out a birthday, could he. Miss Marion? (Joins George and Billy on bench.) Marion. Not very well, I'm afraid. (Miles returns to his chair. Marjory pushes Bobby from hassock. He returns to Marion.) George. And nobody wants a birthday every week. 12 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Marion. Not a bit of it. Birthdays come too often for some of us. Virginia. Ladies forget all about their birthdays. (Emphatically shaking her head.) My — mother — says — so. Betty. Why, Miss Marion, you'd be about a hun- dred million weeks old, wouldn't you? Marion. Undoubtedly. (As George advances.) Next in line, George.? George. I have my wish all made up — and it's a bully one, too. Marion. All right, sir. Out with it! (He blows.) George. I wish that Bob would get a baseball bat of his own. I'm tired lending mine to him. Bobby. Don't want your old bat — Marion. Bobby ! Bobby ! Remember that George is your guest. Bobby. And anyway, I cZi J get one ! (George mns back to bench as Betty comes forward.) Marion. Betty has a lovely wish — I can see it shin- ing in her eyes. Betty (blowing her candle). It is a lovely wish — and everybody will like it. For I'm wishing just as hard as I can wish that we may go out under the pretty trees with the sunshine and the flowers — and the birds — (pauses) Miss Marion.? Marion. Yes, dear.? Betty. The cake is to eat — isn't it.? Marion (laughing). Of course it is. And some- thing tells me that there is lemonade out under those pretty trees. (All start toward door.) Wait a moment until Junie has had his chance. JuNiE (after blowing his candle). Bobby and I both OUT OF THE STILLN ESS 13 want to be soldiers — and we're going to be. And what's more we're going to — fight! Bobby. My father was a soldier — and he fought very bravely. Didn't he, Aunt Marion.? Marion. Yes, dear. And he died for his country just as bravely. Bobby (after a pause). May I make a wish, too.? (Rises.) Marion. Of course you may. Bobby. Then I wish that I may grow up to be just — like — him! Marion (hiding her face on his shoulder^. Oh. Bobby, Bobby! And Jane enters, gay, smiling and possessing the intangible something which marks a thoughtfulness of others. Jane. Don't tell me that I'm too late for the birth- day cake. (Betty and Virginia run to one side, Mar- jory to the other.) Marion. The cake is intact, Jane ; but, like the fool- ish Virgin, you lose out on the hghts. Jane. Your Bibhcal reference is a bit hazy, my dear, but, in the language of the outer world, I get you! (Turns.) Can't I even make a wish, Bobby.? Bobby. Not without a candle, Miss Jane. Jane. But a wish can be a perfectly good wish without a candle, can't it.? Bobby. Try it and see. Jane. Of course I'll try it. (Pauses.) Well— let me think a moment. (Again she pauses.) Has any- body made a wish about the Birthday Town.? Marjory. The Birthday Town.? Jane. Haven't you ever heard about the Birthday Town, Marjory.? 14 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Marjory. Why — no. Jane. Haven't jou, George? George. Never heard of it. Jane. Or you, Betty.? Betty. Never in all my life. Jane. Dear me — what can your mothers and fath- ers be thinking of! Miles {jumping up and down). Tell us, Miss Jane — please tell us ! Jane. Sure you all want to hear about it.'' {They assent.) Well, the Birthday Town can't be described in any plain, everyday words. {Goes to piano.) It has a lovely jingle — all it's own. (Marion stands hack of piano and lifts Junie to piano; Bobby stands hy her; George stands at side of piano, next to audience; Vir- ginia, Marjory and Aimee sit on floor at Jane's left; Betty stands at her right and Miles and Billy back of her. Jane recites to a musical accompaniment.) Have you ever heard of the Birthday Town — that is near the River of Time.? In the magical, mystical Land of Youth, next door to the Grown-Up Clime.? There are millions of rainbow-colored toys — There are whiling, beguiling, childish joys — There's a rollicking, frolicking time — and it's all for the birthday girls and boys. There are fairy flowers, There are elfin bowers. There are golden hours In the Birthday Town. There are Merry-Go-Rounds that never stop — there's a wonderful sugar-plum tree ; There's a musical chime of happy hearts — there's a glimmering, shimmering sea OUT OF THE STILLNESS 15 With thistledown roseleaf ships that gleam Like fairj smiles in a quiet dream, While a whizzying, dizzying Man-in-the-Moon rides down on a slanting beam. There's a golden haze, There's a mystic maze, There are cloudless d^iys In the Birthday Town. (As she finishes the second verse she rises from the ■piano and says, "'Join hands, hoys and girls, and well go out under the trees."' Then she takes Bobby's hand and leads a xmnding march and the children follow, hand-in-hand in a long line. As they march she con- tinues') And how do we reach the Birthday Town — why, we follow the httle Years As they beckon us on and on and on away from the Grown-Up fears — Through a glistening mist of silvery gray. Their clarion call rings sweet and gay. Like dancing, glancing will-o'-the-wisps they lead us along the way. Oh there's endless youth, And there's childhood truth. And there's love, forsooth. In the Birthday Town. And, at the last, she leads them all through the door- way and into the yard beyond. IMarign stands at the doorway looking after them as Mrs. Deering enters from the dining room. She is faultlessly attired, prop- erly conventional and naturally a little hard. INIrs. D. Bobby's party seems to be a success if one may judge from the attendant noise. (Sits right of table. ) 16 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Lucy enters from dining room and carries cake out- doors. Marion {turning). I hope so. Birthdays should be the very brightest spots upon the background of one's vanishing youth. {Sits on arm of chair right of door.) Mrs. D. And, fortunately, a child forgets. Marion. Bobby has not forgotten, mother. Mrs. D. Then it is because you force him to remem- ber. Death, to a child, is merely an incident, painful at the time, but soon merging into oblivion. Marion. Surely his father's heroic death is more than an incident. Mrs. D. Yet thousands died in the same way. The boy has his life to live — and we have ours. Marion. I cannot understand you, mother. There is not a moment in the day when I do not think of Bob — his care, his unselfishness, his splendidness. There is not a moment when I fail to realize that he is — gone. Mrs. D. I am his mother, Marion. Surely a mother, as well as a sister, has some claim to grief. Marion. You suffered in your own way — but not in mine. Bob was not to you what he was to me. Mrs. D. Robert was a dutiful son — he fulfilled all my expectations, I gave him willingly to the country — I am proud of the way he died. Naturally, I feel his loss, but I refuse to allow it to shadow my existence. What has happened is beyond my control ; accordingly, as I said before, I have my life to live and it is my privilege to live it in the way that will bring most hap- piness. Marion. You never understood him. Mrs. D. Perhaps not. You must remember that he gave his affection — unreservedly — to you. OUT OF THE STILLNESS. 