Bird’s Nest
SCENE.—A little low white cottage, approached by a
gravel-path which winds up from gray, moss-grown steps at
L., flanked by lilac-bushes. A sunken step leads
across the tiny pillared porch, twined deep with honeysuckle
which, together with the tall, recently-acquired French
windows, stands open into the living-room, dark now except for
its moonlit shadows.
At the rise of the curtain there is a moment in which
the dark and stillness permeate one; then there is a slight
noise overhead, an electric light flashes in the upper hall,
and a tallish, youthfully old figure that is Martin
Doan, wearing valet’s livery, can be made out,
descending the little flight of stairs just inside. As he
reaches the bottom, the heavy strokes of the clock in the
church tower, faintly visible in the middle-distance, begin to
boom out midnight. Martin pauses, listening. As
the strokes proceed, he steps into the open doorway, and peers
into the garden.
Martin.
[In soft unison with the bells.] Nine—ten—eleven—twelve——!
[Then, snapping the profound quiet which succeeds the
ending of the chimes, there is an abrupt movement above stairs,
and George Sanford’s voice, thick but vibrant
with unwonted excitement, calls.
Sanford.
That you, Martin?
Martin.
[Turning toward the cottage.] Yes, sir.
Sanford.
[Jovially descending the stairs.] Well, well, Martin, what have
you got to keep you awake?
Martin.
[Measuring a conscious distance in his voice.] I hardly
know, sir! It was such a night, sir! I was going to bring up the
ear-trumpet——
Sanford.
[Joining Martin on the doorstep, his
too-well-fitting clothes making an open secret of his stoutness.]
Well, well, did you think you’d find it here, listening to those
everlasting chimes? But I’m glad you reminded me, Martin! I shouldn’t
have slept a wink if I hadn’t known it was all right, every way!
Martin.
[Again turning to go in.] Yes, sir, I put it on the table with
the other packages——
Sanford.
Thanks. [Laying a protesting hand on Martin’s
arm.] But don’t go in yet, Martin! I—I want to talk.
Martin.
Yes, sir.
Sanford.
[Sentimentally looking up at the moon.] Just look at her! Isn’t
she splendid? Doesn’t she—— [He breaks into a fat chuckle.]
Now just listen to that, will you? Don’t that show the state I’m
in—callin’ the moon “her” and “she”! Why, that’s what they say
in the magazines. I was readin’ one last night—[With fatuous
explicitness.] one of those love-stories! Why, Martin, I
haven’t said “her” and “she” for forty years!
Martin.
[Dutifully.] Yes, sir.
Sanford.
[Testily.] Well, don’t that show——?
Martin.
[Dreamy eyes on the cedar over the cottage.] The moon’s
beautiful, sir!
Sanford.
[With a pitying snort.] Beautiful! Why, Martin, beautiful’s
no word for it! She—she’s elegant! Magnificent—er—“magnifique,” I
think the French would call it! Such a romantic language, French! Mrs.
McCormorant’s kept a French maid for years! But of course you couldn’t
be expected to know, or—[A sentimental hand on his heart.] or
feel——!
Martin.
[Suddenly attentive.] Not a pain, sir, in your heart?
Sanford.
[Starting irritably.] Pain?—in my heart? What are you talking
about?
Martin.
Beg pardon, sir, but I understood the doctor said——
Sanford.
Damn the doctor! Don’t you know I only went to satisfy Evelina—Mrs.
McCormorant? Why, I never was fitter in my life! But she does love
me so—[Sighing.] and I her! I her! Ah, Martin, again that is
something you cannot understand—when two hearts beat as one!
[Scornfully, as Martin says nothing.] I suppose
you’d think it was a disease!
Martin.
Sir——?
Sanford.
[Holding him as both look into the garden.] Ah, no matter! Just
think, Martin, this time to-morrow night we shall be here—she and
I—here in the Bird’s Nest—— [Chuckling.] Ha-ha—not bad,
that, considering the nest-egg! I whispering sweet nothings into her
little sea-shell ear!
Martin.
[Edging away.] Beg pardon, sir, but shall I fetch the
ear-trumpet up to your room?
Sanford.
[Seizing him suspiciously.] Eh? Now what did you mean by that,
I’d like to know?
Martin.
[Impeccably.] Why, I thought you wanted it, sir!
Sanford.
Yes, yes, I wanted it, but you see—I’d just been saying—er—I’d just
been alluding—[As Martin regards him.] oh, damn
it, no matter! No matter!
Martin.
Shall I fetch it, sir?
Sanford.
[Reluctantly turning indoors with him.] I suppose so! But
mind, if ever I find you insinuating things about Mrs. McCormorant’s
deafness—oh, well, you may take your month’s pay and clear out! Why,
it might gum the whole game!
Martin.
Yes, sir. In fact, sir, as you mentioned it, and a similar thought
being in my own mind——
Sanford.
