ACT II. – Past Redemption
Exterior of Maynard's farm-house. House on r. with porch covered with vines; fence running across stage at back, with gateway c., backed by road and landscape. l. c., large tree, with bench running round its trunk; trees l. Time, sunset. Enter Tom from l., through gate, a bunch of flowers in his hand.
Tom. The same old errand: chasing that will-o'-wisp, Kitty Corum, – she who is known as the girl with two strings to her bow; who has one hand for Tom Larcom and another for Nat Harlow, and no heart for either. I'm the laughing-stock of the whole neighborhood; but misery loves company, and Nat is in the same box. If she would only say No, and have done with it, I believe I should be happy, especially if Nat received the "No." She won't let either of us go. But she must. To-night I'll speak for the last time; I'll pop. If she takes me, well: if not, I'll pop off and leave the field to Nat. Luckily I found out she was to help Mrs. Maynard to-day. Nat hasn't heard of it, and no doubt he's trudging off to old Corum's. Here she comes. Lay there, you beauties! (Puts flowers on bench.) Kitty will know what that means. (Exit l. Enter Kitty from house.)
Kitty. What a nice woman Mrs. Charity Goodall is, to be sure! so graceful and sweet, not a bit like her big rough brother, John Maynard. But then, she's learned the city ways. A widow, poor thing – and not so poor, either; for her husband, when he died, left her a consolation in the shape of a very handsome fortune. (Sees flowers.) I declare, somebody's attentions are really overpowering. No matter where I am, either at home or abroad, when night comes I always find a bunch of flowers placed in my way. Of course these are for me: no one would think of offering flowers to Jessie. Poor Jessie! 'tis eighteen months since Harry Maynard left home, and six months since a line has been received from him. Ah, well! this comes of having but one string to your bow. I manage matters differently. (Sits on bench. Enter Nat from l., through gate; steps behind tree.) Now, I really would like to know who is so attentive, so loving, as to send me these pretty flowers.
Nat (sticks his head round tree, r.). And can't you guess, Kitty?
Kitty (starting). O Nat!
Tom (sticks his head out from l. Aside.) O Nat! indeed, you owe Nat nothing for flowers. The mean sneak! (Retires.)
Nat (coming forward). Now, this is what I call luck, Kitty. I heard you were here, and I think I've taken the wind out of Tom Larcom's sails to-night. No doubt he's tramping off to your house to find nobody at home. Ha, ha! had him there. (Tom creeps out, and gets behind tree.)
Kitty. And so I am indebted to you for all these pretty flowers.
Nat. Oh! never mind the posies, Kitty. I have something very serious to say to you to-night. (Sits beside her r.)
Kitty. Very, very serious, Nat?
Nat. As serious, Kitty, as though I were a prisoner at the bar waiting my sentence.
Tom. Ah! in that case, there should be a full bench, Kitty. (Comes round and sits on bench, l.)
Nat. The deuce! Tom Larcom, what brought you here?
Tom. I came to court; that is, to see justice done you.
Nat. You be hanged!
Tom. Thank you: let that be your fate; and I'll be transported. (Puts his arm round Kitty's neck.)
Kitty. How dare you, Tom Larcom? (Pushes off his arm.)
Tom. It's "neck or nothing" with me to-night, Kitty.
Nat. Tom, you are taking unfair advantage of me.
Tom. Am I? How about Kitty's posies, Nat, that I laid upon the bench?
Kitty. It's you, then, Tom. – O Nat! how could you?
Nat. I didn't: I only asked you a conundrum. All's fair in love. What's a few flowers, any way? Why, Kitty, smile upon me, and you shall have a garden.
Tom. Yes, a kitchen garden, with you as the central figure, – a cabbage-head.
Nat. Kitty, you must listen to me. I have a serious question to ask you.
Tom. So have I, Kitty.
Kitty. You too, Tom? A pair of serious questions! Shall I get out my handkerchief?
Nat. Kitty, I have sought you for the last time.
Tom. Thank Heaven!
Nat. Perhaps —
Tom. O, Kitty, give him your blessing, and let him depart!
