Poison

Clara. Good-bye, papa.

Twitters. You had better stay, dear. (Clara stops, amazed.)

Hunker. So I think. (Drawing long breath.) I feel like a new man, and I’m going to give the new man a drink. (Pouring out brandy again.) What’s her name, Twitters?

Twitters. My daughter is named Clara, sir.

Hunker. Lovely name. Here’s to Clara (drinking). Sit down; we’ll soon be pals.

Twitters. Sit down, dear. (Clara sits amazed.)

Hunker. Two young people like us can’t be thrown together in a house without liking each other pretty well?

Clara (to Twitters). I cannot submit to this, papa.

Twitters (to Clara). We should never take offence when none is meant, dear.

Hunker. I’m an adventurous cuss, Miss Clara – just on from Arizona to float a gold mine on the eastern market. Going to let Twitters in at bed-rock prices – eh, Twitters?

Twitters. Yes, yes, of course.

Hunker. We had hard old sledding on the plains, at times, Miss Clara.

Clara. Indeed, sir!

Hunker. Chased by Indians twenty miles, riding with Custer – you know Custer? Seventeen of them miles I had a bullet in my leg (starting to pull up his trouser leg) – want to see the scar?

Clara (with terror). No! No!

Hunker (pleased with himself). O, we’re kindred spirits; we’ll soon be friends. I like your New England country. As Lady Franklin said to me, when we was taking supper together on the Oregon steamer. She was goin’ to hunt up John’s bones in Sitka, where I kept a hotel – “Beans is a benevolent institution, Mr. Hunker,” says she. “You’re right, Lady F.,” says I. Now speak up, if you’re talked to death, Miss Clara.

Clara. I have nothing to say.

Hunker. All right. I can talk right along, – keep it up forever. By George, it would be funny if you and I should conclude to keep it up forever – eh, Clara?

Clara. I don’t understand this man, papa.

Twitters. He is a rough diamond, dear.

Clara. Then he ought to be “cut.”

Hunker. Why, make a match of it.

Clara (aside). O dear. I shall be ill, really. I must send for Charles. (Aloud.) Papa, I don’t feel well.

Twitters (starting). Eh, my dear! What’s the matter?

Clara. I have a head-ache. —

Hunker. Have you been eating sugar?

Twitters (agonized). I fear so.

Hunker. Does your throat burn?

Clara (faintly). Yes, yes, I want to lie down (they lead her to sofa).

Hunker. My God! It’s the symptoms – see what you’ve done!

Twitters. I, you miserable man! Behold your work!

Hunker. No time for fooling, Twitters. I know the antidote. I’ll run to the nearest apothecary – it’s too bad, I vow! Here, give me sixty cents. (Exit.)

Twitters. There you are, my poor child! (Gets towel, which he wets with cologne and puts to her head.) Does that help you?

Clara. O papa. It doesn’t make me any better! Send for the doctor!

Twitters. Yes, yes. (Aside.) If the doctor should discover poisoning! If it should be traced to me!

Clara (faintly). Dr. Squillcox – the other one’s away.

Mother (without). Where is Twitters? I will see him. (Enter Mother.)

Mother. You are here – I entered the hushed chamber where all that was mortal of the sainted Elijah Paddy was lying —

Twitters. Don’t talk of death.

Mother. Overcome by emotion, I averted my head, and blindly removing the brown paper wrapping, I placed upon the heart of the departed what I thought to be a floral tribute – a lovely anchor, expressive of hope and christian resignation —

Twitters. Can’t you see that poor Clara is ill? Be still, woman.

Mother. Who insults me by calling me woman? I stood with averted face. A stir of excitement thrilled the hushed and weeping assembly as my offering was seen. Touched by this appreciation of my tribute, I turned to take a last view of all that was earthly of the departed – there, amid a heap of roses and camellias lay those odious boots. (Pulling them from under her cloak, holding them at arm’s length and throwing them down.) Without a word I fled. I am undone forever.

Twitters. Say no more of boots. Look at my suffering child and hold your peace.

Mother. I need no word from you to succor my departed Sarah’s child (walking towards the couch. She snatches at Twitters’ hand). Your allopathic doses are killing her (producing phial). These pellets will cure her (starts to give Clara pills).

Twitters. No sugar pills! For heaven’s sake, no sugar!

Mother (severely). These are rendered efficacious by an infinitesimal reduction of arsenic.

Twitters (in agony). Give them to me. (Struggling with her.)

Mother. Prejudiced monster. Like cures like. (They struggle for the phial. Twitters wrenches it away and flings it into the fire-place. Mother stands panting with rage.)

(Enter an Officer of the Law.)

Officer. Theophilus Twitters?