[Hastily.] I’m not mentioning anything, Martin—and neither
are you!—Assuredly not the night before my wedding!—when you know
perfectly well, or would, if you had the least touch of romance—that
I’m all of a flutter inside! [As they step, fumbling a little, into
the living-room.] Now where’s that confounded button? This jumpy
moonlight makes everything disappear!
[Martin switches on the light, which illumines the
old spinnet, L., and the portrait of an elderly
woman in crude, modern evening dress, which hangs upon the
wall.
Martin.
Here, sir——! [Going to the table, C., on which
are several ear-trumpets.] Now you’ll be able to see which
ear-trumpet’s the best, sir!
Sanford.
[With a grunt, surveying the instruments before him.] Oh, you
unwrapped them!
Martin.
Why, yes, seeing how important it was for to-morrow! I was very careful,
sir——
Sanford.
Yes, yes, it would never do to let her go to church with her trumpet
broken. Dear, dear, such an unfortunate accident—and the day before
the wedding! Here, let’s bring it all into the garden—— [As
Martin obeys him, and as they carry the little table just
outside.] Not to hear the vows—— [Sentimentally.] “Till
death do us part!” [Then, practically, to Martin.]
Look here—before I go upstairs, let’s try them out—— [Giving
Martin the rope end of one of the trumpets.] You
go over there—[With a gesture, right foreground.] and say
something!
Martin.
[Dubiously preparing to obey.] But you’re not deaf, sir!
Sanford.
[Slightly dashed.] No, I’m not deaf—but it might give us an
idea—— [He backs away from Martin.] There! Now try
it!
Martin.
[On a low note.] You’d best go to bed, sir!
Sanford.
[With an irritability that shows he has heard.] I can’t hear a
word!
Martin.
[As before.] You wouldn’t want rheumatism on your wedding day!
You know what the doctor——
[Sanford puts down the trumpet crossly, jerks the
other end from Martin, lays the instrument on
the table, and hastily selects another.
Sanford.
Here—let’s try this one—and change places with me—and you hold
the thing-um-a-bob to your ear! [Martin, with a faint
shrug, complies, so that he stands where Sanford has
been standing, therefore facing the garden. As the arrangement is
completed, Sanford begins, speaking sentimentally into
the tube.] Do you know, they say the Bird’s Nest was built for
lovers! Can you hear?
Martin.
[His eyes on the garden.] So I have heard, sir!
Sanford.
[Practically.] That’s good! [Suppressing a yawn.] Then I
guess I’ll give her this one—it’s too late to try ’em all!
Martin.
[Suggestively.] Best try if I can hear the story, sir!
Sanford.
The story? Oh, yes! [At first he speaks into the tube, but as he
continues, he seems to forget his original purpose, becoming engrossed
in his subject.] Well, I had it from the man I bought Bird’s Nest
of, a year ago, before I put in the improvements. Queer! I don’t
believe I’ve thought of it since that day! And I asked him why he
didn’t put it in order himself, and he—he said that years ago his
father was planning to bring his bride here when——
Martin.
[As Sanford breaks off.] Yes, sir?
Sanford.
[Beginning to laugh softly, as at a delicate joke he does not
himself understand.] Why, he could! He simply couldn’t! You
see—Bird’s Nest was built for lovers——! [As Martin
says nothing.] Lovers, Martin! Why don’t you laugh? Don’t you
see the joke?
Martin.
[Gravely.] No, sir. Is the story a joke, sir?
Sanford.
The story? Dear, no! A ghost-story, Martin—think of that! Brrr-rrr!
[With a mock shiver, lowering his voice in coarse joviality.]
Spooks—haunted! Nobody but me’s had the nerve to think of living
here for fifty years and more! Afraid the visitors mightn’t approve.
Visitors—ha-ha! Bear in mind, Martin—Bird’s Nest was built for
lovers. [As Sanford begins to laugh again,
Martin regards him with a curious look. He is still
laughing when the grandfather clock in the parlor begins to strike
midnight. Sanford, himself again, starts violently,
takes a step toward Martin, then, as if rooted to the
spot, stands listening. The face of Martin, too, has
changed. Pallor, first, then, as the clock strikes on, light, reflected
as from some deep centre within, covers his face. He casts one
anxious glance at his master; then, as if surrendering himself to his
profound absorption, he softly crosses to the porch and peers out.
Sanford, as the strokes go on.] Whatever made you wind
up that damned old clock, Martin?
Martin.
[At the door.] I didn’t wind it!
Sanford.
You must have! It hasn’t struck since I took the cottage!
Martin.
[Turning and regarding him significantly.] But it is striking,
sir, isn’t it? Striking midnight?
Sanford.
[Abruptly.] So you have heard the story?
[Without looking at him, Martin steps
further into the garden where white moonlight now floods
gravel-path and steps. Then, a note of repressed triumph in his
voice.
Martin.
Yes, sir——! Ten—eleven—twelve——! [Then to himself, on a low
note of joy.] Ah——!
