Chapter IV: Part 4

MRS. S. I’m sure I don’t know. All I can say is, there must be some mistake. She never made any garments whatever for me. By the way, have you the bill with you?

MR. S. Yes, here it is. (_Takes bill from his pocket, unfolds it, and shows it to his wife._)

MRS. S. What is the amount?

MR. S. One hundred and twenty-five dollars and forty-seven cents.

MRS. S. (_surprised_). And you paid it?

MR. S. Certainly; I supposed it was all right.

MRS. S. Well, I don’t know what can be done about it. I never had any of the articles mentioned.

MR. S. Do you suppose there is another person of the same name on this street?

MRS. S. Yes, Bridget told me, last evening, there were three other John Smiths on this street, two of whom live in this block.

MR. S. Then there’ll be no end of mistakes.

MRS. S. None as serious as this, I hope.

(_Enter BRIDGET, R., bearing a letter, which she passes to MR. S._)

BRIDGET. An’ here’s a letther the postman brought, sir.

MR. S. (_examines superscription, which he reads aloud_). “Mr. John Smith, Taylor’s Block, Central Street, B——.”

(_Exit BRIDGET, R._)

MRS. S. Where is it from?

MR. S. It is postmarked Ramsey, Minnesota.

MRS. S. Have you acquaintances there?

MR. S. It seems so, though I wasn’t aware of it.

MRS. S. Do open the letter. I’m really curious to know whom it is from.

MR. S. Ah, yes, woman’s curiosity! How do you know but it may be privacy?

MRS. S. I am satisfied that it is not. At all events, I’m willing to run the risk.

MR. S. Courageous woman! Then I will venture to open it. (_Cuts off edge of envelope and draws out a small, square piece of paper which he begins to read aloud._)

“You thief, you! You villain, you! So you’ve basely gone off
and taken my best dress and bonnet, and all the silver my
father gave me when I was married! I suppose you intended to
adorn your wife with the clothes you stole! But you shan’t
do it, as sure as my name is Dorothy Ann. I’ve got track
of you, and just as quick as I can get money enough, I’m
coming right along after you. You’re a mean, shiftless, lazy,
good-for-nothing villain, and if you don’t send all back within
a week, I’ll send the police after you.”

MR. S. (_turns towards his wife, smiling_). There’s quite an inducement for John Smith. What do you think of that for a character? I’d better not have read the letter aloud. Perhaps you will begin to repent having married me.

MRS. S. I ought to, certainly, if this letter is true. But you haven’t given me the dress and bonnet yet.

MR. S. No, I never thought of it. I wonder if it was the wife of this John Smith whose bill I paid.

MRS. S. Don’t know. I think it’s doubtful if you ever find the one to whom it rightfully belongs.

MR. S. I must try, at all events. I don’t feel like losing so much money, or paying other people’s dressmaker’s bills.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_MRS. S. is seated, R., sewing. MR. S. enters, L._

MR. S. What vile odor is that I smell? What have you for dinner, Amanda?

MRS. S. (_complacently_). What you sent, of course.

MR. S. And that is—

MRS. S. Corned beef and cabbage.

MR. S. I knew it. I thought I could not be deceived. Such a villanous smell!

MRS. S. (_surprised_). Of course you knew it. Did you not send it to me this morning?

MR. S. (_excited_). Never! I sent you a pair of the plumpest wild-fowl to be found in the market. My mouth fairly watered for a taste of them as I entered the door, when I was saluted by the scent of that odious cabbage.

MRS. S. What do you suppose has become of them?

MR. S. (_indignantly_). Some other John Smith is doubtless regaling himself on them.

MRS. S. Wouldn’t it be a good plan to send Bridget to see?

MR. S. Yes, and let her go at once.

(_Exit MRS. S., R._)

MR. S. (_soliloquizing_). Some one asks, “What’s in a name?” If his name happened to be John Smith, he wouldn’t have to inquire. Why couldn’t my parents have called me Hezekiah, Ezekiel, or any other heathenish name rather than plain John? Then I should not have been victimized in this way.

(_Enter MRS. S., R., followed by a stranger._)

MRS. S. This gentleman wishes to see you, John.

STRANGER (_inquiringly_). Your name is Smith, sir? (_MR. S. nods._) _John_ Smith, I believe.

MR. S. That is my name, though I wish to goodness it wasn’t.

STR. No wonder, sir, no wonder. When I call on professional business, people almost always wish they were somebody else.

MR. S. And what is your business, if I may be allowed to inquire?

STR. Certainly you may, though there’s no doubt you’d soon learn it without inquiring. I am Sheriff Bailey, and I came to levy an execution on your furniture.

MR. S. And what is that for?

STR. Because it is not paid for. Messrs. Phillips & Hoffman sold you, some time since, a quantity of furniture amounting to two hundred and fifty dollars, which was to be paid for in thirty days. Here is the bill of it. (_Passes to MR. S._) This was three months ago, and though they have repeatedly sent letters calling your attention to it, no notice has been taken of them. Have you anything to say in regard to this matter?

MR. S. (_dryly_). I think I have. In the first place, I haven’t bought any furniture for a year. In the second place, I never heard of Messrs. Phillips & Hoffman, and therefore, of course, never bought anything from them (_sighing_). The fact is, sir, you’ve got hold of the wrong John Smith.

STR. You can’t come that dodge on me. The John Smith that I was looking for lived in Taylor’s Block, and as this is the place, you must be the man I am seeking.

MR. S. (_indignantly_). Do you doubt my word, sir? Let me inform you that there are two other John Smiths living in this block, as I know to my sorrow. Besides, if you’ll take the trouble to look at the furniture, you’ll see that it has been used a much longer time. I notice by the bill (_glancing at it_) that it was a suite of parlor furniture that was bought, and this is the only furniture of that description which we possess.