Nat. I am on the point of leaving —
Tom. Good-by, old fellow. You have our fondest wishes where'er you go. "'Tis absence makes the heart grow fonder" —
Nat. – Of leaving my fate in your hands.
Tom. Oh, this is touching!
Nat. 'Tis now two years since I commenced paying attention to you.
Kitty. Stop, Nat. This is a serious business: let us be exact, – one year and ten months.
Tom. Correct. I remember it from the circumstance that I had, about a month before, singled you out as the object of my adoration.
Nat. "We met by chance."
Tom. "The usual way." Oh come, Nat, do be original!
Nat. I worshipped the very ground you trod on —
Tom. And I the shoes you trod in: that's one step higher.
Nat. From that time —
Kitty. One year and ten months.
Nat. From that time I have loved you sincerely, devotedly, and —
Tom. Etcettery. Same here, Kitty, with a dictionary thrown in.
Nat. You have become very, very dear to me, Kitty.
Tom. You are enshrined in this bosom, Kitty.
Nat. Without you, my life would be miserable – a desert.
Tom. And mine without you, Kitty, a Saharah.
Nat. I have waited long to gain your serious attention, to ask you to be my wife. Now is the appointed time.
Tom (takes out watch). Fifteen minutes after seven: the very time I appointed.
Nat. Let me hear my sentence.
Tom. Put me out of misery.
Kitty. This is indeed serious. Am I to understand that you have both reached that point in courtship when a final answer is required?
Nat. That's exactly the point I have reached.
Tom. It's "going, going, gone" with me.
Kitty. You will both consider my answer final?
Both. We will.
Kitty. No quarrelling, no teasing, no appeal?
Nat. None. (Aside.) I'm sure of her.
Tom. Never. (Aside.) Nat's sacked, certain.
Kitty. Very well. Your attentions, Mr. Harlow, have been very flattering, – your presents handsome.
Nat. Well, I'm not a bad-looking —
Kitty. I mean the presents you have bestowed upon me, – calicoes of the latest patterns, sweetmeats in great varieties, which you, as a shopkeeper, have presented me with.
Tom (aside). At old Gleason's expense.
Kitty. Of course I value them. But a girl wants the man she loves to be a hero: to plunge into rivers to rescue drowning men, and all that sort of thing.
Tom (aside). And Nat can't swim. That's hard on him.
Kitty. And you, Mr. Larcom, have been equally attentive. Your gifts – the choicest fruits of your orchard, the beautiful flowers nightly laid within my reach – all have a touching significance. Still, as I said, a girl looks for something higher in the man she loves. He must be bold —
Nat (aside). Tom's afraid of his own shadow. He's mittened.
Kitty. Rush into burning houses, stop runaway horses, rescue distressed females; and I am very much afraid neither of my devoted admirers can claim the title of hero. So, gentlemen, with many thanks for your attentions, I say No.
Nat. No! That is for Tom.
Tom. No! You mean Nat.
Kitty. I mean both. (Nat and Tom look at her, then at each other, then both rise and come front.)
Nat. Tom.
Tom. Nat.
Nat. You've got the sack.
Tom. You've got the mitten.
Nat. She's a flirt.
Tom. A coquette.
Nat. I shall never speak to her again.
Tom. Henceforth she and I are strangers. (They shake hands, then turn and go up to her.)
Both. Kitty!
Kitty. Remember, no appeal. (They look at her ruefully, then come down.)
Nat. Tom, I bear you no ill-will. Are you going my way?
Tom. Nat, you are the best fellow in the world. I'm going in to see John Maynard.
Nat. We shall be friends.
Tom. In despair, yes. (They shake hands. Nat goes up to gate, Tom goes to door r.)
Nat. Good-by, Kitty. I shall never see you again. I'm going across the river. Should any accident happen, look kindly upon my remains. (Goes off l.)
Tom. Good-by, Kitty. I'm going in to borrow one of John Maynard's razors; they are very sharp. Should I happen to cut any thing, don't trouble yourself to call the doctor. (Exit into house.)
Kitty. Ha, ha, ha! They'll never trouble me, never. They'll be back before I can count ten. One, two, three, four, five – (Nat appears l., comes to gate. Tom comes from house: they see each other, turn and run back.) I knew it. The silly noodles! here they are again. (Enter Jessie, from house.) Didn't I tell you my answer was final? and here you are again.
