Act First

Scene I. It is a morning in Spring in Philip Fleming’s private office at the mill. Bright sunlight floods the room at first. Later it becomes cloudy until at the end of the act, rain is falling fitfully.

The room is handsomely furnished, There is a table in the center at the back between two windows. Above the table and attached to the wall is a cabinet with a mirror in the door. In the right corner is an umbrella-stand and hat-rack beside a door leading to the street. There are two windows below the door. A little to the right of the center of the room is an armchair, and in the same position on the left is a flat-top office desk, with a chair on either side. Behind it on the left is a door leading to the mill. There is a bunch of flowers on the desk, and two silver frames holding pictures of Margaret and Lucy. There are also pictures on the wall, including one of the mill and one of Philip’s father as a young man.

As the curtain rises, Bobby enters from the left with a desk-basket of mail, which he places on the desk. He rearranges the chairs slightly. As he is about to go out a key is heard in the door on the right. Bobby pauses expectantly. Philip Fleming, carrying an umbrella and a rain-coat, enters from the street door on the right. He is a well dressed, prosperous, happy-looking man about thirty-five. He hangs up his hat and coat, and places his umbrella in the stand. Then he glances carelessly into the hat-rack mirror and runs his hand lightly over his hair.

Philip. (In a friendly manner.) Good morning, Bobby. Bossy. (Grinning appreciatively.) Good morning, sir.

(Philip goes to his desk and, shifting one or two articles out of his way, begins the duties of the day.)

Philip. Did you get wet this morning in that big shower? Bossy. Yes, sir, a little, but I’m all right now.

(Philip glances rapidly through the letters and with an eager manner, selects two large envelopes, opens one, glances through a document it contains and places it in his inside coat-pocket with a satisfied smile.) Philip, (Chatting, as he continues his work.) Still doing the four mile sprint? Bossy, Yes, sir. Oh, I like it, sir—when it don’t rain.

(Philip opens other letters rapidly, glancing with a quick, comprehensive eye through each before placing it in the growing heap on the desk.)

Philip. How about the bicycle? Bossy. Well, sir, Mr. Foster says he thinks he’ll be able to recommend me for a raise pretty soon, if I keep up my record.

Philip. (Looking at him quizzically.) A raise, Bobby? Bossy. Yes, Mr. Fleming, and my mother says I can save all I get and I guess I’ll have a bicycle pretty soon then.

Philip. How long have you been here? Bossy. Six months the day after tomorrow.

Philip. (Smiling kindly.) I guess I’ll have to talk to Foster, myself. Bossy. Oh, thank you, Mr. Fleming.

(Philip opens a letter which appears to disturb him. He pauses over it with a worried frown.)

Philip. Ask Mr. Foster to come here at once, please. (As Bossy starts to go.) And tell Williams I want to see him. Bossy. Yes, sir. (He goes out the door on the left. There is a moment’s pause, and then Foster enters from the same door. He is a bright, active young man about twenty-eight or thirty.)

Philip. Good morning, Foster.

Foster. Good morning, Mr. Fleming.

Philip. Here’s a letter from the receiver for Reed and Vorst. He wants to know if we’ll accept an immediate settlement of forty percent.

Foster. (Becoming serious.) Gee, Mr. Fleming, I don’t see how we can. I was depending on at least fifty percent to carry us through the summer. It’s always a dull season, you know, and—

Philip. Why, we have more orders now than we had this time last year.

Foster. Yes, I know, sir. But, I was going to speak to you. The Cotton Exchange Bank doesn’t want to renew those notes.

Philip. Doesn’t, eh? Well, then, we’ll have to accept Reed and Vorst’s offer.

Foster. I think it would be a mistake just now, sir. If we hold out they’ve got big assets.

Philip. Can’t be helped. I’m hard-pressed.

We’re short of ready money.

Foster. I don’t understand it. We’ve had a better winter than we’ve had for years.

Philip. (Smiling.) That last little flier I took wasn’t as successful as the former ones.

Foster. You’ve been too lenient with the retailers.

Philip. “Live and let live” ’s my motto.

Foster. I’d hate to see anything happen to the mill.

Philip. Nothing’s going to happen. Let me do the worrying. Our credit’s good. I’ll raise the money tomorrow.

Foster. I hope so, sir. Anything else?

Philip. (Giving him the letters.) Wire the answers to these right away. That’s all.

Foster. All right, sir. (He goes out.)

(Philip takes up a large sheet of paper which contains a report from one of the departments of the mill. He scans it closely and makes some calculations upon a sheet of paper. Williams enters.)

Philip. (Looking up.) Good morning, Williams.

(Williams is quite an old man, but has the attitude of one who knows his business and can do things. He stands with bent shoulders and arms hanging limp. He is chewing tobacco, and speaks with a quick, sharp, New England accent.)

Williams. Good morning, Mr. Fleming.

Philip. (Holding the report in his hand.)

Williams, a short time ago you told me that the main supply belt in the finishing room was only repaired a few times during the last six months. I find here from your report that it has broken down about twice a week since last January.

