SCENE. _The same scene as Act III. It is about two o'clock in the
afternoon._
AT RISE. _When the curtain rises, there are two big trunks and one
small one up stage. These are marked in the usual theatrical fashion.
There are grips packed, umbrellas, and the usual paraphernalia that
accompanies a woman when she is making a permanent departure from
her place of living. All the bric-à-brac, &c., has been removed
from dresser. On down-stage end of dresser is a small alligator
bag containing night-dress, toilet articles, and bunch of keys.
The dresser drawers are some of them half open, and old pieces of
tissue-paper and ribbons are hanging out. The writing-desk has had all
materials removed and is open, showing scraps of torn-up letters, and
in one pigeon-hole is a New York Central time-table; between desk and
bay-window is a lady's hat-trunk containing huge picture hat. It is
closed. Behind table is a suit-case with which_ ANNIE _is working when
curtain rises. Under desk are two old millinery boxes, around which
are scattered old tissue-paper, a pair of old slippers, a woman's
shabby hat, old ribbon, &c. In front of window at end of pianola is
thrown a lot of old empty boxes, such as are used for stocking and
shirtwaist boxes. The picture-frame and basket of flowers have been
removed from pianola. The stool is on top of pianola, upside down.
There is an empty White Rock bottle, with glass turned over it,
standing between the legs of the stool. The big trunk is in front
of sofa, and packed, and it has a swing tray under which is packed a
fancy evening gown; the lid is down. On top of lid are an umbrella,
lady's travelling-coat, hat and gloves. On left end of sofa are a
large Gladstone bag, packed and fastened, a smaller trunk (thirty-four
inch), tray with lid. In tray are articles of wearing apparel. In
end of tray is revolver wrapped in tissue-paper. Trunk is closed, and
supposed to be locked. Tossed across left arm of armchair are couple
of violet cords. Down stage centre is a large piece of wide tan
ribbon. The room has the general appearance of having been stripped of
all personal belongings. There are old magazines and tissue-paper
all over the place. A bearskin rug is thrown up against table in low
window, the furniture is all on stage as used in Act III. At rise_
LAURA _is sitting on trunk with clock in hand._ ANNIE _is on floor
behind table, fastening suit-case._ LAURA _is pale and perturbed._
ANNIE. Ain't yuh goin' to let me come to yuh at all, Miss Laura?
LAURA. I don't know yet, Annie. I don't even know what the place is
like that we're going to. Mr. Madison hasn't said much. There hasn't
been time.
ANNIE. Why, Ah've done ma best for yuh, Miss Laura, yes, Ah have. Ah
jest been with yuh ev'ry moment of ma time, an' [_Places suit-case on
table; crosses to centre._] Ah worked for yuh an' Ah loved yuh, an' Ah
doan' wan' to be left 'ere all alone in dis town 'ere New York. [LAURA
_turns to door;_ ANNIE _stoops, grabs up ribbon, hides it behind her
back._] Ah ain't the kind of cullud lady knows many people. Can't yuh
take me along wid yuh, Miss Laura?--yuh all been so good to me.
LAURA. Why, I told you to [_Crosses to door, looks out, returns
disappointed._] stay here and get your things together [ANNIE _hides
ribbon in front of her waist._], and then Mr. Brockton will probably
want you to do something. Later, I think he'll have you pack up, just
as soon as he finds I'm gone. I've got the address that you gave me.
I'll let you know if you can come on.
ANNIE. [_Suddenly._] Ain't yuh goin' to give me anything at all jes'
to remembuh yuh by? Ah've been so honest--
LAURA. Honest?
ANNIE. Honest, Ah have.
LAURA. You've been about as honest as most coloured [_Crosses to
table; gets suit-case; crosses to sofa end puts suit-case on it._]
girls are who work for women in the position that I am in. You haven't
stolen enough to make me discharge you, but I've seen what you've
taken. [_Sits on end of sofa facing left._
ANNIE. Now, Miss Laura.
LAURA. Don't try to fool me. What you've got you're welcome to, but
for heaven's sake don't prate around here about loyalty and honesty.
