Chapter II: The Technic of the One-Act Play (7)

MORGAN. White! What's that got to do with your marryin'? Ain't you a...? You don't think you can marry a white man, do you? I tell you you've got to decide to-night. I've been after you now for two years and, gal, you've got to do it!

MARY. Don't make me do it! I hate him. I ain't black. Oh, Lord!...

MORGAN. [_Desperately._] Candace!

MARY. [_Clutching at his arm._] Don't tell her. I ain't goin' to see her drove out in the cold from her home. Don't tell her.

[AUNT CANDACE _still looks in the fire_. JIM _sits lost in
amazement, idly strumming his guitar_.

MORGAN. Well?

MARY. [_Looking wildly around, as if seeking help._] Oh!...

MORGAN. [_Wiping his face._] Gal, I don't want to be too hard on you. But use common sense. I've been good to you. They ain't another man in the county that would have kept you for the last three years, an' losin' money on you every year. I'm done of it, gal, I'm done. Marry Jim.

MARY. He wouldn't let you do it if he was here. He wouldn't.

MORGAN. Who? Who you talkin' about?

MARY. Mr. Hugh, your boy. He's got feelin's, he has. If he was here ...

MORGAN. [_Hoarsely._] I know it. I know it. Don't you see? He's all I got. I can't run the risk of his ... Oh, Mary, I can't tell you. For God's sake, marry Jim. Can't you see? You've got to marry him! Hugh's gone off for a week, an' I'm goin' to settle it before he ever gets back. And when he gets back, you and Candace will be clean out of this country, if you don't marry Jim. They ain't nobody else 'round here will take you in, and keep you like I have.

MARY. Where ... where's he gone?

MORGAN. He's gone to see his gal. The one he's going to marry. And by God, you've got to marry Jim.

MARY. [_Half sobbing._] They ain't no use tryin' to change it. I've tried and tried, but they ain't no use. I jus' as well do it. Yes, yes, I'll marry him. I'll marry him. They ain't no way to be white. I got to be a nigger. I'll marry him, yes. I'll marry him, an' work an' hoe an' wash an' raise more children to go through it all like me, maybe other children that'll want to be white an' can't. They ain't nobody can help me. But look at him. [_Pointing to_ JIM.] He's a nigger an' ... yes ... I'm a nigger too.

[_She throws her arms out, letting them fall at her side._

MORGAN. [_Almost gently._] All right, Mary ... I'll send for the preacher and the license in the morning and have him marry you and Jim right here. You needn't think about leavin' any more. And you and Jim can live here as long as you please. Is that all right, Jim?

JIM. [_Uncertainly._] Yes-suh, yes-suh, Mr. Mawgin! An' I thanks you 'specially.

MORGAN. [_Going up to_ AUNT CANDACE.] Mary and Jim are going to be married to-morrow, Candace. It'll be a lucky day for you. [_She makes no answer, but continues her trancelike stare in the fire._ MORGAN _comes to_ MARY _and offers his hand. She fails to see it._] Child, what I've had to do to-night has hurt me a whole lot worse'n you.... Good-night, Mary.

[_He stands a moment looking at the floor, then goes out quietly._

JIM. [_Coming up to_ MARY.] Miss Mary, don't look lak dat. I's gwine do better, I's.... [MARY _keeps her head muffled in her apron_.] Honey, I's sho' gwine make you a good man.

[MARY _pays no attention to him. In his embarrassment he strums his
guitar, clears his throat, props his foot up on a chair rung, and
begins singing in a low voice._]

JIM. Lyin' in the jail house,
A-peepin' th'ough de bars....

AUNT CANDACE. [_Waking from her reverie._] Bring me de li'l black box, gal. Bring me de box! [MARY _drops her apron and stares dully at the floor_.] Bring me de box! [_Half-screaming._] Bring me de box, I say! [_Trembling and groaning, she stands up._ MARY _goes to the chest and brings her the black box_. AUNT CANDACE _drops her stick and clutches it_.] I's gwine tell you de secret o' dis li'l box. Yo' mammy told me to tell you if de time ever come, an' it's come. She seed trouble an' our mammy befo' us. [_She takes a key, tied by a string around her neck, and unlocks the box, pulling out a wrinkled white dress, yellowed with age, of the style of the last generation._ JIM _sits down, overcome with astonishment, staring at the old woman with open mouth_.] Look heah, chile. I's gwine tell you now. Nineteen yeahs ago come dis Christmas dey's a white man gi'n your mammy dis heah, an' dat white man is kin to you, an' he don't live fur off nuther. Gimme dat dress dere on de bed. [MARY _gets it and holds it tightly to her breast_. AUNT CANDACE _snatches at it, but_ MARY _clings to it_.] Gimme dat dress!

MARY. It's mine!

AUNT CANDACE. Gimme! [_She jerks the dress from_ MARY. _Hobbling to the fireplace, she lays both of them carefully on the flames._ JIM _makes a movement as if to save them, but she waves him back with her stick_.] Git back, nigger! Git back! Dis night I's gwine wipe out some o' de traces o' sin. [MARY _sits in her chair, sobbing. As the dresses burn_ AUNT CANDACE _comes to her and lays her hand upon her head_.] I knows yo' feelin's, chile. But yo's got to smother 'em in. Yo's got to smother 'em in.

CURTAIN

MOONSHINE

BY

ARTHUR HOPKINS

_Moonshine_ is reprinted by special permission of Arthur Hopkins, Plymouth Theatre, New York City. All rights reserved. For permission to perform, address the author.

ARTHUR HOPKINS

Arthur Hopkins, one of the well-known men of the practical theatre of to-day, was born in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1878. He completed his academic training at Western Reserve University, Cleveland, Ohio. At present he is the manager of Plymouth Theatre, New York City.

Mr. Hopkins's entire life has been given to the theatre, which is his hobby. In the midst of his various activities as a manager he has found time to do some dramatic writing. Among his one-act plays are _Thunder God_, _Broadway Love_, and _Moonshine_, which appeared in the _Theatre Acts Magazine_ for January, 1919.

_Moonshine_ is an excellent play of situation that has grown out of the reaction of character on character.

CHARACTERS

LUKE HAZY, _Moonshiner_
A REVENUE OFFICER

MOONSHINE

SCENE: _Hut of a moonshiner in the mountain wilds of North
Carolina. Door back left. Window back right centre. Old deal table
right centre. Kitchen chair at either side of table, not close to
it. Old cupboard in left corner. Rude stone fireplace left side. On
back wall near door is a rough pencil sketch of a man hanging from
a tree._

_At rise of curtain a commotion is heard outside of hut._

LUKE. [_Off stage._] It's all right, boys.... Jist leave him to me.... Git in there, Mister Revenue.

