Mistress S. (To Peele.) Oh, sir, how could you wish to lead the lad away? Hath not London enough a'ready? Peele. Anne. Will. Will. (Who has been listening uncomfortably, faces her grave ly.) I but played with the lad at first, till I saw how earnest he was; then I would take him, for I loved his boldness. But boy, I'll tell thee fairly, thou❜lt do better here. Thou'st seen the brave side of it, the gay dresses, the good horses, the cheering crowds and the court-favor. But 'tis dark sometimes, too. The pouches often hang empty when the people turn away-the lords are as the clouded sun, now smiling, now cold—and there come the bitter days, when a man has no friends but the pot-mates of the moment, when every man's hand is against him for a vagabond and a rascal, when the prison-gates lay ever wide before him, and the fickle folk, crying after a new favorite, leave the old to starve. Will, canst not see? Thou'rt better here (Bravely.) I know-all this may wait me-but I must go. Mistress S. (Alarmed.) Must go, Will? He kneels by her side. (Tenderly.) Hush, mother, I'll tell thee. 'Tis not entirely my longing, for this morning the keeper of old Lucy Giles. Ha, poaching again, young scamp! Brought me before him-I was na' poaching, I'll swear it, not so much as chasing the deer-but Sir Thomas had no patience, and bade me clear out, else he would seize me. I-I-dare na stay. Mistress S. I feared it; thy father forbade thee in the great park. And now-Oh Will, Will-I know well how thou'st longed to go from here-and now thou must-what shall I do, lacking thee? Peele. Will. Giles. Will. Anne. Will. Mistress S. Giles. Will. (Frankly.) Will, if thou must go, thou must. London is greater than Stratford, and there is much evil there, but thou'rt true-hearted, and by my player's honor will stand by thee, till the hangman get me. But we must go soon. 'Tis a dark road to Warwick I'll see to the horses. Is it a compact? Will gives him his hands. (Huskily.) A compact, sir-to the end. Peele hurries out. Look at 'e now, breaking 'is mother's heart, and mad wi' joy to revel in London. 'Tis little 'e recks of she. (Hotly.) Thou liest. (Bending over her) Mother, 'tis not true. I do love thee and father, I love Stratford. I'll never forget it. But 'tis so little here, and I must get away to gain learning and do things i' the world, that I may bring home all I get; fame, if God grant it, money, if I gain it, all to those at home. Thou'rt over-confident. Aye, because I'm young. God knows there is enough pain in London, and I'll get my share-but I'm young! Mother, thou'rt not angry? I knew 'twas coming, and 'tis not so hard. We will always wait for thee at home, when thou'rt weary. (At the door.) The horses were waiting. 'Tis dark, Will. (Breaking down.) Mother, mother! Mistress S. The good God keep thee safe. Kiss me, Will. He bends over her, then stumbles to the door, Anne following. Will. Anne. (Turning.) Anne-Anne-thou dost not despise me for deserting Stratford. I must go. Oh, I know. Thou'lt go to London and forget us all. Will. Anne. Will. Peele. No, no, thou-I couldn't forget. I'll remember thee, Anne-I'll put thee in my plays; all my young maids and lovers shall be thee, as thou'rt now-and I'll bring thee rare gifts when I come home. I do na want them. Will-I-I-did na mean to be I will na forget (kissing her), and Anne, be good to CURTAIN. Robert Emmons Rogers. MONOTONES. I The sea and the shore, alike barren of interesting detail to the accustomed eye facing seaward, lay away on either hand up to the short sides of the long and narrow picture. Had the scene existed only on painted canvas, its frame, I suppose, would have been shaped more normally; but the human observer of the real, perceiving in front of him no relaxation of the monotonous green stretch save an occasional sail, whereas on his right and left at least a few marks helped him to a sense of distance, insisted on the oblong. These marks up and down the beach, for once having faced the sea the observer never turned again inland, these marks, uninteresting enough, were on his right a hazy promontory and the intervening vagaries of the line of shore, and a row of private bath-houses near at hand; about to the left, the life-saving station-house, yard, signalling-platform, dummy wreck and again afar the silly wheels and white spires of a hibernating city of pleasure. So uninteresting these land-sights, so listless this spring morning, when no wind blew, that the eye soon returned to the gentle water, and the hand idly sifted the almost tepid sand: it sufficed the mental need of man to stare at the horizon. The sun shone; the sea came in, breaking in a white line never straight; the dead boom of the surf never varied, nor the pale scents of weed and fish and brine, nor the dull tints of sand and sky and sea: Nature breathed with a monotony impersonal, unfeeling. The dulness which is pain or pleasure was left to human sense. A girl sat on the sand against the post of the signal-platform. She evidently was the nurse of the young children playing near her. Elsewhere two people, their faces shielded from the sun, sprawled on a floor of shawls and pillows. The two children stopped their play and began to tease the girl for a story; when she ignored them and continued wistfully to gaze out to sea, without more ado they followed her example. Her eyes were heavy, her face expressionless; somehow the children, resigned and dull-faced, resembled her. All three stared on, till their attention was attracted to the two people with the shawls, who had shifted their sun-shade and turned out to be a young man and woman. These repaid as lazily the lazy glances of the other three; then both parties, who were not within speaking distance of each other, resumed involuntarily, as if under a spell, their former vacuous sea-gazing. An occasional tiny caress showed the young couple to be lovers. II Later in the morning the young woman, who, the girl knew from village talk, was named Anna Basely, came over and spoke to her. She jumped up, half frightened. "Don't get up. I'll sit here." "Yes, ma'am." The children looked stupidly at the stranger. "How old are they?" The boy was four; the girl eight. Miss Basely noticed at this close range that the children were dressed as poorly and queerly as their guardian. Then she guessed the truth. "Oh, you're their sister, aren't you?" "Yes'm; I'm fifteen." "You're a little mother. Have you a mother?" "Yes'm... I have, yes'm." She added the last as if to encourage questioning. The children stood by, impassive. "Why doesn't she send you to school?" "She dassen't let them alone in the house "Sir Walter Scott and I don't and I live on my imagination. You don't need school if you have an imagination. I think of the sea and |