Act Second

The scene is the same as the Second Scene of the First Act. The large doors at the back are open showing a luxuriant garden in brilliant sunshine. The baby is in her carriage by the garden door. Margaret, in a dainty house dress, is seated in a low chair in the center of the room, mending one of the baby’s dresses. Dr. Larkin, sitting at the table on the left with his back turned to her, is folding little packages of medicine. Margaret looks happy and contented as she chats with him.

Doctor. You say you have no pain in the eyes?

Margaret. No pain at all... only, once in awhile there is...a... sort of a dimness.

Doctor. Yes, a dimness.

Margaret. As if my eyes were tired.

Doctor. Yes!

Margaret. When I read too long, or...

Doctor. (Turning about and looking at her.) Do you know what would be a good thing for you to do?

Margaret. What, doctor?

Doctor. Wear glasses.

Margaret. Why, doctor, aren’t you dreadful! (She laughs at him.) Why, I’d look a sight,

Doctor. Well, it would be a good idea, all the same. You should wear glasses when you are reading or sewing, at least.

Margaret. (Laughing gaily at him.) Well, I’ll do nothing of the sort. Time enough for me to wear glasses, years and years from now.

Doctor. (Smiling indulgently.) It would be a good thing to do now. How is “Topsy” this morning?

Margaret. (Glancing proudly in the direction of the baby.) Oh, she’s blooming.

Doctor. Mrs. Fleming, any time you want to sell that baby, Mrs. Larkin and I will give you ten thousand dollars for her.

Margaret. (Laughing and beaming with pride.) Yes... doctor... when we want to sell her. How is Mrs. Larkin?

Doctor. She’s doing very nicely. I’m going to try to get her up to the mountains this summer. (He finishes the packages.) There... take one of these powders three times a day. Rest your eyes as much as possible. Don’t let anything fret or worry you, and keep out-doors all you can. (He closes the bag after putting a couple of bottles and a small medicine case in it.)

Margaret. Oh, doctor, aren’t you going to leave something for Philip?

Doctor. (Giving a dry, little grunt.) Hum! I forgot about him. (Standing by the table, he takes a small case from his satchel removes two large bottles of pellets from it, fills two phials from them and makes a number upon the cork of each with a fountain pen.) You say he was pretty wet when he came home last night?

Margaret. Yes, and tired out. He had a very hard day, I think. I never saw him so completely fagged. It seemed to me he had been tramping in the rain for hours. I gave him a good scolding too, I tell you. I doctored him up as well as I could and put him to bed. (Smiling contentedly.) He’s as bright as a lark this morning, but all the same, I insisted upon his remaining home for a, rest.

Doctor. You take good care of him, don’t you? (He beams upon her kindly.)

Margaret. (Playfully.) I’ve got to.. he’s all I have, and men like Philip are not picked up every day, now, I tell you.

Doctor. (Drily.) No, men like Philip Fleming are certainly not to be found easily.

Margaret. I hope there’s nothing wrong with him. I was worried last night. You know, he has been working awfully hard lately.

Doctor. (Kindly.) Now, don’t fret about imaginary ills. He’s probably a little over-worked. It might be a good idea to have him go away for a week or two,

Margaret. (Entering into the suggestion.) Yes...a little trip somewhere would help him a lot, I’m sure.

Doctor. (Holding up his finger.) But, you must go with him, though.

(Margaret, by this time, is standing up, with the baby’s dress tucked under her arm. She takes stitches as she talks.)

Margaret. (Eagerly.) Of course! I wouldn’t let him go alone. Somebody might steal him from me. (She smiles.)

Doctor. (Snapping the clasp of his satchel, vehemently murmurs under his breath.) Hum! They’d bring him back mighty quick, I guess. (He turns to her.) Give him these. Tell him to take two alternately every hour.

Margaret. (Taking the phials, and nodding her head as if to remember.) Two every hour—thank you.

(Philip enters from the garden, gaily humming an air. He has a freshly plucked rose in his hand.)

Philip. Good morning, doctor.

Doctor. (Coldly.) Good morning.

Margaret. (Noticing the rose, regretfully.) Oh, Philip, you plucked that rose.

Philip. Yes, isn’t it lovely? It’s the first of the season. (He smells it.)

Margaret. Yes, and I’ve been watching it. I wanted it to open yesterday for baby’s birthday.

Philip. (Playfully.) It saved itself for today for baby’s mother. (He puts it on her breast.)