I'm sick of it.
ANNIE. Ain't yuh goin' to give me no recommendation?
LAURA. [_Impatiently looking around the room._] What good would my
recommendation do? You can always go and get another position with
people who've lived the way I've lived, and my recommendation to the
other kind wouldn't amount to much.
ANNIE. [_Sits on trunk._] Ah can just see whah Ah'm goin',--back to
dat boa'din'-house in 38th Street fo' me. [_Crying._
LAURA. Now shut your noise. I don't want to hear any more. I've given
you twenty-five dollars for a present. I think that's enough.
[ANNIE _assumes a most aggrieved appearance._
ANNIE. Ah know, but twenty-five dollars ain't a home, and I'm [_Rises,
crosses to rubbish heap, picks up old slippers and hat, puts hat on
head as she goes out, looks into pier-glass._] losin' my home. Dat's
jest my luck--every time I save enough money to buy my weddin' clothes
to get married I lose my job.
[_Exit._
LAURA. I wonder where John is. We'll never be able to make that train.
[_She crosses to window, then to desk, takes out time-table, crosses
to armchair and spreads time-table on back, studies it, crosses
impatiently to trunk, and sits nervously kicking her feet. After a few
seconds' pause the bell rings. She jumps up excitedly._] That must be
he,--Annie--go quick. [ANNIE _crosses and opens the door in the usual
manner._
JIM'S VOICE. [_Outside._] Is Miss Murdock in?
ANNIE. Yassuh, she's in.
LAURA _is up stage and turns to receive visitor._ JIM _enters. He is
nicely dressed in black and has an appearance of prosperity about him,
but in other respects he retains the old drollness of enunciation
and manner. He crosses to_ LAURA _in a cordial way and holds out his
hand._ ANNIE _crosses, after closing the door, and exits through the
portières into the sleeping-apartment._
JIM. How-dy-do, Miss Laura?
LAURA. Jim Western, I'm mighty glad to see you.
JIM. Looks like as if you were going to move?
LAURA. Yes, I am going to move, and a long ways, too. How well you're
looking,--as fit as a fiddle.
JIM. Yes; I am feelin' fine. Where yer goin'? Troupin'?
LAURA. No, indeed.
JIM. [_Surveying the baggage._] Thought not. What's comin' off now?
[_Takes off coat, puts coat and hat on trunk._
LAURA. [_Very simply._] I'm going to be married this afternoon.
JIM. Married?
LAURA. And then I'm going West.
JIM. [_Leaving the trunk, walking toward her and holding out his
hands._] Now I'm just glad to hear that. Ye know when I heard how--how
things was breakin' for ye--well, I ain't knockin' or anythin' like
that, but me and the missis have talked ye over a lot. I never did
think this feller was goin' to do the right thing by yer. Brockton
never looked to me like a fellow would marry anybody, but now that
he's goin' through just to make you a nice, respectable wife, I guess
everything must have happened for the best. [LAURA _averts her eyes.
Both sit on trunk,_ JIM _left of_ LAURA.] Y' see I wanted to thank you
for what you did a couple of weeks ago. Burgess wrote me a letter and
told me I could go ahead of one of his big shows if I wanted to come
back, and offering me considerable money. He mentioned your name, Miss
Laura, and I talked it over with the missis, and--well, I can tell ye
now when I couldn't if ye weren't to be hooked up--we decided that I
wouldn't take that job, comin' as it did from you [_Slowly._] and the
way I knew it was framed up.
LAURA. Why not?
JIM. [_Embarrassed._] Well, ye see, there are three kids and they're
all growing up, all of them in school, and the missis, she's just
about forgot show business and she's playing a star part in the
kitchen, juggling dishes and doing flip-flaps with pancakes; and we
figgered that as we'd always gone along kinder clean-like, it wouldn't
be good for the kids to take a job comin' from Brockton because
you--you--well--you--
LAURA. I know. [_Rises; sits on left arm of chair._] You thought it
wasn't decent. Is that it?