STR. (_looking around him_). This is not a new style of furniture, certainly. It is possible that I may be mistaken in the person. If so, I beg your pardon. I will make inquiries before proceeding further in this matter.

MR. S. (_with an injured air_). You need make no apologies, sir. I’m getting used to this sort of thing.

(_Exit SHERIFF, L., and enter BRIDGET, R._)

B. It was to number seven that the fowls went, sir.

MR. S. (_eagerly_). Did you bring them back with you?

B. No, sir, they’ve eaten ’em up. Ann McKay said Mrs. Smith thought somebody sent ’em as a present. But she told me privately that they had dinner an hour earlier than usual.

MR. S. A present indeed! They knew very well it was a mistake, and took occasion to eat their dinner earlier, in order to have a nice meal before the mistake could be rectified. Bridget, take the corned beef and cabbage over, and tell them we have no use for it. Then come back and open all the windows, and see if we cannot get rid of this intolerable smell.

MRS. S. But what are we to have for dinner?

MR. S. Boiled eggs—some of yesterday’s roast—or anything you may happen to have in the house. For my part, I haven’t any appetite now.

(_Exit BRIDGET, R. Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_MRS. SMITH’S sitting-room. MRS. S. present, C._

MRS. S. (_soliloquizing_). I don’t see where Mr. Smith can be. It is seldom he is out so late. (_Calls the servant, who is passing the door._) Bridget!

B. (_enters, R._). Yes, mum.

MRS. S. Did Mr. Smith say where he was going when he left home?

B. No, mum. He axed me “was you out,” and I told him you had gone into Mrs. Clarke’s for a few minutes. He said it was no matter; he only wanted to know had you mended the pocket of his weskit.

MRS. S. I entirety forgot it. Just pass it from the hall-closet, Bridget, and I will mend it at once. It will serve to pass the time away.

(_Exit B., R._)

B. (_enters, R._). Here it is, mum (_passes vest to MRS. S._). An’ I think I’ll be goin’ upstairs, if ye don’t want me any more. It’s gettin’ late.

MRS. S. Very well, Bridget. I believe that is all I need.

(_Exit BRIDGET, R._)

MRS. S. I think it was the pocket on the right side that needed mending. (_Turns pocket inside out._) What is this? (_Picks up a letter in a small envelope, directed in a lady’s hand._) It cannot be a letter from his sister. I must open it. (_Unfolds the letter and reads_):—

“DEAREST JOHN,—It is a long time since the sight of your face
has gladdened my heart. Cannot you call on me this, evening? I
will refuse myself to every one else. Remember I have not seen
you for a whole week. Notwithstanding your protestations of
devotion to me, I fear you are too attentive to your wife, and
you know she does not appreciate your love as I do. Do not fail
to come. If it is necessary to make any excuses, say that you
are obliged to be away on business. I count the moments till we
meet.

“LILLIAN PERCIVAL.”

MRS. S. (_bitterly_). Is it possible that John has deceived me, and is carrying on an intrigue with such a woman as that?—I cannot believe it,—and yet it must be so. (_Hears sound of a latch-key,—listens._) That is his step now. (_Puts letter back in another pocket of vest, and begins to sew._)

MR. S. (_enters, L._). What? Amanda—up yet. I expected to find you asleep. Don’t trouble yourself with mending that vest to-night. I have several others.

MRS. S. (_coldly_). Where have you been to-night, John?

MR. S. I was out on business.

MRS. S. It must have been important business to keep you out till this hour.

MR. S. To tell the truth it was so. But it isn’t a matter you would be likely to understand.

MRS. S. I understand it only too well. (_Passes letter to him._) Who wrote that letter? (_Eyes him sharply._)

MR. S. (_bursting into a laugh_). I understand it all now,—you’ve read that letter, and are jealous. Confess, now, that that’s the case. But I didn’t suppose you’d be so ridiculous.

MRS. S. (_bridling_). Ridiculous indeed! When one’s husband receives such letters as that, it’s about time for his wife to inquire into the matter.

MR. S. I received the letter this morning, but, satisfied that it was written to some other John Smith, I thrust it hastily into my pocket, not dreaming that it would stir up such a breeze as this.

MRS. S. I wish, John, that you would have your name changed.

MR. S. That is what I am intending to do. At the next session of the Legislature, I have determined to apply for a change of name. I believe there are more rascals by the name of Smith than any other one name in the world. And if there is any villain who is brought before the police, he is sure to give his name as John Smith. I don’t care what the new name is,—Snooks, Jenkins, or Tubbs,—there isn’t one of them that would bring a man into trouble half as soon, as to be called plain John Smith.

(_Curtain falls._)

AUNT RACHEL’S FRIGHT.

CHARACTERS.

MR. CAMPBELL, A Returned Traveller.
MR. LEWIS, The Head of the Family.
MRS. LEWIS, His Wife.
AGNES, ⎫
PHILIP, ⎭ Their Children.
MISS RACHEL, A Spinster Sister of Mr. L.
SERVANT.

SCENE I.—_Parlor at MR. LEWIS’. MR. C. enters, L._

MR. CAMPBELL. Well, I must say it seems pleasant to be home again, once more. After travelling two years through foreign countries, it is really refreshing to reach one’s native land. (_Throws himself into an easy-chair, C._) But I wonder where Maria and her husband are? They will be somewhat surprised to see me here a month earlier than they expected. Fortunately, through all my travels I have kept my latch-key, and was able to gain an entrance without the aid of a servant. However, now that I am here, I feel impatient to see Maria and Arthur. I think I will ring. (_Rings; servant enters, R._)

MR. C. Are Mr. and Mrs. Lewis at home?

SERVANT. No, sir, the family are all away at a party. You are Mrs. Lewis’s brother, I suppose?