Sanford.
Built for lovers——! Well, why not? Why not? Ain’t love the strongest
thing in the world?—Stronger than death?
[As Martin, incapable of answer, stares
into the garden, Sanford, with a grunt, turns
inside, and laboriously begins the ascent of the little
staircase. Once he pauses and throws back a condescending
glance. Perceiving it lost on his abstracted servant, he
resumes his journey, and presently passes out of sight into the
rooms above. There is a moment of pregnant silence. Then, with
a smothered cry, Martin steps swiftly forward,
and, arms extended in a poignant, yearning gesture, seems to
greet the two persons who, unaware of him, are rounding the
path to the garden. As, very close to one another, they come
onward to the cottage, his arms drop, and as they mount the
little steps, he withdraws into the shadows of the hedge.
At this, the small feminine figure in the colonial flowered
lavender and quilted poke-bonnet, slips her little black-mitted
hand even more closely into the arm of her grave young escort.
He wears a coat of deep bright blue and snuff-colored trousers;
a high white stock is about his throat; on his head, a square
hat.
Lydia.
[With clear approval, as Martin vanishes.] That
was very polite of him, dear Richard! Quite as if he understood the
circumstances.
Richard.
[Ardently.] Yes, yes, but pray do not let us think of that now,
my darling! We are home—at last!
Lydia.
[Caressing the lace ruffle on his sleeve.] Yes, of course, dear
Richard! But [With vague unrest.] we must be particular about
the people—I fear he is not the only one about!
Richard.
Must we think of them at once? Couldn’t we just settle down?
Lydia.
[Rapping him playfully with her little prayer-book.] Settle
down? Without knowing who’s about? The idea! Do you think my mamma
brought me up to be that kind of a housekeeper?
Richard.
[With a courtly bend.] I’m sure you’re the best housekeeper a
man ever had!
Lydia.
[Sweeping him a courtesy.] Thank you, thank you, dear Richard!
[Then, suddenly picking up her long flowered skirts so that the
lavender clocks twinkle above the little slippered feet.] And I’ll
prove it to you! [Puzzled, half to herself.] Though I don’t
know why I said that about the people a minute ago. Things puzzle me
so sometimes. I’ll race you to the kitchen—though it’s unladylike, I
suppose, to run—but I do want to make you a pasty. Mamma always made
them for my papa, and my marriage being so near, she taught me last
week. I made them perfectly yesterday!
[Lydia breaks into a run; Richard
catches her wrist, and together they are running into
the cottage, when the ear-trumpets on the table meet their
astonished eyes.
Richard.
[Pausing and examining them.] Lydia! What are they? What on
earth can they all be?
Lydia.
[Laying down her prayer-book and just touching them.] I haven’t
the—the ghost of an idea! What do you think they are, Richard? You’ve
studied so much,—wouldn’t the Rev. Mr. Heathcote have prepared you for
them?
Richard.
[Fingering them cautiously.] He might have, I suppose, but I
don’t believe I ever got that far advanced!
Lydia.
[Penitently.] That’s because I interfered with the pursuit of
your studies, dear Richard! If you hadn’t stopped to marry me——
Richard.
Ah, Lydia, that’s the best thing my poor old tutor ever did,—marrying
us to-day!
Lydia.
[Suddenly drawing very close and laying her little hands on his
breast in a sort of piteous daring.] To-day? Oh, Richard,—there’s
the queer feeling again—it comes and goes! But if it was
to-day,—[Very poignantly.] Oh, Richard, why were we so long
getting home?
Richard.
[Caressing her gently.] It was that little spill we had, my
darling! That’s why you’re still a little shaken. I feel much the same
way myself! Ajax was trotting along nicely and, after all, it was
hardly strange how frightened he became at that steam-car!
Lydia.
[Ruefully.] Poor little pony! I should think they might have
waited for their old experiment till after our wedding! One thing,
I am sure that when Papa informs Mr. Van Beuren about the accident,
he will put a stop to any such ridiculous practises! [Tossing her
curls.] Steam-cars, indeed!
Richard.
[Thoughtfully.] I suppose so. And yet, of course it isn’t as
if it had been a serious accident! Ajax stopped as soon as we upset!
[He bends over her with sudden anxiety.] You—you’re quite sure
it didn’t hurt you, my darling?
Lydia.
[With a little laugh.] Why, Richard, you’ve asked me that
a hundred times! Of course it didn’t hurt! I was just a bit
frightened—more for poor little Jaxy than myself. How he did run! That
steam-car made such a queer noise—and moving that way without a thing
to make it go. Positively creepy, I call it! [Rousing herself.]
But my frock’s all right! There’s only this——
[She pushes back her bonnet and clustering curls to show his
concerned eyes a tiny mark over her left temple.
Richard.
[Bending and kissing it.] Kiss it and make it well! [He
plays a moment with her curls; then, gravely.] Dearest Lydia, how
thankful I am it was nothing serious!