Jessie. Why, Kitty, are you dreaming?
Kitty (jumping up). Bless me, Jessie, is that you?
Jessie. Have you seen Stub? has he returned from the office? Ah! here he is. (Enter Stub, l., through gate, dejectedly. Jessie runs up to him.) O Stub, have you brought no letter?
Stub. Jes none at all, Miss Jessie; dat ar' post-officer am jes got no heart. I begged an' begged: no use. Squire Johnson, he got his arms full, an' Miss Summer's a dozen. I tried to steal one, but he jes keep his eye onto me all de time. No use, no use.
Jessie. Oh! what can have become of him?
Stub. Dunno', Miss Jessie. He was jes de bes' feller, was Massa Harry; an' now he's gone an' done somfin', I know he has. When de cap'n what picked me up in ole Virginny, in de war, – when he was a-dying in de horse-fiddle, says he to me, says he, Stub, I'm a-gwine; an' when I's gone, you jes get up Norf. You'll find my brudder Harry up dar, an' you jes stick as clus to him as you's stuck to me, an' you'll find friends up dar. An' when it was all ober, here I come. An', Miss Jessie, I lub Massa Harry almos' as much as I did de cap'n; an' I'd do any ting for him an' you, who he lub so dearly.
Jessie. I know you would, Stub. Heaven only knows when he will return to us. If he comes not soon, my heart will break. (Weeps; goes and sits on bench.)
Stub. Pore little lamb! She wants a letter: she shall hab one too. Massa Harry won't write: den, by golly, I'll jes make up a special mail-train, an' go down dere to de city, an' fotch one. It's jes easy 'nuff to slip down dere, an' hunt Massa Harry up, an' I'll do it. Say nuffin' to nobody, but slip off to-morrow mornin' an' hunt him up. (Exit r., i. e.)
Kitty (comes down from gate). Jessie, here's a surprise. Mr. Thornton is coming up the road.
Jessie (springing up). Mr. Thornton? Heaven be praised! News of Harry at last! (Runs up to gate, meets Mr. Thornton, takes his hand; they come down.) O Mr. Thornton! Harry, what of Harry?
Thornton. Miss Jessie, I am the bearer of bad tidings. Would it were otherwise!
Jessie. Is he dead? Speak: let me know the worst; I can bear it.
Thornton. Be quiet, my child. He is not dead; better if he were, for death covers all the evils of a life, – death wipes out all disgrace.
Jessie. Disgrace? Oh, speak, Mr. Thornton! why is he silent? what misfortune has befallen him?
Thornton. The worst, Jessie. Perhaps I should hide his wretched story from you; but I'm here to tell it to his friends, and you are the dearest, the one who trusted him as none other can. Jessie, the man you loved has been false to you, to all. He has abused the trust I placed in him. He has become a spendthrift, a libertine, a gambler, and a drunkard.
Jessie. I will not believe it: 'tis false. Harry Maynard is too noble. Mr. Thornton, you have been misled, or you are not his friend.
Thornton. I was his friend till he betrayed and robbed me. I am his friend no longer. Jessie, you must forget him; he will never return to his old home, his first love. He has broken away from my influence: he associates with the vilest of the vile, and glories in his shame.
Jessie. Stop, stop! I cannot bear it.
Thornton. Jessie, you know not how it pains me to tell you this; but 'tis better you know the worst. I have striven hard to make his path smooth, – to make his way to fortune easy, for your sake, Jessie. For I, – yes, Jessie, even in this dark hour I must say it, – I love you, as he never could love.
Jessie. You – love – me? You! Oh! this is blasphemy at such a time.
Thornton. I could not help it, Jessie. (Tries to take her hand.)
Jessie. Do not touch me. I shall hate you. Leave me. O Harry, Harry! are you lost to me forever? (Staggers up and sits on bench.)
Thornton (aside). I've broken the ice there. Rather rough; but she'll get over it. Now for old Maynard. I'd sooner face a regiment; but it must be done. (Exit into house.)