MR. C. Yes. (_Surprised._) Did she expect me to-night?

S. Yes, and she bade me say they were sorry to be obliged to be away. But they wished you to make yourself comfortable. Here is the evening paper, sir. (_Hands it to him._) As they will not be home till late, I will conduct you to your room when you wish to retire.

MR. C. There’s no occasion for that. I remember my old room very well. I will read a while before I go to bed. I may possibly sit up till they come home. At all events, I shall not need any further service from you.

(_Exit_ SERVANT, L.)

Well, I must say I’m mystified. In the first place, I don’t see how Maria heard I should arrive to-day. In the second place, when I asked if Mr. and Mrs. Lewis were at home, the servant said _all the family_ were away. Now people don’t use such an expression as that when the family consists of only two members. I wonder whether they have company? I wish I might meet my sister Eliza here. But I won’t trouble myself with needless conjectures. I shall learn all about the matter in the morning. (_A pause._) I believe I’ll put on my slippers. (_Opens bag, from which he takes slippers. He takes off boots, puts on slippers, then takes up evening paper._) I wonder what the news is. In fact, it will be all news to me. Ah! here’s the announcement of the arrival of the Rosamond. But if Maria had seen it she wouldn’t have supposed that I was a passenger. How _could_ she have heard of my arrival? That is a mystery to me. (_He commences reading, but in one or two minutes his eyes close, and he begins to nod. Suddenly his head falls back, and the paper drops from his grasp. He wakens with a start._) Why, bless me, I nearly lost myself! I feel very sleepy. (_Looks at his watch._) No wonder—it is nearly half-past eleven o’clock. I think I will go to bed. (_Picks up paper, and puts it on the table, then takes his bag—a small one—and a light, and leaves the room, R._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_A chamber. There must be a bed in the room, C. This
may be a lounge, but it must have curtains around it. These are
necessary, and can be arranged on a light, portable frame. MR.
C. enters the room, sets down the lamp on table, R., and looks
around, in astonishment._

MR. C. It seems Maria has entirely refurnished this chamber. I can hardly recognize the room I have occupied so many times. But I am too sleepy to take much account of surroundings. If the bed is only comfortable, I shall not take much notice of anything else. (_Takes off coat, vest, and slippers, which he puts near head of bed, and extinguishes the light. He then parts the curtains and throws himself upon the bed, drawing the curtains to after him._)

(_A pause. Then the door opens, L., and an ancient maiden, in party attire, enters. She sets lamp down on the table. Sits down, herself, and proceeds to divest her head of its adornings. She takes off two sets of curls, two or three braids, and numberless hairpins. Also takes from her mouth a set of false teeth. While these preparations are going on, she soliloquizes_:)

AUNT RACHEL. What senseless people one meets at a party, to be sure!

MR. C. (_peeping from between curtains, aside_). Who the deuce is this?

A. R. (_continuing_). There was that Fitznoodle, the puppy, trying to make himself agreeable to our little Agnes. To be sure, she’s old enough to have a beau, but I hope to goodness she won’t marry _him_. I wouldn’t if he was worth his weight in gold.

MR. C. (_again peeping out,—in a low tone_). What a fate it would be for a man to marry such a woman as that! Though, for that matter, there won’t be much left of her, if she keeps on. She’s got her head most taken to pieces, already.

(_AUNT R. puts on a very large night-cap, so that only a small portion of her face is visible. She suddenly discovers the other lamp. MR. C. frequently peeps out._)

A. R. (_in dismay_). Where did that other lamp come from? I know it wasn’t here when I dressed for the party. (_Looks around. MR. C.’S head disappears, and the curtains are closed. She discovers a coat and vest on the chair near head of bed. Her eyes are fixed on them in horror. She wrings her hands._) Oh, there’s a man in the room, I know there is! I shall faint. (_She suddenly considers that, under the circumstances, this would be improper._) If I only dared to go and look! (_Stands a moment, with hands tightly clasped together, grows courageous, and slowly walks toward the bed, peeps through the curtain, and, darting back, screams._) Oh! oh! oh!

MR. C. (_parting the curtains a little_). Don’t be so foolish, madam. I assure you it is all a mistake.

A. R. That’s what they always say. (_Runs to door, L., looking back now and then, to see if she is pursued; screams_:) Emmeline! James! Help! Murder! Thieves!

(_Exit AUNT RACHEL._)

(_MR. C. parts the curtain, and looks forth._)

MR. C. Well, I must say, that’s rather curious. The mystery thickens. Pray who could that female be? I’m sure it’s no one that I ever saw before. Perhaps she’s left a handkerchief with her name written on it. I guess I’ll reconnoitre a little, as she has left me a light. (_Goes to table, lifts, successively, the braids and masses of curls._) Here is part of her make-up. But there’s no name on it. In fact, there is nothing to give any clue to the mystery. But there’s one thing I can do. I’ll fasten the door so that I shall not be interrupted again. (_Goes to door and locks it._) Now I believe I will retire once more, and see if I cannot get a little rest. And for fear I may be routed again, I will leave the light burning. (_He goes to bed._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_Parlor at MR. LEWIS’. MRS. L., R., AGNES, C., and
PHILIP, L., present. They are engaged in taking off their outer
garments._

MRS. LEWIS. How glad I am to get home again! I feel very tired.

PHILIP. I don’t feel tired a bit. I wanted to stop longer. Didn’t you, Agnes?

AGNES. I had a nice time, and enjoyed myself very much. (_Smiling._) I don’t suppose I should seriously have objected to stopping longer. Do you know, Phil, I made a good many new acquaintances this evening?

PHIL. Yes, you seemed to be having a splendid time, talking with Fitznoodle. I can’t say I admire your taste.

A. Oh, as for that, I don’t fancy him much, myself, but you know one must be civil, even if they don’t like those they are talking with.