Lydia.
[Nestling close.] And how thankful I am for you!
Just what you showed me? No more?
Richard.
[Pointing to an imperceptible stain on his plum-colored
waistcoat.] A mere scratch!
Lydia.
[Softly.] Dear Richard—will you not think me foolish if——
Richard.
[Taking her face between his hands.] If what, Pet? Is it being
my wife makes you so afraid of me? Indeed I’ve never noticed such
behavior before!
Lydia.
Don’t laugh, dear Richard! I know I was never very religious! It is so
good to be alive! [With a little shiver.] Alive——! Alive——!
Religion is just for poor sick dead people, but——
Richard.
What, Lydia?
Lydia.
Well, on Sunday, would you send a messenger to the Rev. Mr. Heathcote
and have him offer that—that thanksgiving in the prayer-book about a
safe return? [With a desperate little sob.] Oh, Richard, I—I
couldn’t bear to have been hurt in the runaway—Not to be here, alive
and happy, in Bird’s Nest——
[She stops, panting, and he gathers her into safe,
protecting arms.
Richard.
But we are in Bird’s Nest, my dearest! We are! We are!
Lydia.
[Looking up from his breast in frightened appeal.] Of course
we are! But I’m glad to have you tell me so! You see, Richard, long
before I was a married woman—one afternoon last spring it was—an old
gipsy woman came to our house one day, and she read my palm—Mamma was
out—or she never would have permitted it!—And she told me——
Richard.
What did she tell you?
Lydia.
She said—“It will end where it began!”
Richard.
[With a laugh, though his eyes are troubled.] Was she referring
to my Greek? That ended where it began!
Lydia.
[Seriously, as they pass through the open door into the little
parlor.] Mamma thought it meant my marriage! She consulted the
Vicar, but he was too highly educated to believe in such “nonsense,”
he called it! And I was always so happy—in spite of sister Eliza’s
being so much prettier than me—don’t you think so, Richard?
Richard.
[Indignantly.] Eliza! Flibbertigibbets! Why, you’re the
prettiest girl in the world! [Turning her to the tall mirror at the
side of the room.] There! See for yourself——!
Lydia.
[Smiling.] How on earth can you think so? [Then she goes
close and examines the cut for herself.] Lucky my hair curls, isn’t
it? This horrid little mark will never show. Now poor sister Eliza—of
course she is much prettier than me, Richard—but her hair’s straight
as a poker, and do you know, whenever she tries to have curls, she
invariably burns it!
[Richard, taking a turn about the room, during the
last speech, has now brought up before the full-length portrait
of Mrs. McCormorant that hangs upon the wall.
Her pink satin and the diamond pendant about her substantial
neck shine bright in the electric lamp beneath the portrait.
Richard.
Well, speaking of beauty—— [Confronted by the sight of the lamp,
he touches the bulb gingerly.] Good gracious! Glass all round
the lamp! How on earth would the smoke get out? And a string—oh,
heavens——! [As he puts out the light.] What have I done?
Lydia.
[Helplessly, at his side.] Oh, Richard——!
Richard.
[Accidentally pulling the light on again.] How very strange!
Lydia.
[Breaking into a peal of delicious laughter, as the picture flashes
again into view.] Richard! My heavens! Did you ever see such
clothes? She must have got them out of the Ark!
[Richard surveys the portrait with frank disgust,
and then lets his eyes rest on his little bride with patent
satisfaction.
Richard.
Poor thing! I shall never complain again about women changing the
fashions! What else was there for her grandchildren to do?
Lydia.
[Scornfully.] Grandchildren! Why, Richard, I’m sure Grandmamma
never wore such a frock! [Pointing to the portrait.] She must
have been a great-great, at least!
Richard.
[With decision.] And not on my side! Possibly yours, Lydia?
Lydia.
Not at all! [Puzzled.] But if she isn’t on yours, Richard——?
[A fear which she vainly tries to repress suddenly thrilling her
voice.] But she must be on yours! Else why is she here?
Richard.
I tell you she isn’t, Lydia! [Then, as Martin
softly emerges from the shadows where he has been watching
them.] Look! There he is again! Who can it be?
Lydia.
[Tugging at his arm, fascinated by the portrait.] Oh, Richard,
dear Richard, I—I don’t like to look at her! It frightens me!
Martin.
[Approaching the door, and looking within.] I beg pardon, sir,
but did you call?
Richard.
[Looking from Martin to Lydia.] Call?
No!
Martin.
[Regarding Lydia fixedly.] Nor you, Madam?
Lydia.
[Beckoning Martin to her with sudden decision.]
Yes! Do you know who that lady was?
Martin.
Why, that, Madam, that is Mrs. McCormorant!
Richard.
“Is”! And what a name! “Mc” what? We never had such a name in our
family!
Lydia.
[Impatiently.] You’ve already said she wasn’t in your family!