17 Marion. But you never invited his confidence — and — apparently — did not desire a closer tie. Mrs. D. Certainly not. I am not demonstrative, Marion, nor am I sentimental. I have allowed you chil- dren everything in the way of money, travel, education and social advantages. What other obligation rests upon me? Marion. Bob craved more than that. Mrs. D. Which you doubtless gave him. Marion. Oh, I did — I did! There was nothing which we did not share — Mrs. D. To the exclusion of his wife. Marion (scornfully, as she rises). Natalie! What sympathy, understanding, consideration and love did she ever give him ! His money and his good looks charmed her — and, as for him — well, it was the mistake of his life. (Crosses and sits on the piano bench.) Mrs. D. You're speaking from the standpoint of a jealous sister. Marion. Oh, no, I'm not. I should have been happy in his happiness. Mrs. D. Natalie was the belle of her own particular set, and Robert was counted very fortunate to win her. Marion. You urged it, mother — you know you did. Mrs. D. Naturally. She had her own fortune ; she possessed a social grace — Marion. And being a good wife and mother has never entered into her scheme of existence. Mrs. D. You are unfair to Natalie. Marion. Perhaps I am. You see, I am judging her by sins of omission. For Bob was everything to nic — Mrs. D. And to her. Marion. Do you think so? Then how do you ex- plain her apparent forgetfulness at the present time? 18 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Mrs. D. She was very conventional after his deatii. She wore her mourning for the proper length of time. Marion. It was very becoming. Mrs. D. And rigorously absented herself from any social function. Marion. For which isolation she is now compen- sating herself by a round of gayety. Mrs. D. You cannot expect Natalie to forego all pleasures. She is young — fun-loving — and attractive — Marion. To the men. You've said it all. Mrs. D. Don't repeat such a remark to one who might judge more harshly than I. The natural infer- ence to a stranger would be — that you are envious. Marion. I think not. Even a stranger would real- ize that Natalie and I have different standards, {^b- ruptly,) Who is this latest dangler? Mrs.' D. Alfred Tevis is his name. He is exceed- ingly charming, evidently fascinated with Natalie — and I can seen no reason why we should not have him as a guest. Marion. I don't like him — and Natalie is flirting outrageously. Mrs. D. Again let me remind you that you are un- fair to Natalie. Marion. Then she is unfair to Bob's memory. Mrs. D. Natalie is a good daughter-in-law, Marion. Marion (rising). And I wish to be a good daughter, mother. (Crosses to Mrs. Deering.) Mrs. D. Then don't be morbid. Marion. I'm not morbid — and I never intrude my grief. (Stands in front of doorway with back to audi- ence. ) Mrs. D. Then — forget. Enjoy the gay times with other young people— enter into every festivity — even OUT OF THE STILLNESS 19 fall in love — and marry. Life will seem very different to you and you will find that there is a cure for every sorrow. Marion. There is no cure for mine. Oh, it seems cruel — cruel — that only Bobby and I should remember — or care! (Crosses to right of stage.) Enter Jane from doorway. Jane. Such a happy lot of kiddies I never saw ! {Comes to Mrs. D.) And — oh, such a wonderful old home, Mrs. Deering ! How lovely of you to let me en- joy it with you. {Stands hack of Mrs. Deering's chair.) Marion {turning) . Your artistic soul loves beauty, doesn't it, Jane? And your hard-working self needs a rest. I'm glad you can be here with us, even for the few short weeks you promised. Mrs. D. {complacently). It is a beautiful place — and will make a satisfactory summer home, I think. I find that the right sort of people is all about us^ and that is alwa3^s such a relief. Jane. Who are your neighbors.^ Mrs. D. The Stuyvesants are on one side. Of course you know the Stuyvesants. (Jane nods.) Then the house be^^ond them has been sold to some wealthy stran- ger who has not yet taken possession. Jane. And your other next door neighbor.? Mrs. D. Is a Mr. Blair. He has rented the house for the summer and is engaged in some scientific work I understand — so he won't bother us. I dislike to have a rented estate so near, but there is always the chance of its being sold to a permanent occupant. Jane. How did you happen to purchase the place.'' {Crosses and sits on the piano bench.) Mrs. D. My lawyer heard of it and I really obtained 20 OUT OF THE STILLNESS it at a bargain as the owner was exceedingly eager to sell. Marion. Originally, it had a history, I'm told. It even claims a tragedy — and a subsequent ghost. {Sits left of stairway.) Mrs. D. All utter nonsense. Marion. Of course — but I'm just repeating the gos- sip. But one thing we do know. Jane. And what's that? Marion. That the Hunters, who sold it to us, took possession after the notorious Von Holz had precipi- tately, and at the instigation of the government, de- parted for his native land on the Rhine. Jane. I don't remember about him. Marion. He was, in reality, one of Germany's big men — delegated to special work in America. He lived here as a recluse accumulating such information as he could; and just as the government was about to lay its finger upon him, somebody warned him and he escaped. Jane. Leaving, I suppose, a valuable document ly- ing carelessly about. Marion. If so, nobody has yet discovered it. Jane. Then this is our chance to make the discov- ery. Wouldn't it be thrilling to hold Germany in the hollow of one's hand.? Mrs. D. (rising). Too thrilling even to think about. Suppose you two discuss it while I pay my respects to the birthday party. (Goes out doorway.) Marion (rising). Jane, am I morbid.'^ (Sits by Jane.) Jane. Not morbid — but frightfully unhappy. Have you ever stopped to think that — whatever trouble has come to a person — she has only to stretch forth her hand to grasp some happiness in the world about her.'' OUT OF THE STILLNESS 21 Marion. That's a theory — not a fact. Jane. But it is a fact. Marion. Not for me. Jane. Then you have taken an unnatural attitude, Marion, and Bob would be the last to wish it so. Marion. Bob seems so far away — he, who was the nearest — and dearest. Jane.. But he should still be nearest — and dearest. Marion. I can't understand it, Jane. (Pauses.) Just before he sailed for France he said — with a little catch in his voice — for we were thinking of the same thing — "Sis" — dear old Sis — do you think that a little thing like death can separate us?" But it has — it has. Jane. Death is no barrier. Marion. You see things differently, Jane. Jane. Why shouldn't I.