[REVENUE, _a Northerner in city attire, without hat, clothes dusty,
is pushed through doorway_. LUKE, _a lanky, ill-dressed Southerner,
following, closes door_. REVENUE'S _hands are tied behind him_.

LUKE. You must excuse the boys for makin' a demonstration over you, Mister Revenue, but you see they don't come across you fellers very frequent, and they allus gits excited.

REVENUE. I appreciate that I'm welcome.

LUKE. 'Deed you is, and I'm just agoin' to untie your hands long nuff fer you to take a sociable drink. [_Goes to stranger, feels in all-pockets for weapons._] Reckon yer travellin' peaceable. [_Unties hands._] Won't yer sit down?

REVENUE. [_Drawing over chair and sitting._] Thank you. [_Rubs wrists to get back circulation._]

LUKE. [_Going over to cupboard and taking out jug._] Yessa, Mister, the boys ain't seen one o' you fellers fer near two years. Began to think you wus goin' to neglect us. I wus hopin' you might be Jim Dunn. Have a drink?

REVENUE. [_Starts slightly at mention of_ JIM DUNN.] No, thank you, your make is too strong for me.

LUKE. It hain't no luck to drink alone when you git company. Better have some.

REVENUE. Very well, my friend, I suffer willingly.

[_Drinks a little and chokes._

LUKE. [_Draining cup._] I reckon ye all don't like the flavor of liquor that hain't been stamped.

REVENUE. It's not so bad.

LUKE. The last Revenue that sit in that chair got drunk on my make.

REVENUE. That wouldn't be difficult.

LUKE. No, but it wuz awkward.

REVENUE. Why?

LUKE. I had to wait till he sobered up before I give him his ticker. I didn't feel like sendin' him to heaven drunk. He'd a found it awkward climbin' that golden ladder.

REVENUE. Thoughtful executioner.

LUKE. So you see mebbe you kin delay things a little by dallyin' with the licker.

REVENUE. [_Picking up cup, getting it as far as his lips, slowly puts it down._] The price is too great.

LUKE. I'm mighty sorry you ain't Jim Dunn. But I reckon you ain't. You don't answer his likeness.

REVENUE. Who's Jim Dunn?

LUKE. You ought to know who Jim Dunn is. He's just about the worst one of your revenue critters that ever hit these parts. He's got four of the boys in jail. We got a little reception all ready for him. See that?

[_Pointing to sketch on back wall._

REVENUE. [_Looking at sketch._] Yes.

LUKE. That's Jim Dunn.

REVENUE. [_Rising, examining picture._] Doesn't look much like any one.

LUKE. Well, that's what Jim Dunn'll look like when we git 'im. I'm mighty sorry you hain't Jim Dunn.

REVENUE. I'm sorry to disappoint you.

LUKE. [_Turning to cupboard and filling pipe._] Oh, it's all right. I reckon one Revenue's about as good as another, after all.

REVENUE. Are you sure I'm a revenue officer?

LUKE. [_Rising._] Well, since we ketched ye climin' trees an' snoopin' round the stills, I reckon we won't take no chances that you hain't.

REVENUE. Oh.

LUKE. Say, mebbe you'd like a seggar. Here's one I been savin' fer quite a spell back, thinkin' mebbe I'd have company some day. [_Brings out dried-up cigar, hands it to him._

REVENUE. No, thank you.

LUKE. It hain't no luck to smoke alone when ye got company. [_Striking match and holding it to_ REVENUE.] Ye better smoke. [REVENUE _bites off end and mouth is filled with dust, spits out dust_. LUKE _holds match to cigar. With difficulty_ REVENUE _lights it_.] That's as good a five-cent cigar as ye can git in Henderson.

REVENUE. [_After two puffs, makes wry face, throws cigar on table._] You make death very easy, Mister.

LUKE. Luke's my name. Yer kin call me Luke. Make you feel as though you had a friend near you at the end--Luke Hazy.

REVENUE. [_Starting as though interested, rising._] Not the Luke Hazy that cleaned out the Crosby family?

LUKE. [_Startled._] How'd you hear about it?

REVENUE. Hear about it? Why, your name's been in every newspaper in the United States. Every time you killed another Crosby the whole feud was told all over again. Why, I've seen your picture in the papers twenty times.

LUKE. Hain't never had one took.

REVENUE. That don't stop them from printing it. Don't you ever read the newspapers?

LUKE. Me read? I hain't read nothin' fer thirty years. Reckon I couldn't read two lines in a hour.

REVENUE. You've missed a lot of information about yourself.

LUKE. How many Crosbys did they say I killed?

REVENUE. I think the last report said you had just removed the twelfth.

LUKE. It's a lie! I only killed six ... that's all they wuz--growed up. I'm a-waitin' fer one now that's only thirteen.

REVENUE. When'll he be ripe?

LUKE. Jes as soon as he comes a-lookin' fer me.

REVENUE. Will he come?

LUKE. He'll come if he's a Crosby.

REVENUE. A brave family?

LUKE. They don't make 'em any braver--they'd be first-rate folks if they wuzn't Crosbys.

REVENUE. If you feel that way why did you start fighting them?

LUKE. I never started no fight. My granddad had some misunderstandin' with their granddad. I don't know jes what it wuz about, but I reckon my granddad wuz right, and I'll see it through.

REVENUE. You must think a lot of your grandfather.

LUKE. Never seen 'im, but it ain't no luck goin' agin yer own kin. Won't ye have a drink?

REVENUE. No--no--thank you.

LUKE. Well, Mr. Revenue, I reckon we might as well have this over.

REVENUE. What?

LUKE. Well, you won't get drunk, and I can't be put to the trouble o' havin' somebody guard you.

REVENUE. That'll not be necessary.

LUKE. Oh, I know yer like this yer place now, but this evenin' you might take it into yer head to walk out.

REVENUE. I'll not walk out unless you make me.

LUKE. Tain't like I'll let yer, but I wouldn't blame yer none if yu tried.

REVENUE. But I'll not.

LUKE. [_Rising._] Say, Mistah Revenue, I wonder if you know what you're up against?

REVENUE. What do you mean?

LUKE. I mean I gotta kill you.

REVENUE. [_Rising, pauses._] Well, that lets me out.

LUKE. What do yu mean?

REVENUE. I mean that I've been trying to commit suicide for the last two months, but I haven't had the nerve.

LUKE. [_Startled._] Suicide?

REVENUE. Yes. Now that you're willing to kill me, the problem is solved.

LUKE. Why, what d'ye want to commit suicide fer?