And she certainly wasn’t in mine! [She turns peremptorily to
Martin.] Will you please tell us who she was? And why her
portrait is here?
Martin.
[Watching Lydia.] Why, Madam, Mr. Sanford had it put
here to surprise her, her becoming his bride in the little church here
to-morrow!
Lydia.
[With a great effort.] His bride—to-morrow?
Richard.
[Gravely.] Then she’s alive?
Martin.
[Looking from one to the other.] Why, yes, sir, to be sure she’s
alive!
Richard.
[Puzzled.] But her frock? My wife was quite certain, and so was
I, that her frock was—er—well, I don’t like to say anything against
the lady, but, well, you know, rather old-fashioned, to say the least!
[With an admiring glance at Lydia’s panniers.]
You can see—there’s rather a difference——!
Martin.
[With the ghost of a smile.] There is, indeed, sir!
[Resuming, practically.] But I have often heard Mr. Sanford say,
sir, that all Mrs. McCormorant’s gowns are in the height of fashion!
Lydia.
[Prettily nettled.] I trust you don’t mean to imply——
Martin.
[Courteously.] I imply nothing to your disfavor, Madam——!
Lydia.
[Restlessly.] Of course her frock is of no consequence—nor her
being married—but—why should her portrait be here—[A sudden break
in her voice.] here in Bird’s Nest?
Richard.
[With a note of authority.] Yes, that’s what we don’t care for!
Why should her portrait be here, in our parlor?
Martin.
[Simply.] Why, so they can both admire it, I suppose, sir, after
she comes to live here to-morrow!
Lydia.
[Falling with a cry into Richard’s arms.] Oh,
Richard! I—I feel faint!
Richard.
[Tenderly carrying her to the garden bench, Martin
following them.] There, there, my darling! [On his knees, to
her.] Shall I fetch your salts?
Lydia.
[As she clings to him, Martin, regarding both, a
faint, quizzical sadness in his eyes.] No, no, it’s not my salts I
need! Oh, what did he say, Richard? What did he say?
Richard.
[Caressing her gently.] It was nothing, my darling!
We—[Vainly trying to repress a quiver in his voice.] we must
have misunderstood him!
Lydia.
[Softly repulsing him, sitting bolt upright.] No, I don’t think
so! I—— [Suddenly she hides her face in her hands, in an agony
of remembrance.] Oh, Richard, don’t you know? We’ve been mistaken
before about—about Bird’s Nest?
Richard.
[Helplessly, as he rises.] My dearest Lydia——!
Lydia.
[Jumping up and confronting Martin with the piteous
dignity of her little clasped hands.] You said just now that—that
[With a gesture toward the portrait.] lady was alive—and going
to be married, and that she—that they—plan to live here, in Bird’s
Nest?
Martin.
[Very low.] Yes, Madam!
Lydia.
[Drawing herself up.] But doesn’t she know that Richard and I
are to live in Bird’s Nest?
Martin.
[Very gently.] Are you sure, Madam?
Lydia.
[She looks long into his troubled, wistful eyes; then
pitifully.] We were to live here! [Impetuously.] Oh, don’t
you know? We were to live here—and then—then Ajax was frightened
by the steam-car, coming home from church this afternoon, and ever
since——
Martin.
[Softly, as Lydia stops, unable to proceed.] The
folks about here always say Bird’s Nest was built for lovers!
Lydia.
[In a low voice.] The folks? Since when have they said that? I
never heard it!
Martin.
[With a long look.] No, Madam,—it was not—in your day!
[Then, softly to himself, looking from Lydia to
Richard.] Built for lovers——!
Lydia.
[As before.] And are they—lovers?
Martin.
Mrs. McCormorant is very rich.
Richard.
[Shocked.] You keep saying, “Mrs.”! She has been married before?
Martin.
Just so! An attractive woman some think, sir, in spite of her deafness.
Richard.
But why should she be deaf?
Lydia.
[With sudden petulance.] What does it matter whether she’s deaf
or not when——
Martin.
[Imperturbably to Richard.] It’s merely her age,
sir——! Sixty-three she is, but——
Richard.
Good God! It’s impossible! It’s unnatural!
Martin.
[Watching Lydia narrowly.] She took a great
fancy to Bird’s Nest the day Mr. Sanford brought her over! It makes
them both feel quite young again, so they say!
Lydia.
[Under her breath.] Young! Sixty-three——! I’m not eighteen——!
Martin.
[Watching her as before.] Haven’t old people a right to
happiness, Madam?
Lydia.
[Irrelevantly, a passionate ring in her voice.] The folks about
here say Bird’s Nest was built for lovers!
Martin.
[Gravely.] Quite so, Madam! [With an old-fashioned bow.]
I am glad to have seen you, Madam—I had heard—so much. But I must
go now. I have to make sure Mr. Sanford has taken his medicine before
retiring—his heart’s not just right.
Richard.
[In a level voice.] Mr. Sanford, I presume, is the bridegroom?