How long does it take to make a repair?

Williams. Oh, sometimes about ten minutes—other times again, twenty minutes.

We have done it in five minutes.

Philip. There are about one hundred and ten operators in that room?

Williams. One hundred and seven.

Philip. Why, you should have reported this condition the first week it arose. Poor economy, Williams. (He makes a few, rapid calculations upon the back of a report.) Twelve hundred dollars lost time.

(He shakes his head.) We could have bought a new belt a year ago and saved money in the bargain.

Williams. I told Mr. Baker several times, sir, in the beginning and he didn’t seem to think anything of it.

Philip. Well, report all such details to me in the future. (He writes a few lines rapidly and rings the bell. Bobby enters briskly.) Tell Mr. Foster to get those firms over long distance, and whichever one can make the quickest delivery to place orders there—see? Bossy. Yes, sir. (He has a soiled card in his hand, which he offers to Philip with a grin.) A man outside told me to hand you his visiting card.

Williams. Is that all, sir?

Philip. Yes. (He smiles as he reads the card.) Joe Fletcher! Tell him to come in.

(He resumes work at his desk. Williams goes out.) Bossy. Yes, sir. (He follows Williams.))

(After a moment Joe Fletcher enters. He is a man of middle age, well made but heavy and slouching in manner. He has a keen, shrewd eye in a weak and dissipated face, which is made attractive, nevertheless, by a genial and ingratiating smile. He is wearing a shabby linen coat called a “duster,” which hangs, crushed and limp, from his neck to his ankles.

Strung from his left shoulder is a cord hung with sponges of various sizes. Several lengths of chamois are dangling with the sponges across his breast and back, draping his right hip and leg. In one hand he has a weather beaten satchel. He carries by a leather thong a heavy stone hanging from a cracked plate. There are two holes in the rim of the plate through one of which runs the thong by which it is carried. The other, the big stone, is fastened to it with a piece of chain. He carries it unconscious of its weight. There is a pervading sense of intimacy between the man and his equipment, and from his battered hat to his spreading shoes the stains of the road, like a varnish, bind them together in a mellow fellowship.)

Philip. Hello, Joe. (He looks at him with humorous curiosity.)

Joe. (Light-heartedly.) How d’do, Mr. Fleming. (His voice is broken and husky. He gives a little, dry cough now and then in an ineffectual attempt to clear it. He crosses to the corner of the table, and shows by his step that his feet are sore and swollen.)

Philip. What are you doing now, Joe?

Joe. (Indicating his effects. While he talks he places the stone against a corner of the table on the floor, and puts the valise on the edge of the table.) Traveling merchant; agent for Brummell’s Giant Cement; professional corn doctor—soft and hard corns—calluses—bunions removed instantly, ingrowing nails treated ’thout pain or loss of blood—or money refunded. Didn’t ye read m’card? (He coughs.)

Philip. (Laughing.) Well, not all of it, Joe.

Joe. (Reminiscently.) Inventor of Dr. Fletcher’s famous cough mixture, warranted to cure coughs—colds, hoarseness and loss o’ voice. An infallible remedy fur all chronic conditions of the pullmon-ary organs. (He coughs again.) When not too fur gone. (He takes a labelled bottle, containing a brown mixture from his inside pocket, shakes it and holds it up proudly before Philip.) Kin I sell ye a bottle? (He smiles ingratiatingly.)

Philip. (Smiling but shaking his head.) No, Joe, I guess not today.

Joe. (Opening the satchel insinuatingly.) Mebbe a few boxes o’ corn salve? It’s great. (Philip shakes his head.) Would ye like to consider a box o’ cement?

Philip. (Still smiling.) No, but I’ll take one of those big sponges.

Joe. I thought I could sell ye something.

(He unhooks a large sponge and lays it upon the desk. Philip hands him a bill. He takes it carelessly, looks at it, shakes his head regretfully and puts it into his pocket. Then he feels in his other pocket and taps his vest pockets.) Gosh, I’m sorry, but I ain’t got a bit of change.

Philip. Oh, never mind the change, Joe.

(He laughs indulgently.)—

Joe. (Regretfully.) Well, Id feel better if I hed the change. (Joe has been standing to the left of the desk.) Kin I set down fur a minnit, Mr. Fleming? M’feet gets so tired..

Philip. Yes, Joe, sit down.

Joe. I’ got pretty wet a while ago in that shower. My, but it did come down.

Philip. (Warmly.) Perhaps you’d like a hot drink? (He indicates with a nod of the head, the cabinet back of Joe, as the latter is about to sit down. Joe shows a lively interest.)

Joe. (Glancing at Philip with a shy twinkle in his eye.) Oh, kin I, Mr. Fleming? Thank ye. (He shuffles over to the cabinet, opens the door and gloats over the vision of joy which greets him. He selects a bottle.)

Philip. Hold on, Joe. Wait for some hot water.

Joe. (Hastily.) No, thank ye. I’m afraid I’d be like the Irishman in the dream.