REVENUE. I just want to stop living, that's all.

LUKE. Well, yu must have a reason.

REVENUE. No special reason--I find life dull and I'd like to get out of it.

LUKE. Dull?

REVENUE. Yes--I hate to go to bed--I hate to get up--I don't care for food--I can't drink liquor--I find people either malicious or dull--I see by the fate of my acquaintances, both men and women, that love is a farce. I have seen fame and preference come to those who least deserved them, while the whole world kicked and cuffed the worthy ones. The craftier schemer gets the most money and glory, while the fair-minded dealer is humiliated in the bankruptcy court. In the name of the law every crime is committed; in the name of religion every vice is indulged; in the name of education greatest ignorance is rampant.

LUKE. I don't git all of that, but I reckon you're some put out.

REVENUE. I am. The world's a failure ... what's more, it's a farce. I don't like it but I can't change it, so I'm just aching for a chance to get out of it.... [_Approaching_ LUKE.] And you, my dear friend, are going to present me the opportunity.

LUKE. Yes, I reckon you'll get your wish now.

REVENUE. Good ... if you only knew how I've tried to get killed.

LUKE. Well, why didn't you kill yerself?

REVENUE. I was afraid.

LUKE. Afreed o' what--hurtin' yourself?

REVENUE. No, afraid of the consequences.

LUKE. Whad d'ye mean?

REVENUE. Do you believe in another life after this one?

LUKE. I kan't say ez I ever give it much thought.

REVENUE. Well, don't--because if you do you'll never kill another Crosby ... not even a revenue officer.

LUKE. 'Tain't that bad, is it?

REVENUE. Worse. Twenty times I've had a revolver to my head--crazy to die--and then as my finger pressed the trigger I'd get a terrible dread--a dread that I was plunging into worse terrors than this world ever knew. If killing were the end it would be easy, but what if it's only the beginning of something worse?

LUKE. Well, you gotta take some chances.

REVENUE. I'll not take that one. You know, Mr. Luke, life was given to us by some one who probably never intended that we should take it, and that some one has something ready for people who destroy his property. That's what frightens me.

LUKE. You do too much worryin' to be a regular suicide.

REVENUE. Yes, I do. That's why I changed my plan.

LUKE. What plan?

REVENUE. My plan for dying.

LUKE. Oh, then you didn't give up the idea?

REVENUE. No, indeed--I'm still determined to die, but I'm going to make some one else responsible.

LUKE. Oh--so you hain't willing to pay fer yer own funeral music?

REVENUE. No, sir. I'll furnish the passenger, but some one else must buy the ticket. You see, when I finally decided I'd be killed, I immediately exposed myself to every danger I knew.

LUKE. How?

REVENUE. In a thousand ways.... [_Pause._] Did you ever see an automobile?

LUKE. No.

REVENUE. They go faster than steam engines, and they don't _stay_ on tracks. Did you ever hear of Fifth Avenue, New York?

LUKE. No.

REVENUE. Fifth Avenue is jammed with automobiles, eight deep all day long. People being killed every day. I crossed Fifth Avenue a thousand times a day, every day for weeks, never once trying to get out of the way, and always praying I'd be hit.

LUKE. And couldn't yu git hit?

REVENUE. [_In disgust._] No. Automobiles only hit people who try to get out of the way. [_Pause._] When that failed, I frequented the lowest dives on the Bowery, flashing a roll of money and wearing diamonds, hoping they'd kill me for them. They stole the money and diamonds, but never touched me.

LUKE. Couldn't you pick a fight?

REVENUE. I'm coming to that. You know up North they believe that a man can be killed in the South for calling another man a liar.

LUKE. That's right.

REVENUE. It is, is it? Well, I've called men liars from Washington to Atlanta, and I'm here to tell you about it.

LUKE. They must a took pity on ye.

REVENUE. Do you know Two Gun Jake that keeps the dive down in Henderson?

LUKE. I should think I do.... Jake's killed enough of 'em.

REVENUE. He's a bad man, ain't he?

LUKE. He's no trifler.

REVENUE. I wound up in Jake's place two nights ago, pretending to be drunk. Jake was cursing niggers.

LUKE. He's allus doin' that.

REVENUE. So I elbowed my way up to the bar and announced that I was an expert in the discovery of nigger blood ... could tell a nigger who was 63-64ths white.

LUKE. Ye kin?

REVENUE. No, I can't, but I made them believe it. I then offered to look them over and tell them if they had any nigger blood in them. A few of them sneaked away, but the rest stood for it. I passed them all until I got to Two Gun Jake. I examined his eyeballs, looked at his finger-nails, and said, "You're a nigger."

LUKE. An' what did Jake do?

REVENUE. He turned pale, took me into the back room. He said: "Honest to God, mister, can ye see nigger blood in me?" I said: "Yes." "There's no mistake about it?" "Not a bit," I answered. "Good God," he said, "I always suspected it." Then he pulled out his gun--

LUKE. Eh ... eh?

REVENUE. And shot _himself_.

LUKE. Jake shot hisself!... Is he dead?

REVENUE. I don't know--I was too disgusted to wait. I wandered around until I thought of you moonshiners ... scrambled around in the mountains until I found your still. I _sat_ on it and waited until you boys showed up, and here I am, and you're going to kill me.

LUKE. [_Pause._] Ah, so ye want us to do yer killin' fer ye, do ye?

REVENUE. You're my last hope. If I fail this time I may as well give it up.

LUKE. [_Takes out revolver, turns sidewise and secretly removes cartridges from chamber. Rises._] What wuz that noise?

[_Lays revolver on table and steps outside of door._ REVENUE _looks
at revolver, apparently without interest_.

[LUKE _cautiously enters doorway and expresses surprise at seeing_
REVENUE _making no attempt to secure revolver. Feigning excitement,
goes to table, picks up gun._

LUKE. I reckon I'm gettin' careless, leavin' a gun layin' around here that-a-way. Didn't you see it?

REVENUE. Yes.

LUKE. Well, why didn't ye grab it?

REVENUE. What for?

LUKE. To git the drop on me.

REVENUE. Can't you understand what I've been telling you, mister? I don't _want_ the drop on you.

LUKE. Well, doggone if I don't believe yer tellin' me the truth. Thought I'd just see what ye'd do. Ye see, I emptied it first.

[_Opens up gun._

REVENUE. That wasn't necessary.

LUKE. Well, I reckon ye better git along out o' here, mister.

REVENUE. You don't mean you're weakening?

LUKE. I ain't got no call to do your killin' fer you. If ye hain't sport enough to do it yerself, I reckon ye kin go on sufferin'.