^^ If you had been overseas as I have been ; if you, too, had watched scores of brave young fellows meet the great adventure, you would feel — with me — that they have simply slipped across the border. Marion (rising). Bob is gone — gone — that is all I can realize — all I can comprehend. (Crosses right of table.) Jane. Would it not help to see John Carey — to hear him tell of Bob.? Marion. Never — never. Jane. John Carey was Bob's best friend — his com- rade — he was with him just before the end. It seems to me that your greatest comfort would come from him. Marion. John Carey is only a name to me — I never saw him — Bob met him overseas. Why should the sight of him remind me that he is spared — with life and hope and love before him — and that Bob is — dead. 22 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Jane. That's a wrong and an unworthy view to take of it, Marion. Marion. But I can't help it. Jane. Has he written — lately .^^ Marion. Yes. Jane. He still wishes to see you.'^ Marion. Yes. (Pauses.) And, once again, I have refused. Jane. I'm sorry. Marion. Perhaps, I'm wrong — and I know I am ungenerous. Jane {rising). Because you haven't yet learned the great lesson of the war. {Joins Marion at center.) Marion. And that — Jane. You must find out for yourself. {Places an arm around Marion.) In the meantime, watch the kid- dies at play ; the sunshine will do you good. Marion {smiling). And a few sunbeams may come my way. {As Jane kisses her.) You're hoping that — aren't you, Jane.^ Jane. Indeed I am. (Marion passes out the door- way. Hardly has she disappeared when Jane quickly makes her way to the telephone and seats herself.) Oakland 74 * * * I have left the book on your side of the hedge * * * it will serve as a sufficient excuse for your appearance * * * any time this afternoon. {Hangs up the receiver and seems absorbed in thought.) Seymour appears at doorway, twirling a tennis racket, very pleasant to behold in his summer flannels, and impressing one with his grace of bearing, his charm of manner and his gift of an artistic temperament. For a moment he stands unnoticed by Jane and gazes quiz- zically at her. Seymour. If I had my palette, Jane, I'd paint you OUT OF THE STILLNESS 23 as Meditation — a stern and determined Meditation. You look as if you had just settled a human fate. Jane. Perhaps I have — who knows? And why haven't you your palette, Byrne Seymour? (Crosses and sits on arm of chair right of table.) Seymour. Because, in my present frame of mind, a tennis racket is much easier to hold. (Sits on has- sock.) Jane. Isn't there ever to be another frame of mind.f^ Seymour. Meaning — Jane. Your art. I've known you too long and too well, Byrne, not to protest against any weakening of your ambition. Seymour. Ambition doesn't necessarily mean talent — nor does it always bring success. Jane. But it signifies a loyalty to one's ideals — and a sincere effort to realize them. Seymour. I am a slacker, Jane — I'll be honest with you. (Pauses.) And I'll never go back to art. Jane. And why? (Sits in chair.) Seymour. I can't — that's all. After the hospital — Flanders — and the hell of it all — art seems a trivial — an impossible thing. And — my hand has lost its cun- ning. Jane. You shall not say it. Seymour. It's no use for you to remonstrate, Jane — for not even you can pull me out of this black hole of depression which follows the memory of trench, wounds and battlefield. Oh, I don't show it, I know — but it's there. Jane (leaning forward). Will you listen to me? Seymour. Haven't I listened to you since the Art League days when we hoped and slaved and starved to- gether? 24 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Jane. But they were happy days just the same. Seymour. Weren't they, though? Do you remember the funny httle lunches with never enough to go round? Jane {eagerly). And the day you sold your first picture ! Seymour. And the concerts in the topmost seats of the topmost balcony? You've come on since then, Jane, and your little old scrawl means something to the liter- ary light who wants his books to bear the best illustra- tions. Jane. And 30ur pictures have a technique and a vision which few young painters achieve. Seymour. Nonsense ! Jane. Oh, but it isn't nonsense. Do you know who said that very thing? Merton. And you must admit that Merton is the greatest of our art critics. Seymour. Did he really say it? Jane. He really did. Now — with the knowledge of such a tribute — can 3^ou say tliat your hand has lost its cunning? Seymour. But that was my work before the war. Jane. And the war means readjustment — that's all. Seymour. I'm not so sure of that. Jane. But I am. Your beauty-loving soul has been paralyzed by the ugliness of war; your incentive has seemingly been lost; but, now that the horror is gone, you mu: t force yourself back to the old perspective. Seymour. Even with talent and a possible future there are years and years of struggle and poverty to an artist who does not possess some magic influence to push him into the limelight. Jane. Exactly. I'm taking care of all that for you. Seymour. And how — oh Wise One? Jane. You may not Hke what I'm saying to you. OUT OF THE STILLNESS 25 Seymour (laughing). It won't be the first time. Jane. But, Byrne, I do want things made easy for you — I want to see you achieve fame and happiness unhampered by the problems of everyday existence. For you're on the road to something great if you'll only take the right turn. Seymour. And the right turn.'' Jane. Is to marry. Seymour. Marry 9 (Rises.) Great heavens, girl, even if I had the money I couldn't do that. Remember that "he travels the fastest who travels alone." Jane. Not always. For you must marry some one who can give you this very influence you need and de- sire — the influence which will push you into the lime- light. (Pauses.) I've even chosen the girl. Seymour. Who.? Jane. Marion. Seymour. Marion? Jane. Why not? She is the very one to inspire you. She is appreciative of genius ; she knows those who can be of inestimable service to you. In short, she could provide the very atmosphere you need. Seymour. But I'm not in love with her. Jane. Not now, perhaps. But it will be very easy to love Marion — and to love her sincerely. Seymour. And I'm the last man on earth she would care to marry. Jane. I'm not so sure of that. Marion is very lonely since Bob's death; she needs just such love and protection as you could give her. Seymour. Hang it all, Jane! You're going too far. I'm not a cad. Jane. Of course you're not. (Rises.) 