JIM. Oh, not exactly, only--well, you see I'm gettin' along pretty
[_Rises; crosses to_ LAURA.] good now. I got a little one-night-stand
theatre out in Ohio--manager of it, too. The town is called
Gallipolis. [_With a smile._
LAURA. Gallipolis?
JIM. Oh, that ain't a disease. It is the name of a town. Maybe you
don't know much about Gallipolis, or where it is.
LAURA. No.
JIM. Well, it looks just like it sounds. We got a little house, and
the old lady is happy, and I feel so good that I can even stand her
cookin'. Of course we ain't makin' much money, but I guess I'm gettin'
a little old-fashioned around theatres anyway. The fellows from
newspapers and colleges have got it on me. Last time I asked a man for
a job he asked me what I knew about the Greek drama, and when I told
him I didn't know the Greeks had a theatre in New York he slipped me
a laugh and told me to come in again on some rainy Tuesday. Then
Gallipolis showed on the map, and I beat it for the West. [JIM
_notices by this time the pain he has caused_ LAURA, _and is
embarrassed._] Sorry if I hurt ye--didn't mean to; and now that yer
goin' to be Mrs. Brockton, well, I take back all I said, and, while
I don't think I want to change my position, I wouldn't turn it down
for--for that other reason, that's all.
LAURA. [_With a tone of defiance in her voice._] But, Mr. Weston, I'm
not going to be Mrs. Brockton.
JIM. No? [_Crosses left a little._
LAURA. No.
JIM. Oh--oh--
LAURA. I'm going to marry another man, and a good man.
JIM. The hell you are!
[LAURA _rises and puts hand on_ JIM'S _shoulder._
LAURA. And it's going to be altogether different. I know what you
meant when you said about the missis and the kids, and that's what I
want--just a little home, just a little peace, just a little comfort,
and--and the man has come who's going to give it to me. You don't want
me to say any more, do you?
[_Crosses to door, opens it, and looks out; closes it and crosses to_
JIM.
JIM. [_Emphatically, and with a tone of hearty approval._] No, I
don't, and now I'm just going to put my mit out and shake yours and
be real glad. I want to tell ye it's the only way to go along. I
ain't never been a rival to Rockefeller, nor I ain't never made Morgan
jealous, but since the day my old woman took her make-up off for the
last time, and walked out of that stage-door to give me a little help
and bring my kids into the world, I knew that was the way to go along;
and if you're goin' to take that road, by Jiminy, I'm glad of it, for
you sure do deserve it. I wish yer luck.
LAURA. Thank you.
JIM. I'm mighty glad you side-stepped Brockton. You're young [LAURA
_sits on trunk._], and you're pretty, and you're sweet, and if you've
got the right kind of a feller there ain't no reason on earth why you
shouldn't jest forgit the whole business and see nothin' but laughs
and a good time comin' to you, and the sun sort o' shinin' every
twenty-four hours in the day. You know the missis feels just as if she
knew you, after I told her about them hard times we had at Farley's
boarding-house, so I feel that it's paid me to come to New York
[_Picks up pin; puts it in lapel of coat._] even if I didn't book
anything but "East Lynne" and "Uncle Tom's Cabin." [_Goes over to
her._] Now I'm goin'. Don't forget Gallipolis's [LAURA _helps him on
with his coat._] the name, and sometimes the mail does get there. I'd
be awful glad if you wrote the missis a little note tellin' us how
you're gettin' along, and if you ever have to ride on the Kanawha and
Michigan, just look out of the window when the train passes our town,
because that is about the best you'll get.
LAURA. Why?
JIM. They only stop there on signal. And make up your mind that the
Weston family is with you forty ways from the Jack day and night.
Good-bye, and God bless you.
LAURA. Good-bye, Jim. I'm so glad to know you're happy, for it is good
to be happy. [_Kisses him._
JIM. You bet. [_Moves toward the door. She follows him after they have
shaken hands._] Never mind, I can get out all right. [_Opens the door,
and at the door:_] Good-bye again.