REVENUE. But I told you why I don't want to do it. One murder more or less means nothing to you. You don't care anything about the hereafter.

LUKE. Mebbe I don't, but there ain't no use my takin' any more chances than I have to. And what's more, mister, from what you been tellin' me I reckon there's a charm on you, and I ain't goin' to take no chances goin' agin charms.

REVENUE. So _you're_ going to go back on me?

LUKE. Yes, siree.

REVENUE. Well, maybe some of the other boys will be willing. I'll wait till they come.

LUKE. The other boys ain't goin' to see you. You're a leavin' this yer place right now--now! It won't do no good. You may as well go peaceable; ye ain't got no right to expect us to bear yer burdens.

REVENUE. Damn it all! I've spoiled it again.

LUKE. I reckon you better make up yer mind to go on livin'.

REVENUE. That looks like the only way out.

LUKE. Come on, I'll let you ride my horse to town. It's the only one we got, so yu can leave it at Two Gun Jake's, and one o' the boys'll go git it, or I reckon I'll go over myself and see if Jake made a job of it.

REVENUE. I suppose it's no use arguing with you.

LUKE. Not a bit. Come on, you.

REVENUE. Well, I'd like to leave my address so if you ever come to New York you can look me up.

LUKE. 'Tain't likely I'll ever come to New York.

REVENUE. Well, I'll leave it, anyhow. Have you a piece of paper?

LUKE. Paper what you write on? Never had none, mister.

REVENUE. [_Looking about room, sees_ JIM DUNN's _picture on wall, goes to it, takes it down_.] If you don't mind, I'll put it on the back of Jim Dunn's picture. [_Placing picture on table, begins to print._] I'll print it for you, so it'll be easy to read. My address is here, so if you change your mind you can send for me.

LUKE. 'Tain't likely--come on. [_Both go to doorway_--LUKE _extends hand_, REVENUE _takes it_.] Good-by, mister--cheer up ... there's the horse.

REVENUE. Good-by. [_Shaking_ LUKE'S _hand_.

LUKE. Don't be so glum, mister. Lemme hear you laff jist onct before yu go. [REVENUE _begins to laugh weakly_.] Aw, come on, laff out with it hearty. [REVENUE _laughs louder_.] Heartier yit.

[REVENUE _is now shouting his laughter, and is heard laughing until
hoof-beats of his horse die down in the distance_.

[LUKE _watches for a moment, then returns to table--takes a
drink--picks up picture--turns it around several times before
getting it right--then begins to study. In attempting to make out
the name he slowly traces in the air with his index finger a
capital "J"--then mutters "J-J-J," then describes a letter
"I"--mutters "I-I-I," then a letter "M"--muttering "M-M-M,
J-I-M--J-I-M--JIM." In the same way describes and mutters D-U-N-N._

LUKE. Jim Dunn! By God! [_He rushes to corner, grabs shot-gun, runs to doorway, raises gun in direction stranger has gone--looks intently--then slowly lets gun fall to his side, and scans the distance with his hand shadowing his eyes--steps inside--slowly puts gun in corner--seats himself at table._] Jim Dunn!--and he begged me to kill 'im!!

MODESTY

BY

PAUL HERVIEU

_Modesty_ is reprinted by special permission of Barrett H. Clark, the translator of the play from the French, and of Samuel French, publisher, New York City. All rights reserved. For permission to perform, address Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City.

PAUL HERVIEU

Paul Hervieu, one of the foremost of contemporary French dramatists, was born in 1857 at Neuilly, near Paris. Although he prepared for the bar, having passed the examination at twenty, and practised his profession for a few years, he soon set to writing short stories and novels which appeared in the early eighties. _The Nippers_, in 1890, established his reputation as a dramatist. The remainder of his life was given to writing for the stage. In 1900 he was elected to the French Academy. He died October 15, 1915.

In addition to _The Nippers_, Hervieu's best-known long plays are _The Passing of the Torch_, _The Labyrinth_, and _Know Thyself_.

_Modesty_ is his well-known one-act play. In subtlety of technic and in delicacy of touch it is one of the finest examples of French one-act plays. Its humor and light, graceful satire are noteworthy.

PERSONS IN THE PLAY

HENRIETTE
JACQUES
ALBERT

MODESTY

TIME: _The present._

SCENE: _A drawing-room. Entrance_, C; _sofa, chairs, writing-desk._
JACQUES _and_ HENRIETTE _enter_ C, _from dinner_. HENRIETTE _in
ball costume_, JACQUES _in evening dress. They come down_ C.

HENRIETTE. What is it? Is it so terribly embarrassing?

JACQUES. You can easily guess.

HENRIETTE. You're so long-winded. You make me weary--come to the point.

JACQUES. I'll risk all at a stroke--My dear Henriette, we are cousins. I am unmarried, you--a widow. Will you--will you be my wife?

HENRIETTE. Oh, my dear Jacques, what _are_ you thinking of? We were such good friends! And now you're going to be angry.

JACQUES. Why?

HENRIETTE. Because I'm not going to give you the sort of answer you'd like.

JACQUES. You don't--you don't think I'd make a good husband?

HENRIETTE. Frankly, no.

JACQUES. I don't please you?

HENRIETTE. As a cousin you are charming; as a husband you would be quite impossible.

JACQUES. What have you against me?

HENRIETTE. Nothing that you're to blame for. It is merely the fault of my character; _that_ forces me to refuse you.

JACQUES. But I can't see why you----?

HENRIETTE. [_With an air of great importance._] A great change is taking place in the hearts of us women. We have resolved henceforward not to be treated as dolls, but as creatures of reason. As for me, I am most unfortunate, for nobody ever did anything but flatter me. I have always been too self-satisfied, too----

JACQUES. You have always been the most charming of women, the most----

HENRIETTE. Stop! It's exactly that sort of exaggeration that's begun to make me so unsure of myself. I want you to understand once for all, Jacques, I have a conscience, and, furthermore, it is beginning to develop. I have taken some important resolutions.

JACQUES. What _do_ you mean?

HENRIETTE. I have resolved to better myself, to raise my moral and intellectual standards, and to do that I must be guided, criticised----

JACQUES. But you already possess every imaginable quality! You are charitable, cultured, refined----

HENRIETTE. [_Annoyed._] Please!

[_Turns away and sits on settee._ JACQUES _addresses her from
behind chair_.

JACQUES. You are discreet, witty----

HENRIETTE. The same old compliments! Everybody tells me that. I want to be preached to, contradicted, scolded----

JACQUES. You could never stand _that_.

HENRIETTE. Yes, I could. I should be happy to profit by the criticism. It would inspire me.