26 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Seymour. And even the suggestion is unfair to Marion. (Crosses to loioer right of stage,) Jane. Naturally, unless jou can grow to love her. Marion enters from doorway. Jane. Dear me! Surely the party isn't over. (Stands hi front of table.) Marion. Not a bit of it. I'm sent to tell you that a portion of the birthday cake is waiting you if you hurry. (Crossing to Seymour.) Why so serious, Ra- phael ? Seymour. Jane has been lecturing me about my future. Marion. Futures are uncertain quantities. Best not bother about them. Jane. Except when one is about to paint a picture. Marion. That does make a difference. What's the subject, Byrne.f^ Seymour. Suggest one. Marion. War, of course. (Bitterly.) The face of a fearless, splendid youth — and against the back- ground the shadow of a Prussian helmet! (Turns and walks back stage.) Jane. Oh, no — no ! Rather make War a tall, ma- jestic figure, behind whose somber robes one glimpses blue sky, golden sunshine and quiet happiness. Enter Blair from doorway. He is striking in ap- pearance — of a dignified reserve — which makes his lighter moods all the more attractive. Blair. Pardon my intrusion — but I am looking for Miss Deering. Marion (coming forward). I am Miss Deering. Blair (coming forward). Then I have the satisfac- tion of returning what I am sure is a most cherished OUT OF THE STILLNESS 27 possession. {Hands her a hook •which he is carrying.) Bj some strange fancy it found its way to the other side of the hedge which divides your grounds from mine. I am Sheridan Blair, Miss Deering. Marion {offering her hand). Then tb.e lost book has been instrumental in introducing neighbors, hasn't it.? Though how it was spirited to your domain I can- not imagine. Blair. Perhaps one of the human fairies on your lawn is responsible. Marion. It's quite possible. {Turns.) jNIiss Carroll and Mr. Seymour — Mr. Blair. {They all acknowledge introductions and Blair gives Jane an understanding look.) And as it is about tea time, you must begin to be neighborly by becoming acquainted with us all. Blair. It's a temptation — but my car is waiting and I must not linger. Another- afternoon, if I may. Marion. We shall be glad to see you at any time. Blair. Then may I share a sunset with you? {Crosses to doorway and looks off stage.) The view from this spot must be quite wonderful. Seymour. So wonderful that it beggars description. Marion. Are you motoring for any length of time, Mr. Blair? Blair. Only for an hour or so. Marion. In that case you will return when the sky is most gorgeous — so do not hesitate to take posses- sion of the grounds and make the most of the color scheme. Blair. You are very kind and I shall take advan- tage of the suggestion. {Bows.) Goodbye. Marion. Goodbye. And many thanks. {Exit Blair at left of doorzmiy.) Seymour. I like him, Marion. 28 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Marion. So do I. Jane. And do you suppose I've stayed so long that my piece of birthday cake is forfeit? Marion. I can't promise — but I advise immediate investigation. As Jane goes out right of doorway, she collides with Eileen, who rushes frantically in. Eileen is a noisy little whirlwind, impetuous, lively and impish. Eileen {shaking Marion). Who — is — the — man? Marion. Our next door neighbor. He returned a book which had mysteriously been transported to his yard. {Lays hook on table.) Do you approve of him? Eileen. Approve? He's heavenly. And it will be such a relief to have a real man about. Seymour. Great heavens, Eileen — spare a fellow. As I've been a guest for some days and very much around, that remark makes me squirm. Eileen. But you're a genius, Byrne, and a genius is never a real man. {Stands left of stairway.) And next, Mrs. Deering enters — hurriedly and evi- dently excited. Mrs. D. {going to Marion). Who — is — the — man? Marion {laughingly). Our next door neighbor. Mrs. D. What was he doing here? Marion. Kindly returning a book of mine which he found on his side of the hedge. Mrs. D. He's very distinguished in appearance. Eileen. Wliich means that he wears good looking clothes. Mrs. D. Don't be flippant, Eileen. {As she touches hell hut ton right of doorway.) It seems there's one worry after another today Eileen. What's the latest? OUT OF THE STILLNESS 29 Mrs. D. The chauffeur has left. Marion. No particular trouble, I hope.^ Mrs. D. Words with the gardener — and I haven't the slightest doubt that this minx of a Lucy fanned the flame. Eileen. Never mind. I know of another chauffeur. One of the girls has a perfect treasure whom she wishes to hand over for the summer. (Crosses to table.) Shall I call her up.'^ Mrs. D. I've already telephoned the city — but an inquiry on j^our part will not be amiss. (As Lucy enters from dining room.) You may serve iced tea, Lucy — and we'll have it here. Lucy. Yes, Mrs. Deering. (Goes to dining room. Lucy, by the way, is small and coquettish and wears a bewitching apron and cap with her severely plain black gown.) Mrs. D. (seating herself in chair right of doorway). What makes it particularly annoying is the fact that Aunt Lizzie is arriving this afternoon. I've been forced to send a hired car for her — and such a proceeding will not meet with her approval. Eileen. Aunt Lizzie! I'd forgotten all about her. Hadn't you, Marion? (Sits right of table.) Marion. I'm afraid I had. (Glances at watch.) She should be here now. Mrs. D. Something has happened, I'm afraid. Marion. Don't worry. The train is late — as usual. That's all. If you people will excuse me I'll rest a bit — and finish a letter that must go tonight. Eileen. It isn't fair to leave Aunt Lizzie to us. Marion. Then save her for me. (Goes up stair- way,) 30 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Seymour (sitting on piano bench). Who is Aunt Lizzie ? Eileen. The family skeleton, Byrne. Not really a skeleton — but you understand. Mrs. D. Eileen! Eileen. And the reason we don't shut her up in a closet is because of her bank account. Her bones may not rattle — but her dollars do. Mrs. D. (with dignity). Miss Deering is the sister of my husband, Byrne. She is a bit sharp-tongued and a trifle eccentric — but in spite of it all a very estimable woman. Eileen. Being an artist, Byrne, you can make a mental picture. Sharp-tongued, eccentric, estimable — but wait until you meet her! Enter Natalie and Tevis — Natalie, dainty, co- quettish and very aware of her own charms; Tevis pol- ished, courteous and of winning personality. They stand in the doorway. Seymour rises. Natalie. Dear me ! I hope we're not late for tea. (Crosses to chair left of stairway and seats herself. Seymour sits.) Mrs. D. On the contrary, you're just on time. I had begun to fear that the birthday party had proved too attractive. Tevis (crossing and standing by Eileen). Lemon- ade and cake are a bit too ambrosial for husky mortals like me. Natalie. The party was a wee bit depressing, after all. For it is rather overwhelming to realize that I am the mother of that big ten-year-old boy. Tevis. I haven't reached tlie point of realizing it. You must have drunk deeply of tlie fountain of youth. Eileen. The re^l fountain of youth belongs to a OUT OF THE STILLNESS 31 prehistoric age, Mr. Tevis. Nowadays, its substitute comes in small, beauty-parlor boxes with a war tax! Natalie (rising). Eileen, do you mind changing places with me. The strong Hght gives me a headache. Eileen (rising). Of course I'll change. I like to sit in a strong light because it proves that, as yet, I have acquired no wrinkles. (They change places.) Seymour. Don't boast, young lady. Your time will come. Eileen. I hope so. I'd hate to reach the legitimate wrinkle age and not have what's coming to me. Tevis. Rather an original view of the matter — isn't it, Seymour.'