LAURA. [_Very softly._] Good-bye. [_Exit_ JIM _and closes the door.
She stands motionless until she hears the outer door slam._] I wonder
why he doesn't come. [_She goes up and looks out of the window and
turns down stage, crosses right, counting trunks; as she counts
suitcase on table, bell rings; she crosses hurriedly to trunk
centre._] Hurry, Annie, and see who that is.
ANNIE _enters, crosses, opens door, exits, and opens the outer door._
ANNIE'S VOICE. She's waitin' for yer, Mr. Madison.
LAURA _hurries down to the centre of stage._ JOHN _enters, hat in
hand and his overcoat on arm, followed by_ ANNIE. _He stops just as
he enters and looks at_ LAURA _long and searchingly._ LAURA
_instinctively feels that something has happened. She shudders and
remains firm._ ANNIE _crosses and exits. Closes doors._
LAURA. [_With a little effort._ JOHN _places hat and coat on trunk._]
Aren't you a little late, dear?
JOHN. I--I was detained down town a few minutes. I think that we can
carry out our plan all right.
LAURA. [_After a pause._] Has anything happened?
JOHN. I've made all the arrangements. The men will be here in a few
minutes for your trunks. [_Crosses to coat; feels in pocket._] I've
got the railroad tickets and everything else, but--
LAURA. But what, John?
_He goes over to her. She intuitively understands that she is about
to go through an ordeal. She seems to feel that_ JOHN _has become
acquainted with something which might interfere with their plan. He
looks at her long and searchingly. Evidently he too is much wrought
up, but when he speaks to her it is with a calm dignity and force
which show the character of the man._
JOHN. Laura.
LAURA. Yes?
JOHN. You know when I went down town I said I was going to call on two
or three of my friends in Park Row.
LAURA. I know.
JOHN. I told them who I was going to marry.
LAURA. Well?
JOHN. They said something about you and Brockton, and I found that
they'd said too much, but not quite enough.
LAURA. What did they say?
JOHN. Just that--too much and not quite enough. There's a minister
waiting for us over on Madison Avenue. You see, then you'll be my
wife. That's pretty serious business, and all I want now from you is
the truth.
LAURA. Well?
JOHN. Just tell me that what they said was just an echo of the
past--that it came from what had been going on before that wonderful
day out in Colorado. Tell me that you've been on the level. I don't
want their word, Laura--I just want yours.
LAURA _summons all her courage, looks up into his loving eyes, shrinks
a moment before his anxious face, and speaks as simply as she can._
LAURA. Yes, John, I have been on the level.
JOHN. [_Very tenderly._] I knew that, dear, I knew it. [_He takes her
in his arms and kisses her. She clings to him in pitiful helplessness.
His manner is changed to one of almost boyish happiness._] Well, now
everything's all ready, let's get on the job. We haven't a great deal
of time. Get your duds on.
LAURA. When do we go?
JOHN. Right away. The great idea is to get away.
LAURA. All right.
[_Gets hat off trunk, crosses to bureau, puts it on._
JOHN. Laura, you've got trunks enough, haven't you? One might think
we're moving a whole colony. [_Turns to her with a smile._] And, by
the way, to me you are a whole colony--anyway you're the only one I
ever wanted to settle with.
LAURA. That's good. [_Takes bag off bureau, crosses to trunk, gets
purse, coat, umbrella, as if ready to leave. She hurriedly gathers her
things together, adjusting her hat and the like, and almost to herself
in a low tone:_] I'm so excited. [_Continues preparations._] Come on.
_In the meantime_ JOHN _crosses by to get his hat and coat, and while
the preparations are about to be completed and_ LAURA _has said "Come
on," she is transfixed by the noise of the slamming of the outer door.