JACQUES. I'd like to see the man who has the audacity to criticise you to your face----

HENRIETTE. That is enough! I trust you are aware that you are not the person fit to exercise this influence over me?

JACQUES. How could I? Everything about you pleases me. It can never be otherwise.

HENRIETTE. How interesting! That's the very reason I rejected your proposal. I sha'n't marry until I am certain that I shall not be continually pestered with compliments and flattery and submission. The man who marries me shall make it his business to remind me of my shortcomings, to correct all my mistakes. He must give me the assurance that I am continually bettering myself.

JACQUES. And this--husband--have you found him already?

HENRIETTE. What--? Oh, who knows?

JACQUES. Perhaps it's--Albert?

HENRIETTE. Perhaps it is--what of it?

JACQUES. Really!

HENRIETTE. You want me to speak frankly?

JACQUES. Of course.

HENRIETTE. Then--you wouldn't be annoyed if I said something nice about Albert?

[JACQUES _brings down_ C. _chair which is by desk, facing_
HENRIETTE.

JACQUES. Why, he's your friend!

HENRIETTE. Oh! So you, too, have a good opinion of him?

JACQUES. Certainly.

HENRIETTE. Well, what would you say of him?

JACQUES. [_Trying to be fair._] I'd trust him with money--I've never heard he was a thief.

HENRIETTE. But in other ways?

JACQUES. [_Still conscientious._] I believe him to be somewhat--somewhat----

HENRIETTE. Wilful? Headstrong?

JACQUES. Um--uncultured, let us say.

HENRIETTE. As you like--but for my part, I find that that air of his inspires absolute confidence. He knows how to be severe at times----

JACQUES. You're mistaken about that; that's only simple brute force. Go to the Zoo: the ostrich, the boa constrictor, the rhinoceros, all produce the same effect on you as your Albert----

HENRIETTE. My Albert? My Albert? Oh, I don't appropriate him so quickly as all that. His qualifications as censor are not yet entirely demonstrated.

[JACQUES _rises and approaches_ HENRIETTE, _who maintains an air of
cold dignity_.

JACQUES. For heaven's sake, Henriette, stop this nonsense!

HENRIETTE. What nonsense?

JACQUES. Tell me you are only playing with me. That you only wanted to put my love to the test! To make me jealous! To torture me! You have succeeded. Stop it, for heaven's sake----

HENRIETTE. My dear friend, I'm very sorry for you. I wish I could help you, but I cannot. I have given you a perfect description of the husband I want, and I am heart-broken that you bear so remote a resemblance to him.

JACQUES. Only promise you will think over your decision.

HENRIETTE. It is better to stop right now.

JACQUES. Don't send me away like this. Don't----

HENRIETTE. I might give you false hopes. I have only to tell you that I shall never consent to be the wife of a man who cannot be the severest of censors.

JACQUES. [_Kneeling._] I beg you!

HENRIETTE. No, no, no, Jacques! Spare me that. [_A telephone rings in the next room._] There's the 'phone----

JACQUES. Don't go!

[HENRIETTE _rises hastily and goes to door_. JACQUES _tries for a
moment to stop her_.

HENRIETTE. I must go. Go away, I tell you. I'll be furious if I find you here when I come back.

JACQUES. Henriette!

HENRIETTE. [_Coming down_ L. _to table_.] Not now! Please, Jacques. [_Exit._]

JACQUES. I can't leave it that way. I am the husband who will make her happy. But how? That is the question. [_Pause._] Ah, Albert!

[_Enter_ ALBERT. _He shakes hands with_ JACQUES.

ALBERT. How are you, rival?

JACQUES. [_Gravely._] My friend, we are no longer rivals.

ALBERT. How's that?

JACQUES. I have just had a talk with Henriette; she refuses to marry either one of us.

ALBERT. Did she mention me?

JACQUES. Casually.

[_Both sit down_, ALBERT _on sofa_, JACQUES _on chair near it_.

ALBERT. What did she say?

JACQUES. Oh, I wouldn't repeat it; it wouldn't be friendly.

ALBERT. I _must_ know.

JACQUES. Very well, then--she said that you had not succeeded--nor had I--to find the way to her heart. Between you and me, we've got a high-minded woman to deal with, a philosopher who detests flattery. It seems you have been in the habit of paying her compliments----

ALBERT. I never pay compliments.

JACQUES. Whatever you did, she didn't like it. Moreover--since you want the whole truth--you seem to her a bit--ridiculous.

ALBERT. Pardon?

JACQUES. The very word: ridiculous. She wants a husband who will act as a sort of conscience pilot. Evidently, you haven't appealed to her in that capacity.

ALBERT. Sometimes I used to be rather sharp with her----

JACQUES. You did it too daintily, perhaps; you lacked severity. I'll wager you smiled, instead of scowled--that would have been fatal!

ALBERT. I don't understand.

JACQUES. Henriette is a singular woman; to get her, you have to tell her that you don't like her--her pride demands it. Tell her all her bad qualities, straight from the shoulder.

ALBERT. [_Feeling himself equal to the task._] Don't worry about that! [_Rises and walks about._] I know women love to be told things straight out.

JACQUES. I'm not the man for that; nor are you, I suppose?

ALBERT. No? Jacques, I'm awfully obliged to you; you've done me a good turn----

JACQUES, Don't mention it----

ALBERT. You want to do me one more favor?

JACQUES. [_Devotedly._] Anything you like!

ALBERT. Promise me you'll never let Henrietta know that you told me this?

JACQUES. I promise; but why?

ALBERT. You know she has to understand that my behavior toward her is in character. Natural, you see.

JACQUES. Oh, you're going at it strenuously.

ALBERT. I am.

JACQUES. Your decision honors you.

ALBERT. Let's not have Henriette find us together. Would you mind disappearing?

JACQUES. With pleasure. I'll look in later and get the news.

[JACQUES _rises_.

ALBERT. Thanks, Jacques.

JACQUES. Good-by, Albert.

[_Exits after shaking hands cordially with_ ALBERT.

HENRIETTE. [_Re-entering as_ ALBERT _assumes a rather severe attitude_.] How are you? [_Pause._] Have you seen Jacques?

ALBERT. [_With a determined air._] No, Henriette. Thank God!

HENRIETTE. Why?

ALBERT. Because it pains me to see men in your presence whom you care nothing for.

HENRIETTE. [_Delighted._] You don't like that?

[_Sitting down on sofa._

ALBERT. No, I don't. And I'd like to tell you----

HENRIETTE. About my relations with Jacques?

ALBERT. Oh, he's not the only one.

HENRIETTE. Heaps of others, I suppose?

ALBERT. [_Sits on chair near sofa._] You suppose correctly; heaps.