Philip. What was that, Joe?

Joe. (As he pours out a generous portion.) Well, the Irishman was dreaming that he went to see the priest, and the priest asked him to have a drink. “I will, thank ye kindly,” says Pat. “Is it hot or cold. ye’ll have it?” says the priest? “Hot, if ye plaze, yer Riverence,” says Pat, and while they were waiting fur the hot water, Pat wakes up. “Bad luck to me,” says he, “why didn’t I take it cold?” (He drains the glass, smacks his lips and chuckles.) My, but that’s good stuff! Mr. Fleming, are ye as fond of it yourself as ye used to be?

Philip. (Smiling and shaking his head.) No, Joe. I’ve got through with all that foolishness. I’ve sowed my wild oats.

Joe. (Chuckling as he sits in the chair.) You must have got a pretty slick crop out 0’ yourn. Philip, Every man gets a pretty full crop of those, Joe, before he gets through. Jog. Ye’ve turned over a new leaf, eh?

Philip. Yes—married.

Joe. Married?

Philip. Yes, and got a baby.

Joe. Thet so! Did ye marry out’n the mill?

Philip. Oh, no. She was a Miss Thorp, of Niagara. (He hands the picture of the child to Joe.) Joe, (Showing interest immediately, and gazing at the picture, while gradually a gentle responsive smile plays over his features. He says, admiringly.) By George! that’s a great baby! (He gives a chuckling laugh at it.) Boy?

Philip. (Proudly.) No. Girl!

Joe. Thet so! Should a thought you’d a wanted a boy. (With sly significance, and chuckling at his own joke.) Ye’ve hed so many girls. Philip, (He laughs lightly.) Tut, tut, Joe, no more of that for me. (He hands him the frame containing Margaret’S picture.) My wife.

Joe. (His expression becoming grave as the sweetness and dignity of the face touches him. He takes a long breath.) My, but that’s a fine face, Gee, if she’s as good as that, you’re a lucky man, Mr. Fleming.

Philip. Yes, Joe, I’ve got more than I deserve, I guess. (He becomes serious for the first time and a shadow flits over his face. He sighs.)

Joe. (Sympathetically.) Oh, I understand just how you feel. I’m married m’self.

(He sits down facing the audience, his hands clasped, his thumbs gently rolling over each other. A far-away tender look comes into his eyes.)

Philip. (Surprised.) Married? (Joe nods his head.) Where’s your wife?

Joe. Left me. (He gives a sigh of self pity.)

Philip. (Touched.) Left you! (He shakes his head compassionately, then the thought comes to him.) If my wife left me I’d kill myself.

Joe. (Philosophically.) Oh, no, no, ye wouldn’t. You’d get over it, just as I did.

(He sighs.)

Philip. How did it happen? What did you do?

Joe. (Innocently.) Not a durn thing! She was a nice, German woman, too. She kept a gent’s furnishing store down in South Boston, and I married her.

Philip. (Recovering himself and speaking gaily.) Oh, Joe. (He shakes his head in mock reproval.) You married her for her money, eh? (He laughs at him.) Joe (Ingenuously.) No, I didn’t, honest.

I thought I might get a whack at the till once in a while, but I didn’t.

Philip. (Quizzing him.) Why not, Joe?

Joe. She fixed me up a pack and sent me out on the road to sell goods, and when I got back, she was gone. There was a new sign on the store, “Isaac Litchenstein, Ladies and Gents’ Drygoods.” (He draws a big sigh.) Philip, And you’ve never seen her since?

Joe. (Shaking his head sadly.) No, siree, never!

Philip. (Serious again, impressed by Jor.)

That’s pretty tough, Joe.

(Bossy enters.) Bossy. Doctor Larkin would like to see you, sir.

Joe. (Gathering himself and his merchandise together.) Well, I guess I’ll get out and drum up a few sales. Much obliged to you, Mr. Fleming.

Philip. Oh, stop at the house, Joe. Mrs.

Fleming might want something. It’s the old place on Linden Street.

Joe. Got a dog?

Philip. Yes. Joe, That settles it.

Philip. Only a pug, Joe.

Joe. Oh, a snorer. I’ll sell him a bottle of cough mixture. (As Dr. Larkin enters.)

Hello, Doe! How are you? Raining?

(Joe goes to the door on the right, crossing the Doctor who is walking toward Philip on the left.)

Doctor. (Looking at him, mystified.) Good morning, sir, No, it’s not raining. (Joe goes out. Dr. Larkin is a tall, gaunt man who looks older than he is, with quite a stoop in his shoulders. He has dark brown hair and a beard, streaked with grey, and soft, kind blue eyes. He carries the medicine satchel of a homeopathic physician.

His manner is usually distant and cold but extremely quiet and gentle. In the opening of this scene he is perturbed and irritated, later he becomes stern and authoritative.)

Philip. Good morning, Doctor Larkin.

Doctor. (Turning to Put.) Who is that fellow? (He looks after Joe as he goes out.)