(_Enter AUNT RACHEL, R., with night-cap on, in a state of great excitement._)

A. R. Oh, murder! Help! Thieves!

MRS. L. What is it, Rachel?

A. R. (_gasping_). Oh, dear! Oh, dear!

MRS. L. Why, Rachel, what is the matter?

A. Do tell us, Aunt Rachel.

PHIL. (_sturdily_). I’ll protect you, Aunt Rachel. Where’s the robber?

A. R. Oh, there’s a man in my room—and he spoke to me. (_Clasping her hands._) What shall I do? Oh! oh!

MRS. L. A man in your room! It can’t be. How could he get in with the doors all locked?

A. R. (_tartly_). I tell you there is a man there. Don’t you believe me? He spoke to me too.

PHIL. What did he say, Aunt Rachel?

A. R. I’m sure I don’t know. I didn’t wait to hear.

MR. L. (_entering, L._). Pray what is the matter? You all look frightened.

MRS. L. And well we may. There’s a man in Rachel’s room.

MR. L. That’s all imagination. It is simply impossible that any one could get in, under the circumstances.

A. R. (_in a high tone_). What! Do you mean to insinuate that I don’t know what I’m talking about? I guess I haven’t lost the use of any of my faculties yet. And I saw him with my own eyes.

MR. L. Don’t get disturbed, Rachel. We can easily learn whether there is any one there or not. I will go myself and see.

MRS. L. Don’t go, Alfred. If there is a man there, of course he is armed. What could you do to protect yourself against the assault of a desperate man, and one well armed too? Take my advice and call a policeman.

MR. L. Well, perhaps that would be a better way. (_Starts to go out, L._)

MRS. L. But what shall we do? We can’t be left alone. He might murder us all and escape before you got back.

MR. L. That is true.

MRS. L. Why can’t we arm ourselves, and all go, in a body? There wouldn’t be much chance for him to escape, and we could, all together, overpower him.

MR. L. Very well. I’ll take the carving-knife. (_Takes it from, table._)

MRS. L. I’ll take the poker. (_Takes it._)

PHIL. I’ll take the tongs. (_Takes them, and stepping up behind AUNT RACHEL, pretends to take off her night-cap with them._)

A. R. I’ll take the broom, and use it well, too. (_Takes it from behind the door._)

A. I’ll get the clothes-line to tie him with. (_Exit AGNES, R. The rest go out, R., in the following order—MR. and MRS. L., AUNT R., and PHILIP._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE IV.—_Same as Scene II. Bed with curtains drawn. Some one
tries the door, L. MR. C. parts the curtains, and looks out._

MR. C. What’s to pay now, I wonder? I believe I shall have more adventures in this one night than I met with all the time I was abroad. (_Great pounding at the door._) Halloo there! Don’t break the door down. What’s wanted?

MR. L. (_outside_). Open this door at once, in the name of the law.

MR. C. Well, well, wait a minute. (_He steps out of bed, thrusts his feet in slippers, then goes and opens the door. Seems astonished at seeing so many strange faces. They enter,—MR. L. and PHILIP pass to R.; the rest remain at L.,—eying him cautiously, but concealing their weapons behind them._)

MR. L. Well, sir, what do you mean by entering my house at night, and frightening this lady (_turning to AUNT R._) in such a manner?

MR. C. I think I can explain it satisfactorily, sir; but I must first ask a few questions. Is your name Lewis?

MR. L. It is.

MR. C. How long have you occupied this house?

MR. L. (_puzzled_). About a month.

MR. C. What was the name of the former occupant?

MR. L. His name was Lewis, also. I bought the house of him.

MR. C. _My_ name is Campbell. I am a brother of the other Mrs. Lewis. I have been travelling abroad for the last two years, and arrived here late last evening. Having a latch-key, and being ignorant of the change of owners, I entered, but was disappointed at not finding any one at home. The servant said the family were away at a party, and offered to conduct me to my room when I was ready to retire. She said Mrs. Lewis _was expecting her brother_.

MRS. L. I was expecting him, but he didn’t come.

MR. C. Under these circumstances, and misled by the name, I had no suspicion that I was trespassing. I therefore told the servant I could easily find the way to my room, as I had slept there many times before. I must apologize to this lady (_turning to AUNT R._) for giving her such a fright, which I assure her was entirely unintentional on my part.

MR. L. (_laughing_). Your explanation is perfectly satisfactory, sir. Mr. Arthur Lewis lives three blocks farther down-town. But it is late, and you must be our guest for the remainder of the night. We will furnish you with another bed, and——

A. R. (_interrupting him indignantly_). Do you suppose I would sleep in that bed after a man had slept there? Never! Let him stay here the rest of the night, if he wants to. I shall sleep in the other chamber myself.

PHIL. That’s it, Aunt Rachel. Stand up for your rights.

MRS. L. Very well, let it be arranged so. And we’d better all retire, for it is already an hour past midnight.

MR. C. I thank you all for your hospitality, and hope in the morning to be able to vindicate my character more fully.

MR. L. That is quite unnecessary. Your statement is entirely satisfactory. (_Turns to go out, L._)

PHIL. (_to A. R._) Hadn’t you better take your braids and curls and things, Aunt Rachel? Mr. Campbell won’t have any use for them, and you look better with them on than you do without.

A. R. (_hastily putting her hand to head—mortified_). I didn’t expect, when I put this cap on, to receive callers. (_Goes and gets things from table._)

MR. C. You are very excusable, under the circumstances.

A. R. (_bowing_). Then I will bid you good-night.

MR. L. ⎫
MRS. L. ⎬ (_bowing_). Good-night.
AGNES ⎪
MR. C. ⎭

PHILIP (_bowing_). Good _morning_.