HENRIETTE. Really?

ALBERT. You are a coquette.

HENRIETTE. You think so?

ALBERT. I am positive.

HENRIETTE. I suppose I displease you in other ways, too?

ALBERT. In a great many other ways.

HENRIETTE. [_Really delighted._] How confidently you say that!

ALBERT. So much the worse if you don't like it!

HENRIETTE. Quite the contrary, my dear Albert; you can't imagine how you please me when you talk like that. It's perfectly adorable.

ALBERT. It makes very little difference to me whether I please you or not. I speak according to my temperament. Perhaps it is a bit authoritative, but I can't help _that_.

HENRIETTE. You are superb.

ALBERT. Oh, no. I'm just myself.

HENRIETTE. Oh, if you were only the----

ALBERT. I haven't the slightest idea what you were about to say, but I'll guarantee that there's not a more inflexible temper than mine in Paris.

HENRIETTE. I can easily believe it. [_Pause._] Now tell me in what way you think I'm coquettish.

[_Sitting on edge of sofa in an interested attitude._ ALBERT _takes
out cigarette, lights and smokes it_.

ALBERT. That's easy; for instance, when you go to the theatre, to a reception, to the races. As soon as you arrive the men flock about in dozens; those who don't know you come to be introduced. You're the talking-stock of society. Now I should be greatly obliged if you would tell me to what you attribute this notoriety?

HENRIETTE. [_Modestly._] Well, I should attribute it to the fact that I am--agreeable, and pleasant----

ALBERT. There are many women no less so.

HENRIETTE. [_Summoning up all her modesty to reply._] You force me to recognize the fact----

ALBERT. And I know many women fully as pleasant as you who don't flaunt their favors in the face of everybody; _they_ preserve some semblance of dignity, a certain air of aloof distinction that it would do you no harm to acquire.

HENRIETTE. [_With a gratitude that is conscious of its bounds._] Thanks, thanks so much. [_Drawing back to a corner of the sofa._] I am deeply obliged to you----

ALBERT. Not at all.

HENRIETTE. In the future I shall try to behave more decorously.

ALBERT. Another thing----

HENRIETTE. [_The first signs of impatience begin to appear._] What? Another thing to criticise?

ALBERT. A thousand! [_Settling himself comfortably._

HENRIETTE. Well, hurry up.

ALBERT. You must rid yourself of your excessive and ridiculous school-girl sentimentality.

HENRIETTE. I wonder just on what you base your statement. Would you oblige me so far as to explain that?

ALBERT. With pleasure. I remember one day in the country you were in tears because a _poor_ little mouse had fallen into the claws of a _wretched_ cat; two minutes later you were sobbing because the _poor_ cat choked in swallowing the _wretched_ little mouse.

HENRIETTE. That was only my kindness to dumb animals. Is it wrong to be kind to dumb animals?

[_She is about to rise when_ ALBERT _stops her with a gesture_.

ALBERT. That would be of no consequence, if it weren't that you were of so contradictory a nature that you engage in the emptiest, most frivolous conversations, the most----

HENRIETTE. [_Slightly disdainful._] Ah, you are going too far! You make me doubt your power of analysis. I am interested only in noble and high things----

ALBERT. And yet as soon as the conversation takes a serious turn, it's appalling to see you; you yawn and look bored to extinction.

HENRIETTE. There you are right--partly.

ALBERT. You see!

HENRIETTE. [_Sharp and even antagonistic._] Yes, I have that unfortunate gift of understanding things before people have finished explaining them. While the others are waiting for the explanation, I can't wait, and I fly on miles ahead----

ALBERT. Hm--that sounds probable; I sha'n't say anything more about that just now. But while I'm on the subject, I have more than once noticed that you are guilty of the worst vice woman ever possessed----

HENRIETTE. And what, if you please?

ALBERT. Vanity.

HENRIETTE. I vain? Oh, you're going too far!

ALBERT. [_Unruffled._] Not a word! Every time I tell you a fault, you twist it round to your own advantage. Whereas you are really worse----

HENRIETTE. [_Rising and gathering her skirts about her with virtuous indignation._] You are rude! I suppose you would find fault with me if I considered myself more polite than the person whom I have the honor to address?

ALBERT. I hope you don't intend that remark as personal.

HENRIETTE. I certainly do.

[_She crosses to the other side of the stage and sits down._ ALBERT
_rises and goes up to her_.

ALBERT. Henriette! No! [_Laughing._] I see your trick.

HENRIETTE. What do you mean?

ALBERT. You can't deceive me by pretending to be angry. You wanted to see whether I could withstand your temper. Let us now proceed to the next chapter: your manner of dressing.

HENRIETTE. [_Now really outraged._] My manner of dressing? You dare!

[HENRIETTE _crosses_ L. _Front_, ALBERT _following her_.

ALBERT. Yes, that will be enough for to-day----

HENRIETTE. And then you'll begin again to-morrow!

ALBERT. Yes.

HENRIETTE. And do you think for one minute that I'll listen to you while you insult me to my face? _You_ are the vain one, to think you can come to that! _You_ are the frivolous one, _you_ are the----

ALBERT. [_Slightly perturbed._] Be careful what you say!

HENRIETTE. I'll take care of that. Let me tell you that you are a detestable cynic. You are disgustingly personal; always dwelling on details, on the least----

ALBERT. Which is as much as calling me a fool?

HENRIETTE. Just about. You would be if you didn't read your morning paper regularly; so regularly that I know in advance exactly what you are going to say to me during the day.

ALBERT. Why not call me a parrot?

HENRIETTE. That would flatter you, for you don't speak as well as a parrot; a parrot's memory never gets clouded, a parrot has at least the common politeness to----

ALBERT. [_Between his teeth._] I won't stand for this. I wonder how you could have endured me so long if you thought me such a fool.

HENRIETTE. I believed you harmless.

ALBERT. Are you aware that you have wounded me cruelly?

HENRIETTE. _You_ have wounded _me_. Thank heaven, though, we had this discussion! Now I'll know how to conduct myself toward you in the future.

ALBERT. Thank heaven for the same thing! It was high time! I grieve to think that only last night I had fully made up my mind to ask you to be my wife!

HENRIETTE. My dear friend, if you ever do so, I shall show you the door immediately.

[_Enter_ JACQUES _hurriedly_. HENRIETTE _runs to him as for
protection_.

JACQUES. What's all this noise? What's the matter?

HENRIETTE. Oh, Jacques--I'm so glad you've come.

ALBERT. Just in time! You put an end to our pleasant little tête-à-tête.

JACQUES. But what's happened?