She stops as if she had been tremendously shocked, and a moment later
the rattling of a latch-key in the inner door also stops_ JOHN _from
going any further. His coat is half on._ LAURA _looks toward the door,
paralyzed with fright, and_ JOHN _looks at her with an expression of
great apprehension. Slowly the door opens, and_ BROCKTON _enters with
coat and hat on. As he turns to close the door after him,_ LAURA,
_pitifully and terribly afraid, retreats two or three steps, and
lays coat, bag, purse and umbrella down in armchair, standing dazed._
BROCKTON _enters leisurely, paying no attention to anyone, while_ JOHN
_becomes as rigid as a statue, and follows with his eyes every move_
BROCKTON _makes. The latter walks leisurely across the stage, and
afterwards into the rooms through the portières. There is a wait of
a second. No one moves._ BROCKTON _finally reënters with coat and hat
off, and throws back the portières in such a manner as to reveal the
bed and his intimate familiarity with the outer room. He goes down
stage in the same leisurely manner and sits in a chair opposite_ JOHN,
_crossing his legs._
WILL. Hello, Madison, when did you get in?
_Slowly_ JOHN _seems to recover himself. His right hand starts up
toward the lapel of his coat and slowly he pulls his Colt revolver
from the holster under his armpit. There is a deadly determination and
deliberation in every movement that he makes._ WILL _jumps to his feet
and looks at him. The revolver is uplifted in the air, as a Western
man handles a gun, so that when it is snapped down with a jerk the
deadly shot can be fired._ LAURA _is terror-stricken, but before
the shot is fired she takes a step forward and extends one hand in a
gesture of entreaty._
LAURA. [_In a husky voice that is almost a whisper._] Don't shoot.
_The gun remains uplifted for a moment._ JOHN _is evidently wavering
in his determination to kill. Slowly his whole frame relaxes. He
lowers the pistol in his hand in a manner which clearly indicates that
he is not going to shoot. He quietly puts it back in the holster, and_
WILL _is obviously relieved, although he stood his ground like a man._
JOHN. [_Slowly._] Thank you. You said that just in time.
[_A pause._
WILL. [_Recovering and in a light tone._] Well, you see, Madison, that
what I said when I was--
JOHN. [_Threateningly._] Look out, Brockton, I don't want to talk to
you. [_The men confront._
WILL. All right.
JOHN. [_To_ LAURA.] Now get that man out of here.
LAURA. John, I--
JOHN. Get him out. Get him out before I lose my temper or they'll take
him out without his help.
LAURA. [_To_ WILL.] Go--go. Please go.
WILL. [_Deliberately._] If that's the way you want it, I'm willing.
_Exit_ WILL _into the sleeping-apartment._ LAURA _and_ JOHN _stand
facing each other. He enters again with hat and coat on, and passes
over toward the door._ LAURA _and_ JOHN _do not move. When he gets
just a little to the left of the centre of the stage_ LAURA _steps
forward and stops him with her speech._
LAURA. Now before you go, and to you both, I want to tell you how I've
learned to despise him. John, I know you don't believe me, but it's
true--it's true. I don't love anyone in the world but just you. I
know you don't think that it can be explained--maybe there isn't any
explanation. I couldn't help it. I was so poor, and I had to live, and
he wouldn't let me work, and he's only let me live one way, and I
was hungry. Do you know what that means? I was hungry and didn't have
clothes to keep me warm, and I tried, oh, John, I tried so hard to do
the other thing,--the right thing,--but I couldn't.
JOHN. I--I know I couldn't help much, and perhaps I could have
forgiven you if you hadn't lied to me. That's what hurt. [_Turning to_
WILL _and approaching until he can look him in the eyes._] I expected
you to lie, you're that kind of a man. You left me with a shake of the
hand, and you gave me your word, and you didn't keep it. Why should
you keep it? Why should anything make any difference with you? Why,
you pup, you've no right to live in the same world with decent folks.
Now you make yourself scarce, or take it from me, I'll just kill you,
that's all.
WILL. I'll leave, Madison, but I'm not going to let you think that I
didn't do the right thing with you. She came to me voluntarily. She
said she wanted to come back. I told you that, when I was in Colorado,
and you didn't believe me, and I told you that when she did this sort
of thing I'd let you know. I dictated a letter to her to send to you,
and I left it sealed and stamped in her hands to mail. She didn't do
it. If there's been a lie, she told it. I didn't.