(_Exeunt, L., MR. L., MRS. L., AGNES, AUNT R. and PHILIP. MR. C. remains._)

(_Curtain falls._)

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC CURED.

CHARACTERS.

MR. CROWELL, A Hypochondriac.
MARIA DAVIDSON, His Niece.
MRS. FOSTER, His Housekeeper.
MR. PRESTON, A Friend, disguised as a Policeman.

SCENE I.—_The house-keeper’s room. MRS. FOSTER (an elderly
person wearing spectacles) sits knitting, L. MARIA enters R.,
and sits down, wearily._

MRS. FOSTER. Well, Maria, you look tired enough.

MARIA. I do feel rather tired.

MRS. F. (_emphatically_). It’s a shame for any man to be so trying as your uncle is. He hasn’t any business to be so, even if he is sick. It’s nothing but scold and fret from morning till night. And the more you do, the more you may. You can’t please him any way you can fix it.

M. I’ve tried to please him, but haven’t succeeded. Now I’m going to see if I can’t cure him both of his fault-finding and his sickness.

MRS. F. How is that?

M. I think of inviting him to go away on a visit.

MRS. F. I don’t believe he will go. He has an idea that he’s very sick; but, for my part, I think it’s because he wants to make himself a nuisance.

M. Hush, Mrs. Foster! You forget he is my uncle, and therefore entitled to my respect and attention.

MRS. F. Well, I don’t see how you can stand it. I’d as soon wait on the old boy himself.

M. (_smiling_). I hope you don’t compare my uncle to that renowned personage?

MRS. F. Well, I don’t know which I’d rather wait on. He’s the most contrary man I ever knew. (_A knock is heard on the floor outside, R._)

M. Hark! (_In listening attitude, and with uplifted finger. Knock repeated._) There’s my uncle’s knock. He’s awake and wants me.

(_Exit, R._)

MRS. F. It’s a wicked shame for him to make such a slave of her. He’s a real torment. (_Knits vigorously—starts as if suddenly remembering._) But there, I promised to go over and sit with old Miss Barnard this afternoon. I guess I’ll go, and take my knitting.

(_Exit. Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_MR. CROWELL’S chamber. MR. C. apparently asleep, on
lounge, C. He opens his eyes. No one else present._

MR. CROWELL (_in a querulous tone_). Where’s Maria? She’s always gone when I want her. I might die here, and nobody’d know anything about it. (_Knocks on floor with cane. MARIA enters, R._)

M. Are you awake, uncle?

MR. C. Awake? Of course I am. I’ve been awake this half hour. You might have heard me knocking long ago, if you were not deaf.

M. I came up as soon as I heard your knock. And how does your head feel?

MR. C. A great deal worse. And my face is hot. I’m sure that I am going to have a fever.

M. The doctor said it was only a cold.

MR. C. Doctors don’t know everything. Did you bring me up a cup of tea?

M. No; you didn’t say anything about it, did you?

MR. C. Well, I supposed you’d know that I should need something by this time.

M. It was only an hour ago that you took a bowl of gruel, and I didn’t think you would wish for anything more so soon.

MR. C. It was full three hours ago. And I want a cup of tea,—hot, mind you,—just as soon as I can have it.

(_Exit MARIA, R._)

MR. C. (_soliloquizing_). It is strange that some people haven’t sense enough to know what a sick person wants, without being told everything. I always thought Maria was a good nurse; but she is no better than the rest of them. (_Enter MARIA._)

M. Here is a nice cup of tea for you, uncle.

MR. C. (_tastes it—throws down the spoon and turns his head away_). It’s hot enough to take the skin off my mouth. I don’t want any more. Throw it away.

(_MARIA pours it away. She then takes a fan, and gently fans the invalid. He bears it a moment, then says_:)

MR. C. Don’t keep that fan going; I shall take more cold.

M. You said your face was hot.

MR. C. Well, I don’t want to be cooled off so suddenly. Let me taste of that tea again.

M. I threw it away.

MR. C. (_in surprise_). Threw my tea away?

M. Yes, you told me to. You said you didn’t want it.

MR. C. I should think you might know by this time that I don’t mean what I say. Get me some more, quick.

(_MARIA goes out. During her absence MR. C. remains quiet, and with his eyes closed. She soon returns._)

MR. C. Why didn’t you stay all day?

M. I hurried all I could, uncle; you know I had to wait for the tea to get hot. (_Tasting._) It’s very nice.

MR. C. (_shaking his head_). I’ve got all off the notion for it, now.

M. Won’t you have some of it?

MR. C. No; I’ve lost all desire for it. (_M. places tea on the table. A knock is heard._) Who’s that making such a racket?

M. I’ll go and see. (_Goes out—soon returns._) It’s Mr. Preston, uncle. He wishes to know how you are.

MR. C. Tell him it’s none of his business.

M. Yes, uncle. (_Goes out—soon returns._)

MR. C. Well, what did he say?

M. He seemed quite angry.

MR. C. Angry at what, pray?

M. I suppose at being told it was none of his business.

MR. C. Maria, you didn’t tell him that?

M. Yes, I did, uncle. You told me to tell him it was none of his business, and he said he shouldn’t trouble you by calling again.

MR. C. (_angrily_). Haven’t you got sense enough to know that I don’t mean what I say?

M. I supposed, of course, you meant what you said, though I didn’t exactly like to repeat your message to him.

MR. C. (_after a pause_). I guess I’ll try a little of the tea, Maria. (_She brings it._)

MR. C. (_languidly_). You’ll have to feed me, Maria, I’m so weak.

M. Yes, uncle. (_Places napkin under chin, and proceeds to feed him._)

MR. C. Stop—stop—it’s hot. You’re choking me. (_But MARIA keeps on._)

MR. C. (_moving quickly one side_).—Sto-op. Can’t you understand plain English? I don’t believe there’s a particle of skin left on my tongue. What do you mean?