Martin.
[Withdrawing with grave courtesy.] Er—yes, sir! And somewhat
excited over to-morrow.
[Martin steps into the cottage, putting out the
electric lights and goes upstairs.
Lydia.
[Regarding his retreating figure.] A nice-appearing old man,
Richard! [She comes quite close to him; then, softly.] I’m glad
he’s not being married to-morrow!
Richard.
[Starting.] What do you mean?
Lydia.
[Practically.] Well, I prefer their being horrid—like that
man and that dreadful woman in the house! [Reminiscently.] I
couldn’t help being sorry for the gentle lady that was here,—oh, you
know, quite a while ago!
Richard.
You mean the one they called “Virginia”? That was visiting Bird’s Nest
before he brought her here to live?
Lydia.
Yes, Virginia! But he didn’t really love her! We couldn’t have had
them about! What a cold she took that night! [Placidly.]
I guess it settled on her lungs right away! [With a little
smile.] They weren’t here when we came back.
Richard.
[A trifle uncomfortably.] I know——!
Lydia.
And another year—that dark beauty. He was speaking a foreign tongue
to her when we came. “Celeste,” I think her name was. I think it is a
French name. With what I had picked up at the Academy for Young Ladies,
I could easily see they were planning to settle right here in a few
weeks. She didn’t love him at all! [With a mischievous laugh.]
Do you remember how frightened she was, Richard? [Smoothing her
little panniers.] Big women are always such cowards!
Richard.
[As before.] Yes, of course,—but——
Lydia.
[With a touch of asperity.] What is it, Richard?
Richard.
You—we’ve upset the plans of a good many people, haven’t we?
Need we bother any more about them? [Gently.] We have each
other—to-night——!
Lydia.
[With infinite wistfulness.] Ah, Richard! Richard! You are
only a man——! [Very low.] No one must live here! Don’t you
understand?
Richard.
[Started.] You mean—else we couldn’t come back?
Lydia.
We couldn’t come back! Just think, Richard—[Caressing him
gently.] we couldn’t come back——! We’d wait all the long, long
year, and then—when to-night came—we couldn’t come back——!
Richard.
[Drawing her passionately into his arms.] Oh, my darling! But we
must come back! It is what we live for! It——
Lydia.
[Gravely.] Just so, Richard! I know you always agree when
you—remember——!
Richard.
[Regarding her with sudden anxiety.] Do you think you can manage
it? The lady isn’t here—this time.
Lydia.
But he’s here! And do you know, Richard, in spite of what Mamma has
always taught me, I hardly think men are a bit braver than women!
Richard.
Oh, Lydia, you really think not!
Lydia.
[Teasing him.] Really, really, dear Richard! But, oh, look at
that moon! Isn’t it a shame to worry about anything with that over our
heads? Oh, Richard, I want to dance. If there were only music!
Richard.
[Falling into her mood.] Why not make it yourself? The spinnet
is there—[Pointing within.] your papa’s wedding present—he
thought you would like it the first night! Look, Lydia, how clear it
stands in the moonlight!
Lydia.
[Running into the house.] I could play the minuet! [Seating
herself at the spinnet, she plays a few bars of a minuet with delicate,
old-fashioned precision, Richard, who has followed her,
leaning over her. Presently, she stops, and wheels abruptly about.]
But, oh, that isn’t enough! [Jumping up, she drags him after her to
the garden.] Come, Richard! Back to the garden! I want to dance!
Richard.
[As they pass outdoors.] But the music, dearest Lydia! I can
never do the steps without the music! Don’t you remember how you
laughed at me that time last week?
[Without answering, Lydia places both
herself and him in position for the minuet. Then, with low
conviction.
Lydia.
There will be music, dear Richard! Don’t you remember—it used to
go—— [Humming the minuet under her breath.] this way——?
[And presently, as if encouraged by her voice, the garden becomes
full of throbbing fiddles and horns, as, with stately courtesy, she
and Richard dance in and out among the flower-beds.
A few moments pass; then, at a sound within the cottage, they
stop dancing, and as George Sanford, this time in
dressing-gown and slippers, slowly descends the staircase, the
music quivers away, though still heard now and again, as at greater
distance. Lydia softly draws Richard
aside.] Sh—this must be he!
Richard.
[In a slightly nervous whisper.] After all, Lydia, this is my
house! Had I not better call him out and have done with it?
Lydia.
[Watching Sanford.] Sh——!
[For a moment Sanford pauses at the table,
outside, bright in the moonlight; picks up the ear-trumpet;
with it, he heavily proceeds into the garden; then looking at
the moon.
Sanford.
[With his fat chuckle.] Ah, romance! All very well for young
folks. But [Tapping the ear-trumpet.] she’ll hear my vows all
right with this! And romance comes easy at $100,000!
Richard.
[Indignantly.] Lydia! It’s desecration. Let me challenge him and
end it!
Lydia.