Margaret. (Pleased.) Well, ’d rather it had bloomed yesterday for her. Excuse me, doctor, I must run into the kitchen. We have a new cook and she needs watching.

Philip. (Gaily.) And she’s a dandy. (He breaks into a chant.) Oh, I’m glad we’ve got a new cookie. I’m glad we’ve got a new cook. She’s...

Margaret. (Laughing at him.) Hush! Hush! Philip, stop—be quiet! (She puts her hand over his mouth. He tries to sing through her fingers.) She’ll hear you. Oh, doctor, isn’t he terrible? He’s poking fun at her all the time, but she is funny, though. (She runs off joyously to the right.)

Philip. What a glorious morning, after yesterday.

Doctor. (Eyeing him coldly.) Yes—it is— you’re in high feather this morning, eh?

Philip. (Cheerily.) Of course I am. What’s the good in worrying over things you can’t help?

Doctor. Have you seen...? Philip, (Quickly.) Yes. (In a low voice.) I’ve made arrangements for her to go away as soon as she is well enough.

Doctor. Humph!

Philip. It’s a terrible mess. I’ll admit I never realized what I was doing, but, I shall make things all right for this girl, and her child. (He sits on the edge of the table to the left. The Doctor is standing to the right of him.) Doctor I’m going to tell my wife this whole, miserable story.

Doctor. (Aghast.) What?

Philip. (Hastily interrupting.) Ah, not now—in the future. When we both have grown closer together. When I have shown her by an honest and decent life that I ought to be forgiven—when I feel sure of her faith and confidence—then I shall confess and ask her to forgive me.

Doctor. (Shaking his head.) That would be a mighty hazardous experiment. You would draw a woman’s heart strings closer and closer about you—-and then deliberately tear them asunder. Best keep silent forever.

Philip. There would be no hazard. I know Margaret—of course if she found me out now—I admit it—it would be a terrible thing, but—

Doctor. (Abruptly.) You’d better get Mrs. Fleming away from here for a few weeks.

Philip. (Surprised.) Away? (He smiles confidently.) What need?

Doctor. She is threatened with a serious affection of the eyes.

Philip. (His smile fading away, then recovering quickly and laughing lightly.) Aren’t you trying to frighten me, doctor?

Doctor. (Annoyed by his levity.) I don’t care anything about you, but, I tell you, your wife has a tendency to an affection of the eyes called glaucoma.

Philip. (Interested.) Glaucoma? Affection of the eyes? Why, Margaret has magnificent eyes.

Doctor. Yes, she has magnificent eyes, but, her child is the indirect cause of the development of an inherent weakness in them.

Philip. In what way?

Doctor. Conditions incident to motherhood, Shock. She is showing slight symptoms now that if aggravated would cause very serious consequences.

Philip. (Puzzled.) I do not understand.

Doctor. The eye—like other organs, has its own special secretion, which keeps it nourished and in a healthy state. The inflow and outflow of this secretion is equal. The physician sometimes comes across a patient of apparently sound physique, in whom he will find an abnormal condition of the eye where this natural function is through some inherent weakness, easily disturbed. When the patient is subject to illness, great physical or mental suffering—the too great emotion of a sudden joy or sorrow,—the stimulus of any one of these causes may produce in the eyes a super-abundant influx of this perfectly healthy fluid and the fine outflowing ducts cannot carry it off.

Philip. Yes. What then?

Doctor. The impact continues—until the result—is—

Philip. Yes? What is the result?

Doctor. Blindness.

Philip. (Awed.) Why—that is horrible— is there no remedy?

Doctor. Yes. A very delicate operation.

Philip. Always successful?

Doctor. If performed under proper conditions—yes.

Philip. And my wife is in danger of this?

(He walks up and down the room.)

Doctor. There is no danger whatever to Mrs. Fleming, if the serenity of her life is not disturbed. There are slight, but nevertheless serious symptoms that must be remedied at once, with ordinary care.

She will outgrow this weakness. Perhaps you will understand now, how necessary it is that she leave Canton for a few weeks.

Philip. (Deeply impressed by the Doctor’s recital.) Yes, I do. I will set about getting her away at once. I can leave the mill for a while in Foster’s hands.

Doctor. Yes, he is an honest, capable fellow. Above all things, do not let Mrs.

Fleming suspect that there is anything serious the matter. Keep her cheerful.

Philip. Ah, Margaret is the sunniest, happiest disposition—nothing troubles her.