M. You told me I ought to know by this time that you didn’t mean what you said. So I supposed I was to go on, at any rate.

MR. C. It’s horrible tasting stuff. You’ve been putting pepper into it. While you were about it, why didn’t you put in vinegar, too?

(_MARIA, without a word, goes to the table, takes up the vinegar-cruet, and pours vinegar into the cup._)

MR. C. (_starting up_). Maria Davidson, I believe you are either a fool or insane.

(_MARIA sits down, and begins to cry. MR. C. gazes at her in astonishment. A drumming is heard outside, R._)

MR. C. (_putting his hands to his head_). Oh, my poor head! my poor head! Maria, take my pistol from the closet, and shoot the rascal. (_She goes to the closet, gets the pistol, and fires, according to his direction._)

MR. C. What the deuce has got into the girl! (_He starts up, and goes to the window, L.,—mechanically takes up the pistol which MARIA had laid down. She glides out by one door, R., and immediately a policeman enters by another, L._)

POLICEMAN. So here you are. I’ll just slip on these bracelets, so you won’t do any more mischief.

MR. C. (_drawing back_). What do you mean by insulting me in such a manner?

P. You’ve been attempting to murder a man.

MR. C. No, I haven’t.

P. Didn’t you fire a pistol from the window just now?

MR. M. No, I didn’t fire it.

P. Who did fire it, then?

MR. C. (_hesitating_). Why, I—you see—it was—my niece that fired it.

P. (_looking around room_). That’s a likely story. If she fired the pistol, where is she now?

MR. C. She went out a few minutes ago.

P. You can’t come that dodge on me. It was only a moment ago that it was done, and there’s no one but you in the room, and I found you with the pistol in your hand. You must come along with me.

MR. C. But I can’t—I’m sick.

P. (_taking a look at him_). You don’t appear to be dangerously sick. I guess you’re able to go with me.

MR. C. But I had the doctor this morning. I’m quite feverish, and it might cause my death to go out.

P. If you’re sick you shall have a doctor to prescribe for you. Come along. (_Takes him by shoulder._)

(_Exeunt, L._)

MARIA (_entering, soliloquizing_). My plot has been carried out well thus far. I don’t think uncle recognized the policeman. It is astonishing how the habit of complaining gains on one. But if a person is unreasonable, and given to complaining, there is nothing that will effect a cure so soon as _taking him at his word_. (_Uncle enters, L._) Ah, have you returned so soon, uncle? I have felt quite anxious about you, fearing you might take more cold.

MR. C. You are a very successful little manager, Maria, upon my word. I felt mortified enough on starting from my own house in the character of a criminal. But I could blame no one but myself, since my orders were all obeyed, not only very promptly, but _very literally_. Then I thought what an unreasonable bear I was, and what a patient little nurse you were, and by the time we stopped I had become quite subdued. Then I discovered that the policeman was my old and valued friend, Mr. Preston. It all flashed upon my mind that it was a plot to bring me to my senses, and to show how unreasonable I was.

M. Oh, no, uncle, not that exactly. We only aimed to show you that you imagined yourself worse than you really were. But hadn’t you better lie down awhile? You are not accustomed to such exertion.

MR. C. No; I am thoroughly cured in mind and body. Nothing would tempt me to personate again the miserable hypochondriac I was when I left the house. I am cured, and I mean to stay so.

(_Curtain falls._)

AUNT PATIENCE’S EAR-TRUMPET.

CHARACTERS.

MRS. GRANBY.
CLARA, Her Daughter.
AUNT PATIENCE BURTON, a Lady of Property.
ERNEST MONTGOMERY, Clara’s Suitor.
SERVANT.

SCENE I.—_MRS. GRANBY’S sitting-room. MRS. G., C., with sober
countenance, holds in her hand an open letter, on which her
eyes are fixed. Enter her daughter CLARA, R._

CLARA. Does your letter contain any sad news, ma?

MRS. GRANBY. Not exactly _sad_ news,—but _disagreeable_, to say the least.

C. (_interested_). What is it?

MRS. G. (_glancing at letter_). This is a letter from Aunt Patience Burton. She is coming to make us a visit.

C. That is _horrible_ news. I shouldn’t want Ernest to see her—she is so fussy and homely.

MRS. G. He will, no doubt, feel as we do, that money is of more consequence than a handsome face. Besides, we shan’t be troubled with her long.

C. How long do you suppose she will stop here?

MRS. G. A week or two, I suppose. That is the usual length of her visits.

C. (_with the air of a martyr_). Well, I suppose we must try to endure her presence for that length of time—hoping for our final reward.

MRS. G. (_in a brighter tone_). If she could only be persuaded into making her will in our favor, I shouldn’t consider the trouble of having her here anything.

C. How much is she supposed to be worth?

MRS. G. About thirty thousand dollars.

C. Just think how much more that amount would benefit us than it does her. I dare say she hoards it up like a miser.

MRS. G. (_smiling_). That will be all the better for us.

C. Yes, if we get it. But when does the letter say she is coming?

MRS. G. I did not notice particularly. Let me see. (_Looks over letter—reads_:) “You may expect me Friday, the twenty-fifth, wind and weather permitting.”

C. (_interrupting_). The twenty-fifth! Why, that’s to-day! (_Bell rings outside._)

MRS. G. And there is the bell. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if that were she. (_Both rise._)

(_Enter, L., a prim, elderly lady, with corkscrew curls, and wearing an old-fashioned bonnet._)

MRS. G. (_greeting her with a smile of welcome, and shaking hands warmly_). Why, Aunt Patience, how glad I am to see you! Clara and I were just speaking of you.