HENRIETTE. Well, monsieur here----

ALBERT. No, it was mademoiselle who----

[HENRIETTE _and_ ALBERT _each take an arm of_ JACQUES _and bring
him down-stage_ C. _His attention is constantly shifting from one
to the other, as they address him in turn._

HENRIETTE. Just think, Jacques----

ALBERT. Jacques, she had the audacity to----

HENRIETTE. Stop! I'm going to tell him first----

JACQUES. You're both too excited to explain anything. Albert, you take a little stroll and cool off.

ALBERT. [_Retreating toward the door._] Charmed.

HENRIETTE. Then I can draw a free breath.

JACQUES. [_To_ ALBERT.] I'll fix up things while you're away.

ALBERT. [_To both._] I won't give in.

HENRIETTE. Neither will I.

JACQUES. Tut, tut!

ALBERT. Good-day, mademoiselle.

HENRIETTE. Good-day.

JACQUES. Good-day, Albert.

[_Exit_ ALBERT.

HENRIETTE. Thank goodness, we're rid of him!

JACQUES. [_Sympathetically._] Tell me all about it.

HENRIETTE. [_Sits down on sofa, inviting_ JACQUES _by a gesture to do the same. He sits beside her._] That man invented the most abominable things about me; criticised me to my face!

JACQUES. He did!

HENRIETTE. It was so ridiculous--makes me sick to think about it.

JACQUES. My dear Henriette, don't think about it. Albert must have behaved like a brute to make you so angry.

HENRIETTE. Yes, don't you think so? _You_ think I'm right?

JACQUES. [_Loyally._] Of course I do.

HENRIETTE. [_At her ease once more._] You encourage me, Jacques.

JACQUES. When I saw you were angry I said to myself at once: "Henriette is right."

HENRIETTE. Really?

JACQUES. I said it because I knew you were by nature peace-loving and considerate----

HENRIETTE. [_With profound conviction._] Well, I think that's the least that could be said of me.

JACQUES. In any event, you are always tactful, you always----

HENRIETTE. _You_ know me, Jacques!

JACQUES. I flatter myself. I felt instinctively you couldn't be wrong. You have always been so admirably poised, so unfailingly considerate.

HENRIETTE. [_With perfect simplicity._] Frankly now, do I ever lose my temper with you?

JACQUES. [_In good faith._] Never. With me you are always patient, gracious, modest----

HENRIETTE. But I remember, a little while ago, I made you suffer----

JACQUES. Yes, I was unhappy. But "if after every storm comes such a calm"----

HENRIETTE. It was all my fault. You understand me; you are truly a friend.

JACQUES. Nothing more?

[_Rising, but standing near her._ HENRIETTE _blushingly looks down
at her shoe_.

HENRIETTE. Oh----

JACQUES. Prove that you mean that sincerely.

HENRIETTE. What have I to do? [_Same business._

JACQUES. Place your future in my hands; marry me.

HENRIETTE. [_With downcast eyes._] I was just thinking about it. [_Same business, but with repressed joy._

JACQUES. [_About to embrace her._] Ah!

HENRIETTE. Wait!

[_Complete metamorphosis. Her joy is still present, but it has
taken on a playful, serio-comic aspect. Rising and putting her hand
in his._

JACQUES. Why do you hesitate?

HENRIETTE. Jacques, do you remember what I told you not long ago?

JACQUES. Yes.

HENRIETTE. In spite of that, are you quite sure that I am not vain or coquettish?

JACQUES. I am certain.

HENRIETTE. You are also firmly resolved to be my moral guide, critic, helper?

JACQUES. [_Stolid as ever._] I am.

HENRIETTE. I make one condition.

JACQUES. Name it.

HENRIETTE. On your word of honor?

JACQUES. On my word of honor. Tell me.

HENRIETTE. Will you swear to tell me, without pity, every time you find me at fault? Swear.

JACQUES. I swear.

HENRIETTE. Then you have my promise.

JACQUES. [_As they embrace._] Dearest!

CURTAIN

THE DEACON'S HAT

BY

JEANNETTE MARKS

_The Deacon's Hat_ is reprinted by special arrangement with Miss Jeannette Marks and with Little, Brown and Company, Boston, the publisher of _Three Welsh Plays_, from which this play is taken. All rights reserved. For permission to perform address the author in care of the publisher.

JEANNETTE MARKS

Jeannette Marks, well-known essayist, poet, and playwright, was born in 1875 at Chattanooga, Tennessee, but spent her early life in Philadelphia, where her father, the late William Dennis Marks, was professor of dynamics in the University of Pennsylvania and president of the Edison Electric Light Company. She attended school in Dresden, and in 1900 was graduated from Wellesley College. She obtained her master's degree from Wellesley in 1903. Her graduate studies were continued at the Bodleian Library and at the British Museum. Since 1901 she has been on the staff of the English Department at Mount Holyoke College, South Hadley, Massachusetts. Her chief courses are Nineteenth Century Poetry and Play-writing.

Miss Marks's interest in Welsh life is the result of her hiking several summers among the Welsh hills and valleys. She became intimately acquainted with Welsh peasant life. It is said that Edward Knobloch, well-known dramatist, on one of her homeward voyages from one of her summer outings in Wales, pointed out to Miss Marks the dramatic possibilities of the material she had thus acquired. _Three Welsh Plays_ was the result. Two of these plays, without the author's knowledge, were entered in 1911 for the Welsh National Theatre prize contest. To her credit, the plays won the prize. The complete volume appeared in 1917.

_The Deacon's Hat_ is a fine study of the life of the common folk of Wales.

CHARACTERS

DEACON ROBERTS, _a stout, oldish Welshman_
HUGH WILLIAMS, _an earnest, visionary young man who owns Y Gegin_
NELI WILLIAMS, _his capable wife_
MRS. JONES, _the Wash, a stout, kindly woman who wishes to buy soap_
MRS. JENKINS, _the Midwife, after pins for her latest baby_
TOM MORRIS, _the Sheep, who comes to buy tobacco and remains to pray_

THE DEACON'S HAT[I]

SCENE: _A little shop called Y Gegin (The Kitchen), in Bala, North
Wales._

TIME: _Monday morning at half-past eleven._

_To the right is the counter of Y Gegin, set out with a bountiful
supply of groceries; behind the counter are grocery-stocked
shelves. Upon the counter is a good-sized enamel-ware bowl filled
with herring pickled in brine and leek, also a basket of fresh
eggs, a jar of pickles, some packages of codfish, a half dozen
loaves of bread, a big round cheese, several pounds of butter
wrapped in print paper, etc., etc._