Doctor. Well, you keep her so. (Philip takes out his cigar case and offers it to the Doctor. The latter refuses laconically.) Thank you, I have my own. (He has taken a cigar from his vest pocket.

Philip strikes a match and offers it to the doctor. At the same time, the Doctor is lighting his cigar with his own match, ignoring Philip’s attention. Philip shrugs his shoulders indulgently, lights his cigar and good-naturedly watches the Doctor, who takes up his satchel and leaves the room hastily with a curt.) Good morning.

Philip. (Genially.) Good morning, Dr.

Larkin. (He sits in the armchair to the right and comfortably contemplates the convolutions of the cigar smoke.)

(The closing of the front door is heard. Joe Fletcher appears at the French window, stealthily peering into the room. He sees Philip and coughs.)

Joe. Hello, Mr. Fleming!

Philip. (Looking up.) Hello, Joe—come in.

Joe. (In a whisper.) Is it safe?

Philip. (Laughing.) Yes, I guess so.

Joe. (Slouching inside.) Where’s Maria?

Philip. Gone out.

Joe. (Relieved.) Say, that was a damn mean trick you played on me yesterday.

Philip. What trick?

Joe. Sending me up here—you knew durn well she’d go fer me.

Philip. (Laughing.) I didn’t know Maria was your wife, honest I didn’t.

Joe. Oh, tell that to the marines. I want my sign. (As Philip looks puzzled.) The sample of giant’s cement with the plate. Philip.- (Remembering.) Oh, yes. (He chuckles to himself, goes to the door at the right and brings back the cracked plate with the big stone hung to it. Joe takes it and turns to go.) Why did you lie to me yesterday?

Joe. I didn’t lie to you.

Philip. You told me your wife ran away from you.

Joe. So she did.

Philip. She says you robbed her and left her,

Joe. She’s a liar, and I’ll tell it to her face.

Philip. (Laughing.) Come, Joe, you wouldn’t dare.

Joe. She’s a liar. I’m not afraid of her.

Philip. She made you run yesterday.

Joe. (Holding up the sign.) Didn’t she have this? What chance has a fellow got when a woman has a weapon like this?

Philip. (Laughing at him.) And you were in the war.

Joe. Yes, and I was in the war! The Johnnies didn’t fight with things like this.

Philip. (Enjoying the situation.) Come, Joe, I believe she’d make you run without that.

Joe. She’s a liar. I can lick her. (With conviction.) I have licked her. (He grows bolder.) An’ I’ll lick her again.

Philip. (Laughing heartily.) Come, Joe, that’ll do. The best way for you to lick er is there. (He points to the decanter upon the side table. Joe gazes upon tenderly and chuckles with unctuous satisfaction.)

Joe. That’s a great joke, Mr. Fleming. Kin I? (He shuffles over to the decanter.)

Philip. Yes, go ahead.

(Joe pours the liquor into a glass. Maria walks hastily in through the window and sees Philip.)

Maria. (Diffidently.) Excuse me, Mr.

Fleming, I did not know you vas here. I always come in dot way mit de baby.

(Joe is in the act of carrying the glass to his lips. He hears Maria’s voice and stands terrified. Maria sees him and becomes inflamed with indignation. She puts her hands on her hips and glares at him.)

Vell, you dom scoundrel!

Joe. (Soothingly extending a hand to her.)

There now, Maria, keep cool. Don’t lose your temper.

Maria. (Mocking him.) Yah, don’t lose my temper. Didn’t I tell you never to darken dis house again? Du teufel aus Hölle!

(She makes a lunge at him. He dodges and hops on tip-toe from side to. side in a zig-zag.)

Joe. Just a minute, Maria! (He gulps.) I can—I can explain—the whole—thing.

(He makes a desperate bolt, but Maria is on his heels. He stumbles and falls sprawling upon his hands and face, with his head to the front, in the center of the room. She swoops upon him, digs her hands into the loose folds of his coat between the shoulders and drags him to his feet. He limps with fright, puffing and spluttering, awkwardly helping himself and dropping the sign.) Maria, for God’s sake, don’t! I ain’t ever done anything to you.

Maria. (Dragging him toward the window.)

Ach, Gott! No, you have never done nutting to me.

Joe. I’ll make it all right with you. Let me go. I want my sign! Ugh! (She throws him through the French window. He stumbles and staggers out of sight. Maria picks up the sign and flings it after him.