JOHN _turns to her. She hangs her head and averts her eyes in a mute
acknowledgment of guilt. The revelation hits_ JOHN _so hard that
he sinks on the trunk centre, his head fallen to his breast. He is
utterly limp and whipped. There is a moment's silence._
WILL. [_Crosses to_ JOHN.] You see! Why, my boy, whatever you think
of me or the life I lead, I wouldn't have had this come to you for
anything in the world. [JOHN _makes an impatient gesture._] No, I
wouldn't. My women don't mean a whole lot to me because I don't take
them seriously. I wish I had the faith and the youth to feel the way
you do. You're all in and broken up, but I wish I could be broken
up just once. I did what I thought was best for you because I didn't
think she could ever go through the way you wanted her to. I'm sorry
it's all turned out bad. [_Pause._] Good-bye.
_He looks at_ JOHN _for a moment as if he was going to speak._ JOHN
_remains motionless. The blow has hit him harder than he thought._
WILL _exits. The first door closes. In a moment the second door is
slammed._ JOHN _and_ LAURA _look at each other for a moment. He gives
her no chance to speak. The hurt in his heart and his accusation are
shown by his broken manner. A great grief has come into his life and
he doesn't quite understand it. He seems to be feeling around for
something to say, some way to get out. His head turns toward the door.
With a pitiful gesture of the hand he looks at her in all his sorrow._
JOHN. Well? [_Rises._
LAURA. John, I--[_Takes off hat and places it on table._
JOHN. I'd be careful what I said. Don't try to make excuses. I
understand.
LAURA. It's not excuses. I want to tell you what's in my heart, but I
can't; it won't speak, and you don't believe my voice.
JOHN. You'd better leave it unsaid.
LAURA. But I must tell. I can't let you go like this. [_She goes over
to him and makes a weak attempt to put her arms around him. He takes
her arms and puts them back to her side._] I love you. I--how can I
tell you--but I do, I do, and you won't believe me.
_He remains silent for a moment and then takes her by the hand, leads
her over to the chair and places her in it._
JOHN. I think you do as far as you are able; but, Laura, I guess you
don't know what a decent sentiment is. [_He gathers himself together.
His tone is very gentle and very firm, but it carries a tremendous
conviction, even with his grief ringing through his speech._] Laura,
you're not immoral, you're just unmoral, kind o' all out of shape, and
I'm afraid there isn't a particle of hope for you. When we met neither
of us had any reason to be proud, but I thought that you thought that
it was the chance of salvation which sometimes comes to a man and a
woman fixed as we were then. What had been had been. It was all in the
great to-be for us, and now, how you've kept your word! What little
that promise meant, when I thought you handed me a new lease of life!
LAURA. [_In a voice that is changed and metallic. She is literally
being nailed to the cross._] You're killing me--killing me.
JOHN. Don't make such a mistake. In a month you'll recover. There will
be days when you will think of me, just for a moment, and then it
will be all over. With you it is the easy way, and it always will be.
You'll go on and on until you're finally left a wreck, just the type
of the common woman. And you'll sink until you're down to the very
bed-rock of depravity. I pity you.
LAURA. [_Still in the same metallic tone of voice._] You'll never
leave me to do that. I'll kill myself.
JOHN. Perhaps that's the only thing left for you to do, but you'll not
do it. It's easier to live. [_Crosses, gets hat and coat, turns and
looks at her,_ LAURA _rising at the same time._
LAURA. John, I said I'd kill myself, and I mean it. If it's the only
thing to do, I'll do it, and I'll do it before your very eyes. [_She
crosses quickly, gets keys out of satchel, opens trunk, takes gun out
of trunk, stands facing_ JOHN--_waiting a moment._] You understand
that when your hand touches that door I'm going to shoot myself. I
will, so help me God!
JOHN. [_Stops and looks at her._] Kill yourself? [_Pause._] Before me?
[_Pause._] All right. [_Raising his voice._] Annie, Annie!