^ (Brings telephone chair and places it at Natalie's right.) Seymour. No more original than the perpetrator of the remark. Mrs. D. Originality seems hardly the term to apply to the vagaries of a would-be reformer. Tevis. And who is the would-be reformer.'^ Surely not Miss Eileen. Natalie. The very one. Her first attempt had to do with the Board of the Orphan Asylum. (Pauses.) Fortunately, she escaped w^ith her life. Eileen. And the entire approbation of the orphans. Don't forget that, Natalie, if you insist upon acting as publicity committee. Natalie. Her next achievement was a campaign in the interest of good roads — she even stumped the neighborhood. All she gained was an unappreciative audience, a broken car, a fractured disposition — Eileen. And experience. Don't forget the experi- ence. I haven't. Tevis. By Jove, Miss Eileen, you would have hast- ened the victory of the English suffragettes. 32 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Seymour. Why worry about anything so far away when there is a perfectly good Prison Reform Bill which needs agitators. Eileen {excitedly). Really, Byrne? I have some corking ideas upon Prison Reform. Seyimour. Then why not hand them on to the proper parties ? Eileen. I'm afraid they wouldn't listen. Tevis. Too far advanced for them? Eileen. Something like that. You see, I believe that the only way to manage a criminal is to treat him as if nothing had happened ; to make him feel that he is trusted ; to instill the right principles ; to recognize him as a social equal. Tevis. Mrs. Deering, I shall contend that your daughter is original. Mrs. D. After that speech — who wouldn't? Seymour. My dear girl — in the immortal words of the poet — it can't he did! Eileen. Oh, but it can. {Excitedly.) Would that fate would send me a criminal of my own to reform I {Rises.) Mrs. D. {in an annoyed tone). Really, Eileen, this is carrying matters a bit too far. Natalie {plaintively). It's an age of progression — isn't it? And I am so dreadfully old-fashioned! {Sighs.) There seems to be no place for the quiet lit- tle woman who loves her home, her household duties — Eileen {slily). And her fellow man? {Sits on the arm of her chair.) Tevis. Isn't there? {Leans forward and rMspers.) There is for me. % * Enter Lucy with tea cart hearing tall pitcher of iced tea; also glasses and spoons. OUT OF THE STILLNESS 33 Mrs. D. Natalie, will you serve? (Lucy wheels cart to Natalie, and, after serving everyone, goes out at dining room.) Tevis. Your country home is a marvel of beauty, Mrs. peering. Rarely— even in England— have I seen anything more stately and more picturesque. Mrs. D. What gratifying praise, Mr. Tevis— es- pecially so, since I value your opinion. You have lived abroad.? Tevis. Off and on. I am rather a vagabond, I fear. Eileen. In the war, of course. Tevis (Ughtly). Who wasn't in the war! Seymour. Now that we are once more settling down to normal existence, perhaps America will prove at- tractive enough to claim you as a permanent citizen. Tevis {xdth a glance at Natalie who becomes con- fused). I fancy it will. ^ Eileen. Watch out, Natalie ! Those glasses are rat- thng like castanets. Seymour. Have you heard of the family ghost, Tevis ? Tevis. Don't tell me that this perfect place is sad- dled with a ghost. Natalie. But it is. The ghost of a long-ago maiden who killed her lover. And it's said to appear only before disaster descends upon the house. Grue- some, isn't it.? ^ Eileen. Being haunted by a thousand ghosts isn't equal to the contamination of one German. Tevis {quickly). A German? Now we are getting down to modern times. Mrs. D. This German was a former resident of the place. T.he government disturbed his meditation — and he left unceremoniously. 34 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Tevis. Captured, of course. Mrs. D. Unfortunately not — though the h'ouse was surrounded. His escape has been something of a mys- tery. Eileen. Sounds Hke an underground passage to me. Wouldn't it be fun to find his bones along the way? Natalie (placing her glass upon carty. Suppose we change the subject — it's getting on my ner\^es. (Rises.) I'll be chief exorciser and relegate the trait- ors and the ghosts to their proper habitation. (Crosses to piano bench as Seymour jises, crosses to Mrs. Deering and places her glass and his upon cart. ) Tevis (after placing his glass upon cart). What can a Dresden shepherdess have to do with traitors and ghosts? (Follows Natalie.) Eileen (as she crosses to tea cart with her glass). You're always calling Natalie names, Mr. Tevis. Tevis (standing by Natalie who seats herself iipcrn bench). I don't understand. Eileen. Night before last she was a Turner sunset — whatever that may be; last night s-he reminded you of a Rossetti sonnet — and now you've turned her intjo a Dresden shepherdess. Natalie. But I like his pretty phrases. (To Tevis.) Can't you manufacture more of them? Eileen (as she and Seymour stand left of table). Wait until Aunt Lizzie arrives and he can add Kansas Cyclone to the list. And just then a shadow darkens the doormay. It resolves itself into an indigndnt individual xvlvose long coat is plentifully sprinkled with dust, whose hat is ai a rakish angle, wJiose hand frantically clutches a Bos- ton bag of huge dimensions, and whos-e general appear- ance resembles that of an avenging fury. ]Vith a OUT OF THE STILLNESS 35 scornful glance at the astounded company she delivers herself of one monosyllable — "well!" Natalie (running to her). Aunt Lizzie! Aunt Liz- zie! Mrs. D. (hurrying to her side). What has hap- pened ? Aunt Lizzie (pushing Mrs. Deering with her left hand.) Don't paw me, AHce. (Pushing Natalie aside with her right hand.) I'm in no kissing mood, NataHe. Don't ask this late in the day what has 'happened — for a tramp of a mile through the dust of your charming country roads is no incentive to amiability. (Eileen crosses back of chair right of table as Aunt Lizzie with Mrs. Deering and Natalie slowly advance.) Mrs. D. Lizzie! You don't mean to say that you walked? Aunt L. Was there anything ambiguous in my language? And does my appearance suggest an easy transit ? Seymour (pushing forward chair right of table). Won't you be seated.