All the time she is scolding and weeping with anger.)

Maria. Don’t you dare come here no more to a decent house, you loafer. You can’t explain nutting to me, you tief—you loafer—(She sinks into the chair at the right of the table, leans her arms across the table, buries her face in them and sobs bitterly. All her fury has vanished and She is crushed and broken.)

Philip. (Laughing and calling after Joe.)

Joe, come back! Joe! (He goes out through the window.) Joe!

Margaret. (Rushing in and up to the garden door, afraid some harm has come to the child.) What on earth is the matter?

An earthquake? Maria, (Sobbing.) No. Mrs. Fleming. It vas dot miserable husband of me.

Margaret. What?

Maria. Yah, I yust came in now, und I find him dere drinking of Mr. Fleming’s brandy.

Margaret. Good gracious—what did you do, Maria?

Maria. I skipped dot gutter mit him, I bet my life. (She is still weeping.)

Margaret. (A smile flickering about her lips.) There, Maria, don’t ery. Don’t let him trouble you so. How is your sister?

Maria. Vorse, Mrs. Fleming.

Margaret. Worse. Oh, I’m so sorry.

Maria. Yah. I don’t tink she vill ever leave dot bed alive. My poor little Lena. Mrs.

Fleming, I ask you—mebbe you vill come to see her. She talks about you all de time now.

Margaret. (Surprised.) Talks about me?

Why, how does she know me?

Maria. Vell, she ask about you—a lot— und I tell her of you and your beautiful home und your little baby, und now she says she’d like yust once to look into your face.

Margaret. (Hesitating a moment.) Well, I’ll go. If I only could do anything for her, poor girl.

Maria. Yah, she is a poor girl, Mrs, Fleming. Mebbe she vill tell you the name of dis man vot—

Margaret. (With repugnance.) Oh, no, no!

I don’t want to know the brute, or his name.

Maria. (Vindictively.) Oh, Gott! If I vould know it—

Margaret. (Breaking in upon her, kindly.)

But, I’ll go to see her.

Maria. Tank you, Mrs. Fleming. You are a goodt lady.

Margaret. Where did you say she lives?

Maria. (Still quietly weeping.) Forty-two Millbrook St. By Mrs. Burton’s cottage.

Margaret. Very well. (Philip’s voice is heard outside, laughing.) Oh, there’s Mr.

Fleming. Come, Maria, don’t let him see you crying. Come, go to the kitchen and tell Hannah—(She has urged Maria to her feet and is pressing her toward the door.)

Maria. Is dot new girl come?

Margaret. Yes.

Maria. Hannah is her name?

Margaret. (Pressing her.) Yes, tell her to make you a nice cup of tea, and then you’d best go back to your sister.

Maria. Tank you, Mrs. Fleming. I don’t want no tea. Mebbe she needs me. I go right back to her. You’ll come sure, Mrs.

Fleming?

Margaret. (Putting her through the door on the right as Philip comes in through the window on the left.) Yes, I’ll come in a little while.

Philip. Oh, Margaret, I wish you’d been “here. (He begins to laugh.) Such a circus. The funniest thing I ever saw.

Margaret. Yes, Maria told me. Poor thing.

I’m sorry for her. (Philip laughs. She goes to her work basket which is on the center table, and takes out the two phials.

Philip crosses to the right and Margaret goes to him.) Here, dear—some medicine Dr. Larkin left for you.

Philip. (Pushing her hand away gently.)

Oh, I don’t want any medicine. There’s nothing the matter with me. (He begins to chuckle again.) If you could—

Margaret. (Shaking him by the lapels of his jacket.) Yes, there is a great deal the matter with you. (She looks at him seriously and he becomes serious.) Doctor says you’re all run down. You’ve got to have a rest. Here, now, take two of these pellets, alternating every hour. (He takes the phials and puts them in his vest pocket.) Take some now!

Philip. Oh! Now? Must I?

Margaret. (Shaking him.) Yes, this minute. (He takes two pellets and pretends to choke. She shakes him again.) Look at your watch. Note the time.

Philip. Yes’m.

Margaret. Well, in an hour, take two from the other phial.

Philip. Yes’m. (He lights a fresh cigar, and Margaret gives a cry of reproval.)

Margaret. Philip! What are you doing? (She rushes at him and takes the cigar from him.) Don’t you know you mustn’t smoke when you are taking medicine.

Philip. Why not?

Margaret. It’ll kill the effect of it. You may smoke in a hour.