_To the left are a cheerful glowing fire and ingle._

_At the back center is a door; between the door and the fire stands
a grandfather's clock with a shining brass face. Between the clock
and the door, back centre, is a small tridarn [Welsh dresser] and a
chair. From the rafters hang flitches of bacon, hams, bunches of
onions, herbs, etc. On either side of the fireplace are latticed
windows, showing a glimpse of the street. Before the fire is a
small, round, three-legged table; beside it a tall, straight-backed
chair._

_Between the table and left is a door which is the entrance to Y
Gegin and from which, on a metal elbow, dangles a large bell._

_At rise of curtain Hugh Williams enters at back centre, absorbed
in reading a volume of Welsh theological essays. He is dressed in a
brightly striped vest, a short, heavy cloth coat, cut away in
front and with lapels trimmed with brass buttons, swallowtails
behind, also trimmed with brass buttons, stock wound around his
neck, and tight trousers down to his boot-tops._

_Neli Williams, his wife, a comely, capable young woman, busy with
her knitting every instant she talks, is clad in her market
costume, a scarlet cloak, and a tall black Welsh beaver. Over her
arm is an immense basket._

NELI. [_Commandingly._] Hughie, put down that book!

HUGH. [_Still going on reading._] Haven't I just said a man is his own master, whatever!

NELI. Hughie, ye're to mind the shop while I'm gone!

HUGH. [_Patiently._] Yiss, yiss.

NELI. I don't think ye hear a word I am sayin' whatever.

HUGH. Yiss, I hear every word ye're sayin'.

NELI. What is it, then?

HUGH. [_Weakly._] 'Tis all about--about--the--the weather whatever!

NELI. Ye've not heard a word, an' ye're plannin' to read that book from cover to cover, I can see.

HUGH. [_A little too quickly._] Nay, I have no plans....

[_He tucks book away in back coat pocket over-hastily._

NELI. Hugh!

HUGH. [_Weakly._] Nay, I _have_ no plans whatever!

NELI. [_Reproachfully._] Hugh--_ie_! 'Twould be the end of sellin' anythin' to anybody if I leave ye with a book whatever! Give me that book!

HUGH. [_Obstinately._] Nay, I'll no read the book.

NELI. Give me that book!

HUGH. [_Rising a little._] Nay. I say a man is his own master whatever!

NELI. [_Finding the book hidden in his coat-tail pocket._] Is he? Well, I'll no leave ye with any masterful temptations to be readin'.

HUGH. Ye've no cause to take this book away from me.

NELI. [_Opens book and starts with delight._] 'Tis Deacon Roberts's new book on "The Flamin' Wickedness of Babylon." Where did ye get it?

HUGH. [_Reassured by her interest._] He lent it to me this morning.

NELI. [_Resolutely._] Well, I will take it away from ye this noon till I am home again whatever!

HUGH. [_Sulkily._] Sellin' groceries is not salvation. They sold groceries in Babylon; Deacon Roberts says so.

NELI. [_Looking at book with ill-disguised eagerness._] I dunno as anybody ever found salvation by givin' away all he had for nothin'! 'Tis certain Deacon Roberts has not followed that way.

HUGH. [_Still sulkily._] A man is his own master, I say.

NELI. [_Absent-mindedly, her nose in the book._] Is he? Well, indeed!

HUGH. [_Crossly._] Aye, he is. [_Pointedly._] An' I was not plannin' to give away the book whatever.

NELI. [_Closing volume with a little sigh, as for stolen delights, and speaking hastily._] An' I am not talkin' about acceptin' books, but about butter an' eggs an' cheese an' all the other groceries!

HUGH. Aye, ye'll get no blessin' from such worldliness.

NELI. [_Absent-mindedly._] Maybe not, but ye will get a dinner from that unblessed worldliness an' find no fault, I'm thinkin'. [_Her hand lingering on the book, which she opens._] But such wonderful theology! An' such eloquence! Such an understandin' of sin! Such glowin' pictures of Babylon!

HUGH. Aye, hot! I tell ye, Neli, there's no man in the parish has such a gift of eloquence as Deacon Roberts or such theology. In all Wales ye'll not find stronger theology than his.

NELI. Ye have no need to tell me that! [_Looking for a place in which to hide the book until she returns._] Have I not a deep an' proper admiration for theology? Have I not had one minister an' five deacons an' a revivalist in my family, to say nothin' at all of one composer of hymns?

HUGH. Yiss, yiss. Aye, 'tis a celebrated family. I am no sayin' anythin' against your family.

NELI. Then what?

HUGH. [_Pleadingly._] Deacon Roberts has great fire with which to save souls. We're needin' that book on Babylon's wickedness. Give it back to me, Neli!

NELI. Oh, aye! [_Looks at husband._] I'm not sayin' but that ye are wicked, Hugh, an' needin' these essays, for ye have no ministers and deacons and hymn composers among your kin.

HUGH. [_Triumphantly._] Aye, aye, that's it! That's it! An' the more need have I to read till my nostrils are full of the smoke of--of Babylon.

NELI. [_Absent-mindedly tucking book away on shelf as she talks._] Aye, but there has been some smoke about Deacon Roberts's reputation which has come from some fire less far away than Babylon.

HUGH. What smoke?

NELI. [_Evasively._] Well, I am thinkin' about my eggs which vanished one week ago to-day. There was no one in that mornin' but Deacon Roberts. Mrs. Jones the Wash had come for her soap an' gone before I filled that basket with eggs.

HUGH. [_Watching her covertly, standing on tiptoe and craning his neck as she stows away book._] Yiss, yiss!

NELI. [_Slyly._] Ask Deacon Roberts if cats steal eggs whatever?

HUGH. [_Repeating._] If cats steal eggs, if cats steal eggs.

NELI. Aye, not if eggs steal cats.

HUGH. [_Craning neck._] Yiss, yiss, if eggs steal cats!

NELI. Hugh--_ie_! Now ye'll never get it correct again! 'Tis if cats steal eggs.

HUGH. [_Sulkily._] Well, I'm no carin' about cats with heaven starin' me in the face.

[NELI _turns about swiftly with the quick, sudden motions
characteristic of her, and_ HUGH _shrinks into himself. She shakes
her finger at him and goes over to kiss him._

NELI. Hughie, lad, ye're not to touch the book while I am gone to market.

HUGH. Nay, nay, certainly not!

NELI. And ye're to be on the lookout for Mrs. Jones the Wash, for Mrs. Jenkins the Midwife--Jane Elin has a new baby, an' it'll be needin' somethin'. [_Pointing to counter._] Here is everythin' plainly marked. Ye're no to undersell or give away anythin.' D'ye hear?

HUGH. Aye, I hear!