Philip. Don’t you remember him? That’s Joe Fletcher. (Philip is standing to the right of the desk, and Doctor Larkin at the left center of the stage.)

Doctor. Is that Joe Fletcher? Why he used to be quite a decent sort of fellow. Wasn’t he a foreman here in your father’s time?

Philip. Yes, he was one of the best men in the mill.

Doctor. (Shaking his head.) He is a sad example of what liquor and immorality will bring a man to. He has indulged his appetites until he has no real moral nature left.

Philip. (Lightly.) Oh, I don’t think Joe ever had much “moral nature.” (The sunlight leaves the room. It is growing cloudy outside.)

Doctor. Every man has a moral nature. In this case it is love of drink that has destroyed it. There are some men who are moral lepers, even lacking the weakness of the tippler as an excuse.

Philip. Have you been to the house, doctor? About midnight Margaret thought little Lucy had a fever. She was going to call you up—but—

Doctor. (Abruptly.) She would not have found me in at midnight.

Philip. Ah, is that so? Someone very ill?

(The telephone rings.) Excuse me, doctor. Hello. Oh, is that you, Margaret? How is Lucy now? Good! I knew she’d be all right. Yes, of course. Do—bring her. (To the Doctor.) She’s bringing baby to the phone. Hello, Lucy. Many happy returns of the day. Good-bye. Yes, I’ll be home at twelve sharp. Apple pie? Yes, of course, I like it. That is, your apple pie.

(He leaves the phone with a joyous air.) This is baby’s birthday, you know, doctor.

Doctor. I’ve just left a baby (He speaks bitterly, looking at Philip significantly.) that should never have had a birthday.

Philip. (Without noticing the Doctor’s manner, he goes to the cabinet and, taking a box of cigars, offers the box to the Doctor.) Why, Doctor, you’re morbid today. Take a cigar, it will quiet your nerves..

(The rain begins to fall, beating heavily against the windows.)

Doctor. No, thank you. (With a subtle shade of repugnance in his tone.) I’ll smoke one of my own.

(Philip smiles indulgently, goes to the desk, sits in the chair to the left of it, lights a cigar, leans back luxuriously, with his hands in his pockets, and one leg over the other, and tips back the legs of the chair.)

Philip. (Carelessly.) What’s the matter, doctor? You used to respect my cigars.

Doctor. (Hotly.) I used to respect you.

Philip. (Rather surprised but laughing good-naturedly.) Well, doctor, and don’t you now? (He is bantering him.)

Doctor. (Quietly but sternly.) No, I don’t.

Philip. (Smoking placidly.) Good Lord— why?.

Doctor. (His satchel resting upon his knees, his hands clasping the metal top, he leans over a trifle and, looking impressively into Philip’s face, says, in a low, calm voice.) At two o’clock last night Lena Schmidt gave birth to a child.

Philip. (Becoming livid with amazement and fear, and staring blankly before him, the cigar dropping from his parted lips.) In God’s name, how did they come to send for you?

Doctor. Doctor Taylor—he called me in consultation. He was frightened after the girl had been in labor thirty-six hours.

Philip. (Murmuring to himself.) Thirty-six hours! Good God! (There is a pause, then he partly recovers himself.) I suppose she told you?

Doctor. She told me nothing. It was a lucky thing for you that I was there. The girl was delirious.

Philip. Delirious! Well, I’ve done all I could for her, doctor.

Doctor. Have you? (His tone is full of scorn.) Put. She’s had all the money she wanted.

Doctor. Has she? (He speaks in the same tone.)

Philip. I tried to get her away months ago, but she wouldn’t do it. She was as stubborn as a mule.

Doctor. Strange she should want to remain near the father of her child, isn’t it?

Philip. If she’d done as I told her to, this thing would never have happened.

Doctor. You’d have forced some poor devil to run the risk of state’s prison. By God, you’re worse than I thought you were.

Philip. Why, doctor, you must think I’m—

Doctor. I don’t think anything about it. I know just what brutes such men as you are.

Philip. Well, I’m not wholly to blame. You don’t know the whole story, doctor.

Doctor. I don’t want to know it. The girl’s not to blame. She’s a product of her environment. Under present social conditions, she’d probably have gone wrong anyhow. But you! God Almighty! If we can’t look for decency in men like you— representative men,—where in God’s name are we to look for it, I’d like to know?

Philip. If my wife hears of this, my home will be ruined.

Doctor. (Scornfully.) Your home! Your home! It is just such damn scoundrels as you that make and destroy homes.

Philip. Oh, come now, doctor, aren’t you a little severe?

Doctor. Severe! Severe! Why, do you realize, if this thing should become known, it will stir up a stench that will offend the moral sense of every man, woman and child in this community?

Philip. Well, after all, I’m no worse than other men. Why, I haven’t seen the girl for months.

Doctor. Haven’t you? Well, then suppose you go and see her now.

Philip. (He springs to his feet.) I’ll do nothing of the sort.

Doctor. Yes, you will. She shan’t lie there and die like a dog.