^ Aunt L. (as she seats herself). Take my bag, Ei- leen — and don't joggle it. My medicine is inside. (Eileen takes bag aw(i. Aunt Lizzie leans back in the chair. Suddenly she sits upright.) Young man, this chair squeaks! Tevis (hastily drawing out chair left of stairway). Then try this one. Mrs. D. (as Aunt Lizzie settles herself in the other chair). But, Lizzie — I don't understand. Didn't the car arrive in time to meet the train? (Stands at Aunt Lizzie's left.) Aunt L. A hired car arrived — and a strange chauf- 36 OUT OF THE STILLNESS feur. Since when is it your custom to greet guests in this fashion? Mrs. D. I'm sorry — so very sorry that it had to happen in this way. But our own chauffeur gave no- tice this morning — and left. Aunt L. The habit seems indigenous to the soil. For this other chauffeur brought me two-thirds of the way — and left. Mrs. D. Left? Aunt L. His speed was somewhat accelerated by the appearance of a masked horseman who pointed a pistol at our heads. Seymour. A highwayman.? Aunt. L. No — a plain hold-up. Natalie {ivlio is at her right). Why, Aunt Lizzie — here in broad daylight.? It's impossible! Aunt L. Am I in the habit of making equivocal statements, Natalie.? Natalie. Oh, I don't mean that. Aunt Lizzie! Aunt L. Or is it likely that I was the subject of an hallucination.? Natalie. Oh, you don't understand. I am trying to tell you that someone was doubtless playing a joke. Aunt L. To the tune of my pocket-book and watch.? Nonsense. Eileen. Was there much in your pocket-book.? Aunt L. Not enough to allow him to live in riot- ous extravagance. {Pauses.) And my watch was plated. Natalie. But the shock to your nerves — Aunt L. {severely). I have no nerves. Such a lux- ury belongs exclusively to modern times. Tevis {who stands at Natalie's right). The effron- OUT OF THE STILLNESS 37 tery of this fellow is amazing. To frequent a much- traveled highway — to terrorize women in this way — Aunt L. Terrorize? Young man, don't think for a moment that he even frightened me. Your sex — as a generality and as individuals — has long since ceased to impress me in any way. Seymour. Can you remember anything about his ap- pearance, Miss Deering? In case we attempt to trace him, a description would be useful. Aunt L. I always remember details. He wore some sort of a riding suit — the kind that requires the legs to be incased in strait jackets — Eileen {mischievously) . We call them riding boots, Aunt Lizzie. Aunt L. {with a scornful glance at Eileen). His soft hat was thrust in his pocket, his hair was dark, he wore gauntlet gloves, and over his face was tied a white handkerchief with a blue border. Seymour. How clever of you to notice these things. Now it will be much easier to trace him. Aunt L. There may be another mark of identifica- tion also. Seymour. What.^^ Aunt L. A limp. As he was mounting his horse I threw the chauffeur's monkey wrench at his head. It hit his foot. Mrs. D. {who has in the meantime touched the hell button). Give me Aunt Lizzie's bag, Eileen, and I'll show her to her room. (Eileen obeys. Lucy enters from dining room.) Lucy, take out the tea things and bring a cup of coffee and some sandwiches to Miss Deering. Lucy. Yes, Mrs. Deering. AuxT L. {as she and ^Irs. Deerin^^ mount the 38 OUT OF THE STI LLNESS stairs). And have it strong, girL I'd rather drink dish water than weak coffee. (Lucy removes tea cart and goes out at dining room door.) Seymour (moving towards doorway). Come out for a game of tennis, Eileen. Eileen {sinking into chair right of table). Not much. I'm too exhilarated. Aunt Lizzie's effect on me is like that of champagne on an empty tummy. Seymour. What do you know about champagne, infant.? Eileen. Nothing. But I've heard telk (Seymour goes out doorway.") Natalie {as she and Tevis stroll slowly of stage at doorway). Oh, dear! In addition to our ghost and our German traitor, we now have a highwayman to worry about. Eileen {mockingly). And what can a Dresden shepherdess have to do with a highwayman! {Emphat- ically.) I wish that I had a chance at the highwayman. I'd show him that the modern girl can't be sent into hysterics by the mere point of a pistol. She moves restlessly about the room, restoring the chairs to their accustomed position. Finally she settles herself in the chair right of table and opens a book. For a few moments all is quiet — then the inexplicable sixth sense which informs one that her privacy has been invaded, causes her to look up. There in the open doorway stands the picturesque figure of a dashing youth, clad in a riding suit. In one hand he carries a riding crop; in the other, a soft crush hat. From his pocket protrudes a white handkerchief with a blue bor- der; and, as he starts across the room, he walks with a sJlgh\. limp. OUT OF THE STILLNESS 39 For a moment Eileen gazes at him in amazement, then rises and throws up her hands as if in surrender. The newcomer {who will soon answer to the name of Jerry), returns the scrutiny with equal amazement. Jerry. I beg your pardon for this abrupt entrance. {As she backs away from him.) Great heavens ! I don't intend to hurt you. Eileen. Stand right there! Jerry. I'll do better than that— I'll go. {Turns.) Eileen. Not without an explanation. Jerry. That's easily given. The entrance to your grounds is so similar to that of my destination that I turned in, unthinkingly. I saw your open door — and thought I'd apologize. That's all. Eileen {coming nearer and whispering) . Are they after you? Jerry. I don't understand. Eileen. And would you like to hide.? Jerry. Hide? Why should I hide? Eileen {pointing). That suit! That handkerchief! Those boots! That hat! Those gauntlets! Jerry {looking at himself). Is it .as bad as all that? Eileen {severely). Don't try to evade the question. For I know. Jerry. Then, I fear, you have the advantage of me. Eileen. Unfortunately for you, it was my aunt at whose head you pointed your pistol, not two hours ago. Jerry. Did I have the nerve to do a thing like that ? Eileen. And whose watch and pocket-book you took. Jerry {smiling). Without so much as asking her pardon ? Eileen. Being a highwayman is no joking matter. 