ANNIE. [_Enters._] Yes, sir.
JOHN. [LAURA _looks at_ JOHN _in bewilderment._] You see your mistress
there has a pistol in her hand?
ANNIE. [_Frightened._] Yassuh--
JOHN. She wants to kill herself. I just called you to witness that the
act is entirely voluntary on her part. Now, Laura, go ahead.
LAURA. [_Nearly collapsing, drops the pistol to the floor._] John,
I--can't--
JOHN. Annie, she's evidently changed her mind. You may go.
ANNIE. But, Miss Laura, Ah--
JOHN. [_Peremptorily._] You may go. [_Bewildered and not
understanding,_ ANNIE _exits through the portières. In that same
gentle tone, but carrying with it an almost frigid conviction._] You
didn't have the nerve. I knew you wouldn't. For a moment you thought
the only decent thing for you to do was to die, and yet you couldn't
go through. I am sorry for you,--more sorry than I can tell. [_He
takes a step towards the door._
LAURA. You're going--you're going?
JOHN. Yes.
LAURA. And--and--you never thought that perhaps I'm frail, and weak,
and a woman, and that now, maybe, I need your strength, and you might
give it to me, and it might be better. I want to lean on you,--lean
on you, John. I know I need someone. Aren't you going to let me? Won't
you give me another chance?
JOHN. I gave you your chance, Laura.
LAURA. [_Throws arms around his neck._] Give me another.
JOHN. But you leaned the wrong way. Good-bye.
[_He pulls away and goes out, slamming both doors._
LAURA. [_Screaming._] John--John--I--[_She sits on trunk, weeping in
loud and tearful manner; rises in a dazed fashion, starts to cross,
sees gun, utters loud cry of mingled despair and anger, grabs up gun,
crossing to bureau, opens up-stage drawer, throws gun in, slams drawer
shut, calling:_] Annie! Annie!
ANNIE. [_Appears through the portières._] Ain't yuh goin' away, Miss
Laura?
LAURA. [_Suddenly arousing herself, and with a defiant voice._] No,
I'm not. I'm going to stay right here. [ANNIE _crosses and opens
trunk, takes out handsome dress, hangs it over back of armchair,
crosses up to hat-trunk, takes out hat._ LAURA _takes it from her,
crosses to trunk left, starts to unpack it._] Open these trunks, take
out those clothes, get me my prettiest dress. Hurry up. [_She goes
before the mirror._] Get my new hat, dress up my body and paint up my
face. It's all they've left of me. [_To herself._] They've taken my
soul away with them.
ANNIE. [_In a happy voice._] Yassum, yassum.
LAURA. [_Who is arranging her hair._] Doll me up, Annie.
ANNIE. Yuh goin' out, Miss Laura?
LAURA. Yes. I'm going to Rector's to make a hit, and to hell with the
rest!
_At this moment the hurdy-gurdy in the street, presumably immediately
under her window, begins to play the tune of "Bon-Bon Buddie, My
Chocolate Drop." There is something in this ragtime melody which
is particularly and peculiarly suggestive of the low life, the
criminality and prostitution that constitute the night excitement of
that section of New York City known as the Tenderloin. The tune,--its
association,--is like spreading before_ LAURA'S _eyes a panorama of
the inevitable depravity that awaits her. She is torn from every ideal
that she so weakly endeavoured to grasp, and is thrown into the
mire and slime at the very moment when her emancipation seems to be
assured. The woman, with her flashy dress in one arm and her equally
exaggerated type of picture hat in the other, is nearly prostrated
by the tune and the realization of the future as it is terrifically
conveyed to her. The negress, in the happiness of serving_ LAURA
_in her questionable career, picks up the melody and hums it as she
unpacks the finery that has been put away in the trunk._
LAURA. [_With infinite grief, resignation, and hopelessness._]
O God--O my God. [_She turns and totters toward the bedroom. The
hurdy-gurdy continues, with the negress accompanying it._
A SLOW CURTAIN.
END OF THE PLAY.