Kitty (comes down to Jessie). O Jessie, this is terrible!
Jessie. Don't speak to me, Kitty: leave me to myself. I know you mean well, but the sound of your voice is terrible to me.
Kitty (comes down). Poor thing! Who would have believed that Harry Maynard could turn out bad? I wish I could do something to help her. I can, and I will too. Oh, here's Tom! (Enter Tom from house; sees Kitty, stops, then sticks his hat on one side; crosses to l. whistling.)
Kitty. Tom!
Tom (turns). Eh! did you speak, Miss Corum?
Kitty. Yes, I did. Come here – quick – why don't you pay attention?
Tom. Didn't you forbid any further attention?
Kitty. Pshaw! no more of that! Do you remember what I told you my husband must be?
Tom. Yes: a sort of salamander to rush into burning houses, an amphibious animal to save people from drowning.
Kitty. Ahem! Tom, to save people: just so. Well, Tom, you can be that hero, if you choose.
Tom. Me? How, pray?
Kitty. Harry Maynard has got into trouble in the city; he's a drunkard and a gambler, and every thing that is bad.
Tom. You don't mean it!
Kitty. It's true. Now, he must be saved, brought back here, or Jessie will die. Tom, go and find him, and when you come back, I'll sacrifice myself.
Tom. Sacrifice yourself?
Kitty. Yes, marry you.
Tom. You will consider him found. O Kitty, Kitty, – but hold on a minute. Have you given Nat Harlow a chance to be a hero?
Kitty. No, Tom: I'm serious now. Find Harry Maynard, and you shall be my hero.
Tom. Hooray, Kitty: tell me all about it. I'll be off by the next train. Come (gives her his arm), I can't keep still: I must keep moving. (Exeunt l.)
Jessie. Lost! lost to me, and I loving him so dearly! You must forget him! He said forget: it is impossible. He loved me so dearly, too, before he left this house in search of fortune. No, no: I will not give him up; there must be some way to save him. If I only knew how! O Harry, Harry! why do you wander from the hearts that love you? Come back, come back! (Covers her face and weeps. Enter Charity Goodall from r., through gate.)
Charity. Oh, this is delicious! I've climbed fences, torn my way through bushes, and had the most delightful frolic with Farmer Chips's little Chips on the hay, with nobody to check my fun and remind me of the proprieties of life. Ha, ha, ha! How my rich neighbor, Mrs. Goldfinch, would stare to see me enjoying myself in the country! Little I care! I shall go back with a new lease of life, a harvest of fresh country air, that will last me through the winter. (Sees Jessie.) Hey-day, child, what's the matter? (Sits beside her.)
Jessie (flinging her arms round Charity's neck). O Aunt Charity! Harry, Harry —
Charity. Ah! the truant's heard from at last; and not the most delightful tidings, judging by your tear-stained cheeks. Well, child, tell me all about it.
Jessie. He's lost to us. He has fallen into temptation; he's —
Charity. The old story. "A certain man went down unto Jericho, and fell among thieves."
Jessie. O Aunt Charity, how can you be so heartless!
Charity. Heartless, Jessie! You must not say that. You know not my story. Listen to me. One I loved dearer than life was ingulfed in this whirlpool. He was a brave, noble fellow, who took a poor country girl from her home, and made her the mistress of a mansion, rich in comfort and luxury. For years our life was one of happiness; and then a friend, a false friend, Jessie, led him into temptation, with the base hope of securing his riches by his ruin. The friend failed to acquire the one, but wrought the other. He died ere he had become the wretched sot he hoped to make him; died in my arms, loving and repentant. I had his fortune, but my life was blighted. I refused to be comforted until the wretchedness about me brought me to my senses. Then I sought in work, strong, earnest work, consolation for my bereavement. With his wealth, I sought out the wretched, the outcasts of society; gave my aid to all good work, and so earned the title of a strong-minded woman. 'Tis often spoken with a sneer, that title, Jessie; but they who bear it have the world's good in their heart, thank Heaven for them all! And so I go about doing all I can to relieve distress, the surest solace for sorrow, Jessie; for there's nothing so cheering, as relieving the wretchedness of others. So don't call me heartless, Jessie.