[A restraining hand on his arm.] Hush! Leave it to me—— And
that—— [Pointing to the ear-trumpet.] He said that was to hear
his vows with. How very strange!
Sanford.
[Plumping down on the bench near him.] ’Might as well stay here.
’Can’t sleep a wink.
Richard.
[Tears in his voice, as he feels the hour going.] Lydia! It’s
our one night! Make him go away!
Lydia.
[Softly.] Ah, if he’d go away! [Louder.] If he’d burn
that picture, and pack right up, and go away from Bird’s Nest, and
never come back!
Sanford.
Damned pretty little house for Evelina and me! Damned lucky to get it,
and so cheap, too! [With another chuckle.] Some clever Johnny
must’ve made up that yarn about the ghosts to pull the prices down!
Ghosts! Ha-ha-ha! When I sell, I’ll sell high! I can swear I’ve never
seen ’em!
Lydia.
[Distinctly, as she emerges from the shadows, and sweeping him a
mocking courtesy.] I suppose you don’t see me, sir?
Richard.
[In a frightened whisper.] Dearest Lydia, pray be careful!
[Lydia steals behind Sanford, jerks
up the trumpet, and, holding it to his ear.
Lydia.
[Mischievously.] There, sir! Is it only your bride who can’t
hear?
[With a sleepy gesture, Sanford brushes away
the trumpet, which falls to the ground.
Sanford.
[With a yawn.] Ah, never mind. Too much work—pick it up.
Lydia.
[Slipping around in front of him.] Come, Richard!
Richard.
[Joining her somewhat hesitantly and taking her outstretched
hands.] Is it quite safe, do you think?
Lydia.
[To Sanford, dosing on the bench.] We don’t want
to hurt you, sir. Say it with me, Richard——
Lydia and Richard.
[Repeating together.] But Bird’s Nest is our very own! Will
you go away? You don’t love your bride! And you know—— [With low
intensity.] Bird’s Nest was built for lovers!
Sanford.
[Sleepily.] $100,000, by George! That’s enough to make up for a
whole lot! And Bird’s Nest——
[His head drops forward with a jerk. For an instant,
Lydia bends and peers close into his face. Then,
with a quick sigh of relief.
Lydia.
Come, Richard! Let us finish our dance.
[Again, invisible violins take up the tune for the
minuetting lovers, and it is perhaps guided by this that
Martin, a moment later, wistfully reënters the
garden. But once there, he goes swiftly to Sanford
and bends over him.
Martin.
[After a quick glance.] Dead! Oh, my God! [For a moment,
with incredulous eyes, he watches the delicate, rhythmic bending and
swaying of the young forms; then, with a smothered cry, he rushes
forward and raises indignant hands to stop them. And as, in their
grave and gay abandon they dance on, Martin, seeming
to derive fresh support from the backward glance he flings the body,
tries to catch Lydia by her curls. Martin
indignantly.] How dare you, you little—little——
[But, untouched, Lydia glides past him,
her light laughter mingling with the wind. Then, as
Martin slinks back, beaten, his eyes full of
wonder, an impalpable tremor passes over the garden. The
violins fade; the moonlight shivers blue and chill, and
Lydia runs with a cry to Richard.
Lydia.
Oh, my dearest—not yet! Not yet!
Richard.
[Tremulously, holding her fast.] We had just begun! We had
waited a whole year!
Lydia.
[In a panic of longing.] Oh, Richard! Richard! The church
clock has struck! In a moment—— [Pointing a trembling finger
within.] our clock!
Richard.
[As the whirring noise begins that precedes the stroke.] My
darling—next year——
Lydia.
[As before.] Oh, stop it! Stop it! [Her head against his
breast.] Oh, Richard, I—I haven’t seen the nursery yet!
[Then, as the clock strikes ONE, her features change. She
gathers up her little prayer-book, slips a decorous, mitted
hand within the arm he gravely offers her, and together,
passing Sanford’s body without a glance, they
turn away down the little path.
Martin.
[Stepping forward and leaning over the body.] Too bad! [Then,
his eyes young and wistful as they follow the retreating figures.]
But Bird’s Nest was built for lovers!
CURTAIN
AMATEURS’ SUPPLIES
| PREPARED BURNT CORK—Will not dry out. Always in condition for immediate use.
Easily removed. Enough for four people. Per box (about 2 oz.) |
$ .30 |
| One-half lb., $1.00; per lb. |
1.85 |
| SPIRIT GUM—For sticking on whiskers, etc. Easily removed with Cocoa Butter or
Cold Cream. Per bottle. |
.35 |
| COLD CREAM—For removing grease paints, spirit gum, etc. In tubes. |
.30 |
| COCOA BUTTER—For same purpose as Cold Cream. |
.30 |
| CLOWN WHITE—For Pantomimes, Clowns, Statuary, etc. Per box. |
.30 |
| CARMINE LINER—Per stick. |
.30 |
| BLUE—For the eyes. Per stick. |
.30 |
| EYE BROW PENCILS—Black, Brown. In nickel-plated metal tubes. Each. |
.25 |
| GRENADINE OR LIP ROUGE. |
.35 |
| THEATRICAL BLENDING POWDER—Thoroughly hides oily appearance of grease paints.