AUNT PRUDENCE (_diving into the recesses of an ample pocket_). Wait a minute, Elviry. (_Takes out an ear-trumpet, which she adjusts to her ear._) There, now we can talk.

MRS. G. (_in a loud tone_). I had no idea you were so deaf, aunt.

A. P. I’m getting old, you know, and can’t expect to keep my faculties like younger people. But where’s Clara?

MRS. G. This is Clara. (_Steps aside for her daughter to approach._) Didn’t you recognize her?

A. P. No, she’s grown so I didn’t know her. How d’ye do, dear?

C. (_shaking hands_). How do you do, aunt? I’m glad to see you here.

A. P. Thank ye, child. It’s pleasant to find that old folks aint always forgotten and wished out of the way.

MRS. G. (_in a loud voice_). Let me assist you in taking off your bonnet.

A. P. You needn’t speak so loud when I have my trumpet.

MRS. G. Then you can hear without using it?

A. P. Yes, but not without you speak pretty loud. (_Lays her trumpet down._)

MRS. G. (_taking aunt’s bonnet, and carrying it to table. Addressing daughter._) You see, she’s as deaf as can be. (_Old lady sits down._)

C. That’s lucky. We can relieve our minds without her hearing us. Is she going to stay long?

MRS. G. I don’t know. I will ask her. (_In a loud voice:_) I hope you are going to make us a long visit.

A. P. I shan’t be able to stop more than a month. But perhaps it won’t be convenient for you to have me with you so long.

MRS. G. (_in a loud tone to aunt_). We shall be delighted (_in a lower tone to her daughter_) when you go away. That’s true, isn’t it, Clara?

C. Yes, indeed. But (_dismally_) do you suppose we can live through the month?

MRS. G. We must try to, for the sake of the money. (_To AUNT P._) Have you been well, lately, aunt?

A. P. No, I’ve enjoyed dreadful poor health this winter. I’ve been most dead with roomatiz and I haven’t got over it yet.

MRS. G. It must have been hard to bear.

A. P. Yes, it made me feel as if I ought to make my will, and I think I shall make it as soon as I get home again.

MRS. G. Oh, you have many years yet to live, aunt.

A. P. I can see well enough that I am getting old, and cannot live long, anyway. I get tired out very easy. I think I shall have to ask you to show me to the room I am to occupy, and I will lie down awhile. I aint much used to travelling, and it tires me.

MRS. G. Shan’t I get you a cup of tea, aunt?

A. P. Oh, no. All I need is a little rest.

(_Exit, R._)

MRS. G. There, I think we have made a good impression. If she only makes a will in our favor, I shall consider the attentions we pay her a good investment.

C. But suppose she shouldn’t leave her money to us?

MRS. G. Oh, don’t let your imagination run in that direction. We must manage to get into her good graces, so that we may become her heirs.

C. Well, I will do all I can to bring about so desirable a result.

(_Exit MRS. G., R. Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_The same. AUNT P., R., knitting. Clara, C., sitting
idly, with book in her hand._

A. P. Didn’t you hear the bell just now, Clara?

C. Yes, I am expecting a friend here to-night. Ah (_rising as ERNEST MONTGOMERY enters, L._), good-evening, Ernest.

ERNEST MONTGOMERY. Good-evening. You were expecting me, I suppose.

C. Of course I was. I always remember appointments. But I suppose I must introduce you to my aunt. (_In a loud tone_:) Aunt Patience, this is Mr. Montgomery.

A. P. (_extending her hand to the young man_). I am very glad to see him.

C. (_to E. M._). We shan’t need to take any further notice of her. She’s deaf as an adder, and can’t hear a word without her trumpet unless we scream at her. I believe you never saw her before.

E. M. No.

C. She isn’t very handsome, is she?

E. M. Aren’t you afraid she’ll hear you?

C. Oh no, she’s too deaf.

E. M. But deaf people generally hear things that are not intended for their ears.

C. Well, I’ll run the risk. When we speak to her she seldom hears the first time.

A. P. What was that you said?

C. (_in a loud tone_). Only that it was so long since you had been here that we should try to make you have a pleasant time.

A. P. (_in a satisfied tone_). Oh, was that it? Thank you, child.

E. M. (_with admiration_). You got out of that well.

C. Trust me for that. When one has a rich aunt, it is the best to keep on the right side of her.

A. P. Did you speak to me, Clara?

C. No; I was telling Mr. Montgomery how fond I was of cider.

A. P. I used to like cider when I was a girl; but that was the genuine article, and we used to go to the mill where they made it, and take it through a straw.

E. M. (_interested_). So your aunt is rich?

C. Yes; she is said to be worth thirty thousand dollars.

E. M. That’s quite a fortune.

A. P. (_as if talking to herself_). Yes; deafness is quite a misfortune; but one doesn’t mind it so much when they’re stopping among their own relations.

C. (_smiling_). Yes, it is quite a fortune, and of course we put up with her oddities for the sake of the money, which will, most of it, come to us.

E. M. She may outlive you.

C. That’s what I’m afraid of. It would be just our luck to have her live to be a hundred.

E. M. How old is she now?

C. About sixty-five.

E. M. Then you would only have to wait thirty-five years for it.

C. We might as well never have her money as to wait so long as that for it.

E. M. It would be rather a long while, that’s a fact. By that time you would look as your aunt does now. Do you know, I think you resemble her very much?

C. (_tapping him playfully with her fan_). Take that for your impertinence, sir. I must be a charming damsel, if that were the case.

E. M. So I thought; which was why I made the remark.

C. (_flushing_). I don’t esteem it any compliment.

A. P. What was that you said, Clara?

C. I was saying to Mr. Montgomery that people seldom say what they mean.

A. P. (_nodding_). That’s true—that’s true enough. (_After a pause—holding up knitting._) Well, there, I’ve got that stocking pretty well along, and haven’t been knitting a great while, either. Mr. Montgomery, may I trouble you to tell me what time it is?