40 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Jerry. Do you mind telling me why you think I'm the highwayman? Eileen (dramatically pointing). That suit! That handkerchief ! Those^boots ! That hat ! Those gauntlets ! Jerry (standing behind chair left of stairway). Oh, I begin to see through the mystery. Evidently the gen- tleman of the road has tastes similar to my own. We may even patronize the same tailor. Eileen (seizing him by the arm and dragging him to center). Hide — please hide. Jerry. I'll be hanged if I do ! Eileen. You'll be hanged if you don't. Jerry. The trying to escape is hardly worth while. Eileen. The3^'d never think of looking for you here. Jerry. Why are you so interested in my welfare? Eileen (haughtily). I should show the same inter- est in any hunted creature. Jerry. Even a desperate criminal? Eileen. Oh zchy did you choose a life of crime? Jerry. The excitement — the uncertainty — the risk of it all. Imagine what it is^ to plan — to scheme — to watch — to wait — to feel the tingling pulse of adven- ture — to listen to the siren voice of the road — to know that on your own wit, your own nerve, your own quick- ness depends your safety! (Pauses. )Why, there's noth- ing in the world can equal it ! Eileen. But — robbery ! Jerry. Why not — in the open? Most of your friends, shut up in a conventional office, are probably doing the same thing — on the quiet. Eileen. Haven't you ever had any desire to reform ? Jerry. Not unless such a course would prove advan- tageous to me. Would it? Eileen. It would at least be respectable. OUT OF THE STILLNESS 41 Jerry. Respectability is often — deadly. Eileen. But it's — respectable. Jerry. And only the personal equation would make it endurable. Eileen. What do you mean by the personal equa- tion? Jerry. Well — in the case of reform — the reformer. Eileen. Wliat do you think about reformers.'^ Jerry. Well — that depends somewhat upon the re- former. Eileen {impetuously), I've always wanted a crim- inal of my own — Jerry. What? Eileen. To reform, of course. Jerry. Try me. Eileen. You mean it.^^ Jerry. Rather. Eileen. I won't reform in any half way fashion Jerry. Who wants a half baked respectability? Eileen. And you may not care to take the discip- line. Jerry. A highwayman is accustomed to take — most anything, isn't he? Eileen. Then — it's a bargain? {Holds out hand.) Jerry {taking it). It is. {Pauses.) Do you mind telling me how you intend to go about it? Eileen {crossing to table). I hadn't thought of that. Jerry. For, you see, I'm likely to be tangled in the meshes of the law while I am taking your course in respectability. Eileen {suddenly) . Can you drive a car? Jerry {crossing, to her). With one hand — and my eyes shut. 42 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Eileen. Then — be chauffeur! Jerry. Your chauffeur.'^ Eileen. Our chauffeur. We're looking for one. What shall I call you.? Jerry (after a moment). How will Jerry do.'^ Eileen. Fine ! Jerry (bowing). Then — Jerry at your service. Eileen. First of all, get rid of that suit. And if Aunt Lizzie spies that hat, that handkerchief — Jerry (laughingly). Those boots and those gaunt- lets— Eileen. She'll upset our plans. Jerry. Unfortunately, I haven't a chauffeur's uni- form — on tap, so to speak. Eileen. But we have. Ask the gardener to show you the chauffeur's room. (Pauses.) No — best not to let anybody see you. (Hastily draws him to doorway.) It's the front room — over the garage. (Points off stage.) Jerry. Trust me to find it. Eileen. And I hope the suit fits. Jerry. So do I. Better a spruce highwayman than a slipshod chauffeur. Eileen. Hurry! Someone might come. Jerry (bending over her hand). Adieu, fair advo- cate of reform 1 When I next greet you, I shall have been transformed by your magic touch into the grim semblance of conventionality, respectability and a steer- ing wheel! And, at this impressive moment, Marion appears on the stairway. Marion. Eileen! Eileen (as she starts away from Jerry). Dear me, OUT OF THE STILLNESS 43 Marion— how you startled me! (Haughtily to Jerry.) That will do, Jerry. (And Jerry disappears.) Marion. Who is that? Eileen. Our new chauffeur. Marion. Where did you get him? Eileen. Didn't I tell you that Bess Roberts has been trying to find some one to adopt her chauffeur for the summer? Marion (crossing to her). Did you telephone her? Eileen. I said I would— didn't I ? (Crosses to stair- way.) Marion. Well, that man has made double quick time from the city. What was he saying that made you as red as a peony? Eileen (on stairway). Saying? Marion, what could he say? Marion. A great many things. If the fellow is un- couth, Eileen, I'll dismiss him. Eileen. Indeed you won't! He is — perfectly — all right. (Runs up the stairway.) (Marion walks to the doorway and stands there list- lessly for a few moments. Then, coming back slowly, she seats herself at one end of the broad window seat. For a time she is busy with her own thoughts; suddenly, she gazes intently out the window and then leans for- zvard. ) Marion. Mr. Blair.! (After a moment.) I feel that I should apologize for luring you here with promise of a sunset which has failed to materialize. Blair (appearing from without). Why hold your- self responsible for nature's caprices? Anyway— there are always other sunsets. Marion. That's a pretty philosophy. 44 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Blair. And the paler tints of the aftermath are often more appeaHng than the more gorgeous coloring. Marion. Won't you sit here for a while.? Perhaps nature will relent and send us a substitute. Blair (as he seats himself at the other end of the seat). I doubt if she could send us anything loveHer than the peace, the quiet and the serenity of the present moment. Marion. Do you feel that way about it.? To me it's the most beautiful part of the day — and yet the very hush seems filled with a thousand voices if we could only hear and understand. Blair (lapsing into brogue). Faith and it's the fairies that are weavin' their spell about ye — and the fairy music that is sweepin' the treetops — and the fairy voices that are whisperin' to ye! Marion. Only an Irishman can talk like that! Blair. And bein' an Irishman, the mother country has put the flame of patriotism into his soul, the witch- ery of her brogue upon his tongue — the love of a beautiful woman within his heart — Marion (slily). And the touch of the Blarney stone upon his lips ! Blair. And, faith, what is the Blarney stone but a bit of an excuse for sayin' what otherwise a man would never dare to utter.? Marion. Why are you Irishmen so different from other people.? Blair. Because the spirit of romance never quite dies within us — because we are never too weary, too old or too heartsick to feel the breath of adventure upon our cheeks, to break away from the commonplace of the everyday — and to follow the twisting, beckoning, sil- very gleam of the Road that Leads to Nowhere! OUT OF THE STILLNESS 45 Marion. Somebody has told me that you are a sci- entist. I know better — you're a poet! Blair {dropping his brogue). Not guilty. And, after that accusation, I'll forget the Irish part of me which sends my heads into the clouds and come back to America — where I belong. Marion. Then you're not Irish .