Philip. I’ve got to take more medicine in an. hour?

Margaret. Well, I guess you’ll have to give up smoking.

Philip. What!

Margaret. Until you’re well.

Philip. But, I’m well now.

Margaret. (Going through the door on the left.) Until you have stopped taking those pellets!

Philip. All right. I’ll forget them.

Margaret. Philip!

Philip. (Going to the baby in the garden doorway.) The cigars! What are you doing?

Margaret. Changing my gown. I’m going out.

Philip. Where are you going?

Margaret. Oh, just a little errand.

Philip. Well, hurry back.

Margaret. Yes, I won’t be long. (She gives a little scream.) Oh!

Philip. What’s the matter?

Margaret. Nothing. Stuck a pin into my finger, that’s all.

Philip. My! You gave me a shock. (He puts his hand to his heart playfully.)

Margaret. (Laughing.) Sorry. Did you see my gloves?

Philip. Yes.

Margaret. Where?

Philip. On your hands, of course.

Margaret. Now, don’t be silly!

Philip. (Playing with the baby.) Margaret, you know, baby’s eyes are changing.

Margaret. No.

Philip. Yes. They’re growing like yours.

Margaret. Nonsense. She has your eyes,

Philip. (Eyeing the baby critically.) No, they’re exactly like yours. She’s got my nose though.

Margaret. (Giving a little cry of protest.)

Oh, Philip—don’t say that.

Philip. Why?

Margaret. It would be terrible if she had your nose. Just imagine my dainty Lucy with a great big nose like yours.

Philip. (Feeling his nose.) Why, I think I have a very nice nose.

Margaret. (Coming in, laughing.) Oh, yes, it’s a good enough nose—as noses go— but—(She touches the bell.)

Philip. (Noticing her gown.) Your new suit?

Margaret. (Gaily.) Yes. Like it?

Philip. It’s a dandy. Turn around. (She dances over to him and twirls about playfully.) Wait, there’s a thread. (He picks it off her skirt.)

(Jane enters.)

Margaret. Jane, please tell Hannah to come here.

Jane. Yes, ma’am. (She goes.)

(Philip begins to chuckle.)

Margaret. Now, Philip, I implore you to keep still. Please don’t get me laughing while I’m talking to her.

Philip. (Indignantly.) I’m not going to say anything.

(Hannah appears. She is very large, stout and dignified.)

Margaret. (Hurriedly, in haste to be off.)

Hannah! I’m going out and I shall not be able to look after the baking of the bread. When the loaves have raised almost to the top of the pans put them in the oven. Hanna. (Who has been studying admiringly Margaret’s costume.) Yes, Ma’am.

I does always put the bread in when it’s almost up to the top in the pans.

Margaret. And bake them just one hour.

Hannah. Ah! Yes, ma’am. I always bakes em an hour.

(Philip smothers a laugh in a cough. Margaret stares at him.)

Margaret. And, have luncheon on at half past twelve, please.

Hannah. Yes, I always has the lunch on at half past twelve, sharp.

Margaret. (Who has been putting on her gloves.) Thank you, Hannah, that’s all.

Well, I’m off. (Zo Philip.) Good-bye, dear. (She starts off hastily.)

Hannah. Good-bye, ma’am. (She goes out.) Margaret, (Pausing to look at Philip as he plays with the baby. in the carriage.)

Oh, how dear you both look there together.

Philip. (Looking at his watch.) You’d best hurry if you want to get back at half past twelve sharp. (He imitates Hannah.)

Margaret. (Rapturously gazing at them.)

Oh, if I could paint, what a picture I would make of you two!

Philip. Are you going?

Margaret. Yes, I’m going. (She notices Philip giving the baby his watch, and giving a little scream of alarm, she rushes at him.) Philip, what are you doing? Philip, That’s all right. She won’t hurt it.

Margaret. Suppose she’d swallow it.

Philip. Well!

Margaret. (Mocking him.) Well! There, put it in your pocket. And have some sense. (She picks up the rattle and the big rubber ball and puts them in his hands.) There, you can play with these.

(They both laugh with the fun of it all.)

Philip. Oh! Go on Margaret, and hurry home.

Margaret. (Kissing him and the baby.)

All right. Won’t be long. Don’t forget your medicine, and please don’t smoke when my back is turned.) (She dances out through the French window, overflowing with fun and animation. This scene must be played rapidly, with a gay, light touch.)