Comrades

Bess. Ah!

May. Indeed!

Mar. Yes. I met a true type of the fraternity half a mile below. He stopped my horse, and begged money. I always make short work of these fellows, so tossed him a quarter and rode on. He turned into that shanty set apart for the entertainment of man and beast, and no doubt will pour entertainment down his throat in beastly style. So look out, Manning. He may pay you a visit.

Roy. ’Twill be a short one, then; and I’ll give him no quarter.

Mar. Well, how are you all, particularly my bonny Bess? (Shakes hands with her, L.)

Roy. Half a mile below. Did he look rough?

Mar. Rough, but good-natured. Dress ragged, face bloated, figure plump. These fellows thrive on their pickings these pests.

Roy. Don’t say that, Marcus. The fellow may have been unfortunate.

Mar. Unfortunate? Bah! What’s misfortune but a roll in the dust? – jump up, shake yourself, and you’re as good as new. I’ve no patience with a man who wants vim – something on the side of his face – you know – cheek!

Roy. Yes: a quality which tramps (aside) and drummers (aloud) possess in a wonderful degree. (Bess goes up to piano.)

Mar. For my part, I never allow myself to be staggered by the blows of fate. When they come, I take a long breath, and hit out straight from the shoulder.

May. When did you hear from your father, Mr. Graves?

Mar (confused). Eh, – my fa – yes – oh, yes! That is – not lately.

May. He was well when you heard?

Mar. Oh, yes, beautiful – that is hearty – he wishes to be remembered to all my customers – my friends, I mean.

(Goes up to piano.)

Roy (coming to table). May, what are you doing?

May. Pinning him in a corner. You men are so afraid of each other. Woman’s curiosity knows no fear. We’ve found out one thing: he has a father.

Roy. Yes, and one other: he’s afraid of him. Did you notice his hesitation?

May. Yes. There’s some mystery about that father, which I mean to fathom.

Roy. But not now; give him time. You staggered him – after his boast, too. He didn’t strike out well. Come, let’s go into the garden. The young people want to be left alone. (Goes up.)

May (rising). Yes. I want you to look at my heliotropes; they’re just splendid! (Goes up and places arm in Roy’s.)

Roy. All right. Good-by, Bess. Don’t catch cold. There’s a smacking breeze coming.

Bess. And another going. Good-by.

(Roy and May exit C.)

(Graves comes down slowly and sits in chair R., of table. Bess watches him without speaking.)

Graves (slowly). Now what possessed Mrs. Manning to speak of my father? A subject to which I have never alluded. Can she mistrust me? Egad! she nearly took away my breath. My boasted boldness vanished like a flash. (Bess rises, takes a wisp of hay from mantel, and comes behind him.) And yet I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, – only a mystery. Mystery! why should I have a mystery here? (Bess tickles his ear with the wisp. He brushes it off quickly.) Confound it! it’s hurting me. This girl loves me, and I love her. I’ve only to speak and she is mine. (Bess tickles him. He brushes it off.) Hang it! I’m tormented with doubts. But confession is a sure road to favor. I’ll make a confidant of Bessie. If anybody else should tell her I should be (Bess tickles him again) stung with shame. Yes, I’ll meet it (Bess puts her arms round his neck and brings her face round as he speaks this) face to face.

Bess. Dreaming, Marcus? (Sits on hassock at his feet, back to audience).

Mar. Why, Bess, what a brute I’ve been! Yes, dreaming, Bess, of a happy future, I trust, in store for you and me. Do you ever dream of that time?

Bess. Not I. When the skies are bright above us, why should we seek to peep even in dreams beneath the horizon when we know not what storms may be gathering there to roll over the brightness of the present?

Mar. Yes; but the cautious mariner is ever alert for the faintest signs of the coming storm.

Bess. Well, I am not a mariner, and my umbrella is always at hand.

Mar. Bess, can’t you be serious?

Bess. I don’t know. Try me.

Mar. Bess, I love you.

Bess. A failure, Marcus. That pleases me.

Mar. And you are to be my wife?

Bess. Another, Marcus. That delights me.

Mar. Yes, Bess; I know my love is returned. For three years we have been all in all to each other; and now, Bess, I tell you I am unworthy of your love.

Bess. You, Marcus! Now, you surprise me!

Mar. You trust me fully? You would go with me to the altar hand in hand, beyond the altar to death itself —

Bess. To death itself, Marcus!

Mar. And yet, on my part, there has been no confidence; into my past life you have had no glimpse. You took me, a stranger, to your heart, – never questioned me; and, beyond the interchange of affection, myself, my fortune, and my home are strangers still.

Bess. Blind, Marcus! Blind, are you? My woman’s curiosity sought in the beginning to know you; my heart’s instinct probed you, to know if you were worthy. I found you polite, chivalrous, charitable, with a heart open to every cry of distress, a hand ever ready to proffer assistance. Oh, I tried you deeply, as your purse can show! I found you true, noble, sincere. I had no right to question further.

Mar. But you must know me, Bess.

Bess. When you please, Marcus.

Mar. Then patiently hear me; for on your judgment rest my hopes of future happiness.

Bess. Indeed! Now, Marcus, I am serious.

Mar. Bess!

(Enter Simon Stone, C., quickly.)