^ Blair. Oh, yes I am — by birth. But my American father and my Irish mother saw fit to rear me in the land of the Stars and Stripes — so I count myself an American. Marion. You love your adopted country.^ Blair. So well that I fought for her. (Rises.) Marion. Then you were in the war.^^ Blair. Yes. Marion (half to herself). And you came back — safe. Blair. Safe — but changed. One cannot forget — war. Marion. Nor forgive. Blair. You have lost someone.'* Marion. My brother. Blair. A glorious death. Marion. But — death. Blair. That is as one chooses to believe. (Stands by her.) Marion. What do 3^ou mean.? Blair. Only that two people who have truly loved cannot be separated. Marion. My brother and I were very dear to each other — but I think of him only as — gone. Blair. Then you have willed it so. Marion. I, don't understand. Blair. ^lay I tell you my own story .'^ 46 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Marion. Please. {He seats himself as before.) Blair. My best friend was killed — over there. For days I did not sleep — I saw only the torment, the horror, the unspeakable cruelty of everything — {hesi- tates). Marion. Yes ? Blair. Then one day — I don't know how or why — I understood. I realized that there were other ways of suffering — ways that helped; and with a great emerging breath I came to a height from which I saw all differently — even the death of the one who had been my closest friend. Marion. Siich a realization would mean much to me. Blair. Because it would bring with it the conscious- ness that your brother is near — in spirit. Marion. I don't believe — I don't want that sort of nearness. Blair. Don't misunderstand me — for I am think- ing of a spiritualism of soul which lifts us and satisfies us — and is in accord not only with our reason but with the traditions of our aspirations after faith and phi- losophy. {Pauses.) I fear I have tired you with my dissertation. {Rises.) Marion. On the contrary, you've helped me very much — and I thank you. {Rises.) Blair. Perhaps you will permit me to come again — very soon .'^ Marion. We are all hoping that you will. {As he takes her hand.) Good bye. {He disappears.) Marion crosses and seats herself right of table. | Bobby appears in doorway and stands looking intently off stage for a moment. Then he runs to Marion. OUT OF THE STILLNESS 47 Bobby {perching on the right arm of the chair). Who is the strange man, Aunt Marion? Marion. Our next door neighbor, Bobby. (Draws him to her*) * Bobby. He caught me up and held me very close to him — and I think he likes me. We can always tell when people like us, can't we. Aunt Marion? Marion. Always. {Pauses.) Has it been a happy birthday, dear? Bobby. As happy as it could be — without father. {Wistfully.) It's pretty hard for a fellow to grow up without a father — isn't it? Marion. Don't — Bobby. Bobby. Sometimes I feel that if I turn around quickly, he'll be there — laughing at me. And, then sometimes, I think I hear his whistle. Listen, Aunt Marion, I can do it! {Whistles.) Marion. Try it again, Bobby. {After the second effort.) That's better. Bobby. Don't you think he must be near us, today, Aunt Marion? Today — when I'm ten years old? Marion. For the first time, Bobby, I feel that he is ! Bobby {jumping down). I'm going now. I just ran in for a moment — to keep you from being lone- some. Marion {as she hisses him). Then, hurry back, dear, for I'm not going to be lonesome — any more. {He runs off stage through doorway.) {For a time there is perfect silence as she sits en- grossed in her thoughts. Suddenly — clear, distinct and close at hand comes a whistle — Bob's whistle. She lays down her book — in bewilderment . In a moment the whistle is repeated. She starts to her feet.) The Voice {in the vicinity of the doorway). Sis 48 OUT OF THE STILLNESS — dear old sis — do you think a little thing like death can separate us? Marion. Oh ! Oh! The Voice (noziD in the vicinity of the stairway). I've waited so long for you to understand — for you to call me — ^but you wouldn't — you wouldn't — (Marion still stands stupefied — silent). Can't you see me, Marion? Don't you know me? Marion {silence for a moment — then she goes forward mth outstretched hands). Oh Bob — Bob! Curtain. OUT OF THE STILLNESS The Second Act. Scene: Again the hall of the Deering home; and this time, the audience faces the stairway, which is at center of back stage. Right of the stairway is the piano; to its left is a small door {hidden by the stairway in Act I.) To the right of this door hangs a piece of tapestry. The window seat- is now at the left of stage as is the open doorway; while, down left is the dining room door, the telephone stand and chair, and the small table. The table is down right and the large chair near by is now turned and facing audience. The hassock is at center; the chair left of stairway is drawn further back; and the chair to right of doorway remains the same. The small cJmir remains at left of table. The curtain rises to music off stage. Against the right of the doorway leans Jerry, apparently lost m thought. Lucy enters from dining room, bearing tray of punch glasses. As she spies him, she hesitates, then crosses room and places tray upon table. Lucy (softly). Jerry! (No answer.) Jerry! (Still no response.) Jerry! (And Lucy's tone becomes not only louder but a trifle sharp.) Jerry. I beg your pardon. Did you speak.? Lucy. Only three times. Jerry (lightly). Three times and the charm, you know. Lucy. Then it must have broken the charm. Were you star-gazing? Jerry. One might call it that, I suppose. 49 50 OUT OF THE STILLNESS Lucy (sai'casficalb/). Star-gazing — without look- ing at the sky ! Jerry. Tliero are earthly stars, too, you know. {Half to h'nunt'lf.) And they're often farther away than the heavenly ones. LrcY. I don't understand you, Jerry. Jerry. The highest compliment you can pay me. Lucy. And you don't talk a bit like a chauffeur. Jerry. Meaning that my vocabulary should reek with such terms as carburetors, cylinders and spark plugs.? LrcY. I mean that you might at least be friendly- like. {With a toss of Jur head.) The last chauffeur didn't need dynamite to wake him up ! Jerry {indifcn^ntJif). Sorry that I don't qualify. Lucy {aftt'r a pause). Did you ever hear love- lier music.' Jerry. I haven't been listening. Lucy {coming closer). I love to dance. Don't you.? Jerry. Depends. Lucy. And — wouldn't it be heavenly — out there — under the moonlight.' Jerry (carelessh/). Looks as if it might rain. Lucy {flouncing off to center). What you need is a book on manners, ^Ir. Chauffeur — Jerry. I liaven't time for the superficial at present, my dear Lucy. I'm too busy keeping track of my morals. Lucy. Don't call me your dear Lucy. {Coquet- tishli/.) Jerry. Just as you say. I used the term only after your suggestion that my manners were not all they should be. Lucy {angrili/). Well, now I a in going. {Crosses and take.