Philip. (He walks around the room greatly perturbed.) I tell you I’ll not go!

Doctor. Yes, you will.

Philip. (He comes over to the Doctor and looks down upon him.) What’ll you do if I don’t?

Doctor. I don’t know, but you’d best go and see that girl.

Philip. (He turns away.) Well, what do you want me to say to her?

Doctor. Lie to her as you have before. Tell her you love her.

Philip. I never lied to her. I never told her I loved her.

Doctor. Faugh!

Philip. I tell you I never did!

Doctor. (Rising from his chair.) You’d better get Mrs. Fleming away from here ‘until this thing blows over. When I think of a high-minded, splendid little woman like her married to a man like you—ugh!

(The Doctor goes out quickly.)

(Philip, left alone, walks about like an old man, seems dazed for a moment, then goes mechanically to the telephone.) Philip, Lindon, 3721. Margaret. (He speaks in a broken, hushed voice.) Margaret! Yes, it’s I, Philip. Yes! Well, I’m tired. No, I can’t come home now. I will not be home to luncheon. I have a business engagement. No, I cannot break it off. It’s too important. Eh? Why, with a man from Boston. Yes, certainly, I will, just as soon as I can get away. Yes, dear —I will—good-bye. (Just before he finishes, Foster enters.) Hello, Foster.

Foster. (Consulting a memorandum.) I couldn’t get the Harry Smith Company, New York, until noon, sir. They say that the belting can be shipped by fast express at once. The Boston people want ten cents a square foot more than they ask, but we can save that in time and express rates.

Philip. When would the New York shipment get here?

Foster. At the earliest, tomorrow afternoon.

Philip. White and Cross can ship at once, you say?

Foster. Yes, sir.

Philip. Well, give them the order. Their stuff is better, anyhow. Have a covered wagon at the station for the four-ten train. Keep enough men over time tonight to put it up,

Foster. Yes, sir, the sooner it’s done, the better.

Philip. Yes, Williams is getting old. He’s not the best man for that finishing room. Put him where you can keep an eye on him. He’s all right. I have an appointment and will not be in the office again today. Get the interest on those notes off.

Foster. Yes, I’ve attended to that already. Anything else?

Philip. No.

Foster. All right, sir. Good morning.

(Philip who has braced himself for this, relaxes again. The rain continues. He goes about the room, lights a cigar, puts on a rain-coat, looks at his watch, buttons his coat, all the while sunk in deep thought.

He takes his umbrella and hat and goes out quietly, shutting the door so that the click of the latch is heard, as the curtain falls.)

Scene 2. The scene is the living-room in Margaret’s home. At the back large glass doors open on to a spacious porch with a garden beyond. There is a fire-place with logs burning, in the corner on the left, and beside it a French window opening on the garden. Below it is a door leading to another room. There is another door on the right going to the main part of the house, There is a table in the center, a baby grand piano on the lower right, and a baby carriage close by the doors at the back. The room is furnished in exquisite taste showing in its distinct character the grace and individuality of a well-bred— woman, Margaret is seated in a low rocking-chair near the fire with the baby in her lap. A large bath towel is spread across her knees. She is exquisitely dressed in an evening gown. Maria Bindley, the nurse-maid, is dressed in a black dress, cap and apron. She is a middle-aged German woman, dark in complexion, and of medium build and height. She speaks with a not too pronounced German accent. She is gathering up the baby’s garments which are scattered about Margaret’s feet. She is furtively weeping and makes an occasional effort to overcome her emotion. Margaret is putting the last touches to the baby’s night toilet. She is laughing and murmuring mother talk to her. A shaded lamp is burning on the table to the right. The effect of the light is subdued. The glare of the fire is the high note, making a soft radiance about Margaret and the child. Maria is in the shadow, except as she flits into the light whenever she moves near Margaret. The sound of the rain beating against the windows, is heard now and then.

Margaret. (In a low, laughing tone.) No— no—no! You little beggar. You’ve had your supper! (She fastens the last two or three buttons of her dress.) No more! Time to go to sleep now! No use staying awake any longer for naughty father. Two, whole, hours—late! No, he doesn’t care a bit about you; not a bit! (She shakes her head.) No, nor me either. Never mind, darling, we’ll punish him well for this. Yes, we will. Perhaps we’ll leave him some day, and then we’ll see how he likes being left alone. Naughty, bad father—isn’t he? Yes he is! Staying away all day! Never mind, ladybird— hush, go to sleep now—Mother loves her! Go to sleep—close your eyes. (This is all said in a cooing, soothing voice, She begins to sing a lullaby.) Go—to—sleep— blossom—go to sl—

(Maria comes close to Margaret and picks up two little socks. As she rises, she sniffs in an effort to suppress her tears. This attracts Margaret’S attention, and immediately she is all commiseration.)

Margaret. Don’t cry, Maria—please don’t —it distresses me to see you cry.