Not to be confused with street powder. No. 1, White; No. 2, Flesh; No. 3, Brunette; No. 4, Rose
Tint for juvenile heroes; No. 7, Healthy Sunburn; No. 10, Sallow for both young and old age; No. 11,
all ruddy exposed characters; No. 17, American Indian, East Indian, Othello. |
.40 |
| ROUGE DE THEATRE—No. 18, Medium shade for juvenile and fair complexion; No. 36,
Brunette for decided brunette types; No. 24, Deep Rose for darker hues. Per box. |
.35 |
| HAIR POWDER—White only. To gray or whiten the hair or beard. |
.35 |
| POWDER PUFFS—For applying blending powder. |
.30 |
| HARE’S FEET—For blending make-up. |
.30 |
| STOMPS—Leather, for lining face for wrinkles, etc. |
.30 |
| NOSE PUTTY—For building up nose or chin. |
.35 |
| EMAIL NOIR OR BLACK WAX—Black, for stopping out teeth. |
.35 |
| WATER COSMETIQUE or MASCARO—White, Black, Dark Brown, Light Brown, Blonde, Red,
for coloring the beard, eyebrows or hair at temples to match wig. Removed with soap and water.
Each. |
.35 |
| MAKE-UP PENCILS—Light Flesh, Dark Flesh, Brown, Black, White, Gray, Carmine, Pink
and Crimson. Set in a box. |
1.35 |
| LINING PENCILS—Black, Brown, Crimson, Gray and White. Each. |
.20 |
| LADIES’ BEAUTY BOX—For stage or toilet use. Contains Flesh Color Face
Powder, Theatrical Cold Cream, Theatre Rouge, Eyebrow Pencil, Powder Puff, Hare’s Foot, Flesh Color
Exora Cream and Lip Rouge. |
1.35 |
| MAKE-UP BOX—For either Gentleman or Lady, a handsome japanned tin case,
with lock and key, and containing the following articles: A set of Grease Paints (nine colors),
Blending Powder (two colors), Rouge de Theatre, Eyebrow Pencil, Grenadine or Lip Rouge, Blue for
the Eyes, Nose Putty, Email Noir or Black Wax, Mascaro or Water Cosmetique and Brush, Spirit Gum
and Brush, Powder Puff, Cocoa Butter, Burnt Cork, Two Artist’s Stomps, Hare’s Foot, Mirror, Scissors
and Five Colors of Crepe Hair. All these articles are of the best quality. The actual listed value of
the articles enumerated, all of which are included with our complete Make-Up Box, would be over $7.00;
so that the handsome carrying case is included at no additional cost when you buy this outfit.
By express, shipping charges not paid. |
7.00 |
GREASE PAINTS
| No. |
|
| 1. |
Very Pale Flesh Color. |
| 2. |
Light Flesh, Deeper Tint. |
| 3. |
Natural Flesh Color for Juvenile Heroes. |
| 4. |
Rose Tint Color for Juvenile Heroes. |
| 5. |
Deeper Shade Color for Juvenile Heroes. |
| 6. |
Healthy Sunburnt for Juvenile Heroes. |
| 7. |
Healthy Sunburnt, Deeper Shade. |
| 8. |
Sallow, for Young Men. |
| 9. |
Healthy Color, for Middle Age. |
| 10. |
Sallow, for Old Age. |
| 11. |
Ruddy, for Old Age. |
| 12. |
Olive, Healthy. |
| 13. |
Olive, Lighter Shade. |
| 14. |
Gypsy Flesh Color. |
| 15. |
Othello. |
| 16. |
Chinese. |
| 17. |
Indian. |
| 18. |
East Indian. |
| 19. |
Japanese. |
| 20. |
Light Negro. |
| 21. |
Black. |
| 22. |
White. |
(Done up in sticks of 4 inches in length at 30c each.)
MISCELLANEOUS SUPPLIES FOR YOUR MINSTREL SHOW
| Minstrel Chorus Wigs (special price by the dozen), each |
$1.25 |
| End Men’s Fancy Wig |
2.25 |
| Fright Wig (Mechanical) |
3.00 |
| “Uncle Tom” Wig |
2.25 |
| “Topsy” Wig |
2.25 |
| Sonnetts or Clappers (per pair) |
.25 |
| Paper Collars (end men) |
.15 |
| Dress Shirt Fronts |
.35 |
| Stage Jewelry: Shirt Stud |
.50 |
| Large Diamond Ring |
.75 |
| Stage Money: 20 sheets |
.10 |
| 100 sheets |
.40 |
Always send your orders to
WALTER H. BAKER CO., Boston, Mass.