E. M. It is no trouble, madam, I assure you. (_Looks at watch._) It is about (_hesitates_) five minutes past ten.

A. P. Five minutes past ten! I had no idea ’twas so late. (_Gathers up her knitting._) That’s long past the time I usually go to bed. Good-night, Mr. Montgomery; good-night, Clara.

C. Good-night, aunt.

E. M. Good-evening, madam.

(_Exit AUNT PATIENCE, R._)

C. What made you tell her it was so late? It isn’t more than nine o’clock.

E. M. (_looking at watch_). It is just half-past eight. But although I enjoyed her society exceedingly, I was willing to deny myself that pleasure for the sake of having a little private conversation with you on a very important matter. (_CLARA casts down her eyes. MR. MONTGOMERY draws his chair near hers, and takes her hand._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_The same. MRS. GRANBY, R., and CLARA, L., present._

C. Doesn’t it seem a great relief to have Aunt Patience gone?

MRS. G. I must say that it does. I was constantly anxious for fear she would learn our real feelings, though I flatter myself we concealed them quite carefully.

C. I don’t believe she suspected at all that we were glad her visit was over. Deaf people are most always obtuse.

MRS. G. I hope it may prove so, for her money would be a great help to us. In fact, I don’t see how we can get along without it.

C. It would be very convenient if she would let us have an instalment of a few thousands soon—before my marriage, for instance.

MRS. G. Yes, in that case we could afford to send to Paris for your trousseau. But has the time for the wedding been fixed?

C. Yes; Ernest wishes it to take place in June.

MRS. G. I spoke of your marriage as liable to take place soon, and hoped Aunt Patience would take the hint; but she didn’t seem to.

C. What reply did she make?

MRS. G. She said she hadn’t anything special against Mr. Montgomery, but that _she_ would never think of choosing _him_ for a husband.

C. Perhaps he reciprocates her feelings. I don’t think it would be a suitable match myself.

MRS. G. (_smiling_). Being an interested party, perhaps you are not a suitable judge.

(_SERVANT enters, R., bearing a letter, which she passes to MRS. G._)

MRS. G. (_surprised_). A letter from Aunt Patience, as I live!

SERVANT. Yes, ma’am, and there’s a box downstairs, with one end of the old lady’s ear-trumpet sticking out of it.

MRS. G. Very well, you may let it remain there for the present.

(_Exit SERVANT, R._)

C. (_clasping her hands, while an expression of horror overspreads her face_). Don’t say Aunt Patience is coming back again. I certainly think I couldn’t survive such an event.

MRS. G. (_who has read the letter—quite soberly_). It is worse than that.

C. Worse! I don’t know of anything that could be worse than another visit from Aunt Patience.

MRS. G. Very well—read the letter and satisfy yourself.

C. (_Taking the letter, which she reads aloud:_)

“NIECE ELVIRA: Thinking you might be anxious to hear from me, I
write to say that I reached home safely. But since my arrival I
have had an attack of rheumatic fever. Therefore, feeling that
life is uncertain, yesterday I made my will. Before visiting
you I had decided to leave my property to you; but I changed
my mind, and have concluded to leave it to the Home for Aged
Women, a charitable institution, where it will, I hope, do a
great deal of good.

“I shall not visit you again. It would be too much of a tax on
you to ask you to put up with my odd ways. As you remarked to
Clara when I came that you would be delighted to have me go,
this information will doubtless be pleasing to you. Besides, I
have a presentiment that I shall not live long, notwithstanding
Clara’s fears to the contrary.

“Although deaf as an adder when I came to visit you, my hearing
has been wonderfully restored, so that I can now dispense with
my ear-trumpet. I therefore send it to you, hoping it may do
you as good service as it did me, in showing me for what I was
valued most.

“AUNT PATIENCE.”

(_MRS. G. and CLARA look blankly at each other._)

MRS. G. So it seems we are not to have any of Aunt Patience’s money after all.

C. (_indignantly_). It’s a real mean thing for any one to be so deceitful—going round pretending to be deaf. I’m glad she isn’t coming here again. I couldn’t endure the sight of her.

SERV. (_entering, R._). Here’s a note that Mr. Montgomery left for you.

C. (_surprised_). Has he been here?

SERV. Yes, he came just after the expressman brought the box.

C. But why didn’t he stop?

S. He heard you reading the letter, and he said he couldn’t stop but a moment; a message would do just as well as seeing you. So he wrote this note in the drawing-room, and asked me to give it to you. (_CLARA gazes at the note. SERVANT goes out, R._)

MRS. G. Why don’t you read your note?

C. I am so surprised. (_Unfolds the paper—reads aloud:_)

“MISS CLARA GRANBY: I have received an appointment which
will carry me to India, and I am to sail for that place this
afternoon. I called to bid you good-by, but finding you
engaged, and being myself in great haste, I make my adieu on
paper. As I may be gone for a long time, perhaps a number of
years, I deem it my duty to release you from your engagement.

“ERNEST MONTGOMERY.”

MRS. G. What does it mean?

C. (_contemptuously_). It means that he overheard enough of Aunt Patience’s letter to know that we are not to have any of her property; so he has magnanimously released me from my engagement.

MRS. G. But what are you going to do about it?

C. Do? I don’t know as there is anything to be done. In fact, my present feelings of indifference towards him show that my affections were not involved, and I am well satisfied to have him leave me as he has done. As to Aunt Patience, I guess we can get along without any of her money. I have several accomplishments that can be turned to account if necessity requires it.

MRS. G. (_with motherly solicitude, and looking at the matter from a practical point of view_). But young ladies who earn their own living are considered strong-minded, and never get married. I couldn’t bear to have you an old maid.