Maria. (Smiling a little at Margaret’S sympathy. As she talks, she smooths the socks and folds them.) I cannot help it, Mrs. Fleming—I am an unhappy woman. I try not to ery, but I cannot keep back de tears. (She puts the socks in the basket on the table.) I have had an unhappy life —my fadder vas a brute. (She picks up the dress and shakes it.) My first husband, Ralph Bindley, vas a goot, honest man. (She puts the dress in the basket.) Und my second husband vas dot tramp vot vas here dis morning. Vat I have told you aboudt already. (She gathers together the other garments.) Und now my sister—my little Lena—is dying.

Margaret. (In dismay.) Dying! Why, you didn’t tell me that, Maria!

Maria. Vell, she is not dying yust this very moment, but the doctor says she vill never leave dot bed alive. My sweet little Lena! My lovely little sister. I have nursed her, Mrs. Fleming, yust like you nurse your baby now.

Margaret. (Holding the child to her breast.) What did you say her name was?

Maria. (Working mechanically and putting the things neatly away.) Lena,— Lena Schmidt. She does not go by my name—she goes by my fadder’s name. Margaret, And, you say, she ran away from you?

Maria. Ya—I tried to find her every place. I hunted high und low, but she does not come, und von day I meet an olt friend on Vashington Street, Chris Anderson, und Chris, he tell me that two or three weeks before he see her by the public gartens. Und she vas valking by the arm of a fine, handsome gentleman—und she look smiling and happy, und Chris, he says dot he knows dot gentleman—dot he vas a rich man vot lives down in Canton where Chris vonce worked when he comes to dis country first.

Margaret. And didn’t you ask the man’s name?

Maria. Ach, I forget. Und Chris go back to de olt country, und I never find out. Und den I tink maybe she is married to dot man—und she is ashamed of me and dot miserable husband of mine. I say to myself, “I vill go and see—und find oudt if she is happy.” Den I vill go far away, where she vill never see me again. Und I come here to Canton, und at last I find her—und Ach Gott! She is going to be a mutter—und she is no man’s vife! (She has been weeping silently but has continued to work, only pausing at some point in her story that moved her.)

Margaret. (Deeply touched.) Did she tell you the man’s name?

Maria. Ach! No! You could not drag dot oudt of her mit red-hot irons. She says she loves dis man, und she vill make him no trouble. But, by Gott, I vill find dot man oudt, und I vill choke it from his troat. (She is beside herself with vindictive passion.)

Margaret. (Terrified at her ferocity and crushing her child to her breast.) Oh, Maria—don’t—please don’t! You frighten me!

Maria. (At once all humility.) Excuse me, Mrs. Fleming. I did not mean to do dot.

Margaret. (Kindly.) You need not remain any longer. I can manage baby myself. You had best go to your sister at once. If I can be of any help to you, please tell me, won’t you?

Maria. Ya, Mrs. Fleming, I tank you. Und if she is vorse maybe I stay all night.

Margaret. Yes, certainly. You need not come back tonight.

Maria. (Very softly and humbly.) I am much obliged to you, Mrs. Fleming.

Margaret. (As Maria is going.) Oh! You had best take my rain-coat.

Maria. Ah, you are very goot, Mrs. Fleming. (She has finished her work and is going but hesitates a moment and turns back.) If you please, don’t tell Mr. Fleming about me und my poor sister!

Margaret. (Slightly annoyed.) Decidedly not! Why should I tell such things to him?

Maria. Vell—men don’t have sympathy mit peoples like us. He is a fine gentleman, und if he knowed about her—he might not like to have me by his vife und child. He might tink 7 vas as badt as she was. Good night, Mrs. Fleming.

Margaret. Good night, Maria. No need to hurry back in the morning. (There is a wistful sympathy in her face. As her eyes rest upon the door through which Maria has passed, she is lost in thought. Presently a door slams, then she is all alert with expectation, There is a moment’s pause, she listens then quickly puts the child in the baby carriage and runs to the door.) Is that you, Philip?;

Jane. (Outside.) No, ma’am, it is not Mr. Fleming. It was only the post man.

(Margaret turns away with a sigh of disappointment, goes to the French window and peers out at the rain.

The Maw enters with several letters, leaves them on the table and goes out. Margaret turns from the window, brushes the tears away impatiently, and drifts purposelessly across the room toward the right, her hands clasped behind her back.

Finding herself at the piano she listlessly sits before it and plays a plaintive air, softly. Then suddenly she dashes into a prelude to a gay love song. As she sings half through a stanza, the song gradually loses spirit. Her hands grow heavy over the keys, her voice breaks, and the words come slow and faltering. She ends by breaking into tears, with her head lowered and her fingers resting idly upon the keys. The child attracts her and she goes quickly to her. She laughs through her tears into the wide-open eyes, and begins scolding her for not going to sleep.

Soft endearing notes come and go in her voice. A tender joy takes possession of her spirit. She takes the child in her arms.)

Margaret. Well, my lady, wide awake! Come, come, no more nonsense, now! No. Go to sleep! Late hours—will—certainly spoil—your beauty. Yes! Close up your eyes—quick! Come! There, that’s nice. She’s a sweet, good child! (She hums.) Go—to—sleep! (She sways slowly from right to left, then swinging with a rhythmic step with the lullaby, she lilts softly.) Blow, blow, Blossom go—into the world below—I am the west wind wild and strong—blossoms must go when they hear my song. (She puts out the lamp, leaving the room in the warm glare of the firelight.) Go, little blossom, go—into the world below. Rain, rain, rain is here. Blossoms must learn to weep. (She reaches the French window. As she turns Philip is seen through the filmy curtains. He enters unnoticed.) I am the east wind, bleak and cold, poor little blossoms their petals must fold. Weep, little blossoms, weep, into your cradles creep. (She is unconscious of Philip’s presence. His rain-coat and hat are dripping wet. He is pale and weary, his manner is listless and abstracted and he looks as though he had been wandering about in the rain for hours. He drifts into the room. Margaret turns around and takes a step, her eyes upon the child, then her lullaby grows indistinct as she notices that the baby is asleep. Another step takes her into Philip’s arms. She gives a cry of alarm.) Margaret... Oh, Philip! You frightened me! Why did you do that?;

Philip. Why are you in the dark, Margaret?

(He goes toward her as if to take her in his arms.) Dearest!

Margaret. (Drawing back from him with a shade of petulance.) You’re all wet. Don’t come near baby. She was wakeful. I’ve put her to sleep. Where have you been all day?

Philip. Didn’t I tell you over the ’phone I had an engagement?

Margaret. (As she flits swiftly into the room on the left.) Did it take you all day to keep it? (She remains in the room long enough to put the child in the crib and then returns.)

Philip. Yes. A lot of things came up—that I didn’t expect. I’ve been detained. (He is still standing where she left him.)

Margaret. (Turning up the lamp.) Why, dear, look! Your umbrella is dripping all over the floor.

Philip. (Noticing the little puddle of water.) Oh, how stupid of me! (He hurries out the door on the right, removes his hat and rain-coat, leaves the umbrella, and returns quickly.)

(Margaret, meanwhile has mopped up the water. Then she turns on the lamp on the table to the right.)

Margaret. (Reproachfully.) We’ve been awfully lonesome here all day, baby and I!

Philip. (By the fire.) Forgive me, sweetheart. I’ve had a very hard day.

Margaret. Did you forget it was Lucy’s birthday?

Philip. (Smiling gravely.) No, I didn’t forget. You have both been in my mind the whole day.

Margaret. (Glowing with love and a welcome that she refused to give until now.) Oh, Philip! (She throws herself in his arms.) It’s good to get you back. So good! (After a moment she rings the bell. The Maid answers.) Jane, I wish you would serve dinner in here.

Jane. Yes, Mrs. Fleming.

Philip. (Drawing her close to him again.) Dear little wife! (As though a long time had passed since he parted from her.)

Jane. (Coming in with a tray containing food and silver, and going to the center table.) Shall I lay the table here, Mrs. Fleming?

Margaret. No—here—cosy—by the fire.

(Jane dresses the table deftly and without bustle. She goes away and returns with the dinner.) You need not return,

Jane. I’ll ring if we need you.

Jane. Very well, Mrs, Fleming. (She goes off.

Philip. (Sitting to the right of the table, and taking a large envelope from his pocket, he withdraws a bank book and hands it to Margaret, who is about to sit down on the left.) Here, Margaret—I want you to look over that.

Margaret. (Taking the book and reading the cover.) Margaret Fleming in account with Boston Providence Savings Bank.

(She opens the book and reads.) “By deposit, May 3, 1890, $5,000.” Five thousand dollars! Oh, Philip!

Philip. (Smiling complacently.) There’s something else.

Margaret. Yes? (Philip nods his head, and hands her a large envelope which he has taken from his pocket. She looks at it and reads.) “Margaret Fleming, guardian for Lucy Fleming.” (She takes a document from the envelope.) A certificate for $20,000 worth of United States bonds, maturing 1930. Why, Philip! How wonderful. But, can you afford it? (He smiles and nods his head, and then begins to serve the dinner. Margaret, in childish joy, rushes to the door of the room where the child is.) Oh, baby! Lucy! You are rich, rich! (She stops and peeps in.) Oh, my, I must not wake her. The little heiress! (She sits at the table and begins to serve.)

Philip. (Handing her another envelope. Tenderly.) For you Margaret!

Margaret. (Taking it and becoming breathless as she reads it.) It’s a deed for this house and all the land! Ah, Philip, how generous you are, and this is what has kept you away all day! And I was cross with you. (Tears come to her eyes.) Forgive me, dear, please do. (She goes to him and kneels by his side.) But, why do you do all this? What need? What necessity for me to have a deed of property from you?

Philip. Well, things have not been going just our way at the mill. The new tariff laws may help some, but I doubt it. At all events, before anything serious—

Margaret. (A little awed.) Serious?

Philip. Well, you never can be sure. At any rate, in times of stress a business man should protect his family.

Margaret. Is there danger—of—trouble?

Philip. No! I hope not. I think I’ll be able to tide it over.

Margaret. But, dear—you—this property, is worth a lot of money. Why not sell it? Wouldn’t that be a great help? A resource In case—

Philip. Sell the home?

Margaret. No, sell the house. The home is where we are. (She rises and stands partly back of his chair with her arms about his neck.) Where love is—no matter where, just so long as we three are there together. A big house—a little house —of course, I do love this place, where you were born, and baby—(Taking a long breath.) It’s very precious—but—

(She has moved back to the head of the table and now lays down the deed.) I cannot take it, dear. It frightens me. It’s too valuable—all this—land—no—let us guard it together and if bad times come, it will be—a fine thing to have—

Philip. (Protesting.) Now, my dear!

Margaret. I don’t want the responsibility.

Suppose something happened to me. (She sits at the table, on the left.)

Philip. Ah—Margaret—

Margaret. (Laughing.) Well—I just said “suppose.”

Philip. (Laughing.) Well—don’t say it.

We’ll think of nothing “suppose.” Nothing, but bright—beautiful things.

Margaret. Come, dear, eat. I should think you were famished. You’ve touched nothing yet.

Philip. I don’t feel hungry. I’m tired—awfully tired.;

Margaret. No wonder, after all you’ve been through today. I’ll make you a cup of tea.

(She rings the bell, Jane enters.) Boiling water, Jane, please, and bring the tea things. (While she is busy over the tea things she stops and looks at him quizzically.) Who was that tramp you sent here this morning?

Philip. (Innocently.) What tramp?

Margaret. Why, the one with the plate and the big stone—the cough medicine,—the sponges and the voice. (She imitates Joe.)

Philip. (Laughing.) Ah, he’s not a tramp —that’s Joe Fletcher.

Margaret. Did you know that he was Maria’s husband?

Philip. (Amazed.) What! Maria’s husband? What did he say to her?

Margaret. (Smiling reminiscently.) He didn’t say much—She did all the talking. Philip, What did she say?

Margaret. I don’t know. She spoke in German. I think, she was swearing at him.

When I came she had him by the ears and was trying to pull his head off. Then she got him to the floor and threw him down the front steps. It was the funniest thing I ever saw. I couldn’t help laughing, yet my heart ached for her.

Philip. Poor Joe! That’s the second time she’s thrown him out.

Margaret. She never did that before?

Philip. He says she did.

Margaret. Well, she didn’t. He robbed her and left her.

Philip. What?

Margaret. She went out on the road to sell goods and left him in charge of the shop. ‘When she came back he was gone and he had sold out the place to a secondhand dealer.

Philip. (In wonderment.) What a liar that fellow is!

Margaret. Well, if he told you any other story—he certainly is. (She notices a change in his face.) Why, Philip! You look awfully white! Are you ill? Are you keeping anything from me? Oh, please tell me—do. Let me share your trouble.

(She goes to him, and puts her arms about his shoulders, with her face against his as she finishes the last line.)

Philip. No—no—dear heart nothing!

There’s nothing more to tell. I’m very tired.

Margaret. Oh, how selfish of me. You should have gone to bed the moment you came.

Philip. I’ll be all right in the morning. I must have caught a chill. (He shudders.)

My blood seems to be congealed.

Margaret. (Alarmed.) Oh, my dear—my poor boy! It was a dreadful thing you did. (He starts guiltily.) Going about in the rain all day. (She goes swiftly into the room on the left and returns with a handsome dressing gown and slippers.

Philip has gone over to the fire.) I must give you some aconite. A hot drink—and a mustard foot bath. (She fusses over him, helps him to get into his dressing gown, and warms his slippers by the fire.)

Philip. I don’t think I need anything, dear, but a hot drink, perhaps, and a night’s rest. I’ll be all right in the morning. I think I’ll take a little brandy.

Margaret. (Quickly.) I’ll get it for you, dear. Keep by the fire. (She rushes out the door on the right, and returns quickly with a silver tray holding a cut-glass decanter of brandy and a glass. She pours out some and holds up the glass.) Is that enough?

Philip. Plenty—thank you! (He drinks it, while Margaret replaces the tray on the small table at the back.)

Margaret. Now, dear, I’ll look after that mustard bath.

Philip. (Protesting.) Oh, Margaret, please don’t bother. I really don’t need it.

Margaret. (Laughing at him.) Yes, you do.

(She shakes her finger threateningly at him.) You might just as well make up your mind that you’ve got to have it.

Philip. (Smiling resignedly.) All right—— “boss.”

Margaret. (Laughing at him as she starts to go.) You know, Philip, dear, you gave me the strangest feeling when you stood there—the rain dripping from you—you didn’t look a bit like yourself. (She gives an apologetic laugh.) You gave me a dreadful fright. Just like a spirit! A lost spirit. (She laughs again.) Now, wasn’t that silly of me? (She runs off to the right, still laughing.)

(Philip sits in the fire light looking sadly after her, as the curtain falls.)