LITMIR.BIZ

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'Tis awful common down by the streams. We've got one medder where 'tis so thick almost as the goldie cups.

      STRANGWAY. Odd! I've never noticed it.

      IVY. Please, Mr. Strangway, yu don't notice when yu're walkin'; yu go along like this.

      [She holds up her face as one looking at the sky.]

      STRANGWAY. Bad as that, Ivy?

      IVY. Mrs. Strangway often used to pick it last spring.

      STRANGWAY. Did she? Did she?

      [He has gone off again into a kind of dream.]

      MERCY. I like being confirmed.

      STRANGWAY. Ah! Yes. Now–What's that behind you, Mercy?

      MERCY. [Engagingly producing a cage a little bigger than a mouse-trap, containing a skylark] My skylark.

      STRANGWAY. What!

      MERCY. It can fly; but we're goin' to clip its wings. Bobbie caught it.

      STRANGWAY. How long ago?

      MERCY. [Conscious of impending disaster] Yesterday.

      STRANGWAY. [White hot] Give me the cage!

      MERCY. [Puckering] I want my skylark. [As he steps up to her and takes the cage—thoroughly alarmed] I gave Bobbie thrippence for it!

      STRANGWAY. [Producing a sixpence] There!

      MERCY. [Throwing it down-passionately] I want my skylark!

      STRANGWAY. God made this poor bird for the sky and the grass. And you put it in that! Never cage any wild thing! Never!

      MERCY. [Faint and sullen] I want my skylark.

      STRANGWAY. [Taking the cage to the door] No! [He holds up the cage and opens it] Off you go, poor thing!

      [The bird flies out and away. The girls watch with round eyes the fling up of his arm, and the freed bird flying away.]

      IVY. I'm glad!

      [MERCY kicks her viciously and sobs. STRANGWAY comes from the door, looks at MERCY sobbing, and suddenly clasps his head. The girls watch him with a queer mixture of wonder, alarm, and disapproval.]

      GLADYS. [Whispering] Don't cry, Mercy. Bobbie'll soon catch yu another.

      [STRANGWAY has dropped his hands, and is looking again at MERCY. IVY sits with hands clasped, gazing at STRANGWAY. MERCY continues her artificial sobbing.]

      STRANGWAY. [Quietly] The class is over for to-day.

      [He goes up to MERCY, and holds out his hand. She does not take it, and runs out knuckling her eyes. STRANGWAY turns on his heel and goes into the house.]

      CONNIE. 'Twasn't his bird.

      IVY. Skylarks belong to the sky. Mr. Strangway said so.

      GLADYS. Not when they'm caught, they don't.

      IVY. They du.

      CONNIE. 'Twas her bird.

      IVY. He gave her sixpence for it.

      GLADYS. She didn't take it.

      CONNIE. There it is on the ground.

      IVY. She might have.

      GLADYS. He'll p'raps take my squirrel, tu.

      IVY. The bird sang—I 'eard it! Right up in the sky. It wouldn't have sanged if it weren't glad.

      GLADYS. Well, Mercy cried.

      IVY. I don't care.

      GLADYS. 'Tis a shame! And I know something. Mrs. Strangway's at Durford.

      CONNIE. She's—never!

      GLADYS. I saw her yesterday. An' if she's there she ought to be here. I told mother, an' she said: "Yu mind yer business." An' when she goes in to market to-morrow she'm goin' to see. An' if she's really there, mother says, 'tis a fine tu-du an' a praaper scandal. So I know a lot more'n yu du.

      [Ivy stares at her.]

      CONNIE. Mrs. Strangway told mother she was goin' to France for the winter because her mother was ill.

      GLADYS. 'Tisn't, winter now—Ascension Day. I saw her cumin' out o' Dr. Desert's house. I know 'twas her because she had on a blue dress an' a proud luke. Mother says the doctor come over here tu often before Mrs. Strangway went away, just afore Christmas. They was old sweethearts before she married Mr. Strangway. [To Ivy] 'Twas yure mother told mother that.

      [Ivy gazes at them more and more wide-eyed.]

      CONNIE. Father says if Mrs. Bradmere an' the old Rector knew about the doctor, they wouldn't 'ave Mr. Strangway 'ere for curate any longer; because mother says it takes more'n a year for a gude wife to leave her 'usband, an' 'e so fond of her. But 'tisn't no business of ours, father says.

      GLADYS. Mother says so tu. She's praaper set against gossip. She'll know all about it to-morrow after market.

      IVY. [Stamping her foot] I don't want to 'ear nothin' at all; I don't, an' I won't.

      [A rather shame faced silence falls on the girls.]

      GLADYS. [In a quick whisper] 'Ere's Mrs. Burlacombe.

      [There enters fawn the house a stout motherly woman with a round grey eye and very red cheeks.]

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. Ivy, take Mr. Strangway his ink, or we'll never 'eve no sermon to-night. He'm in his thinkin' box, but 'tis not a bit o' yuse 'im thinkin' without 'is ink. [She hands her daughter an inkpot and blotting-pad. Ivy Takes them and goes out] What ever's this? [She picks up the little bird-cage.]

      GLADYS. 'Tis Mercy Jarland's. Mr. Strangway let her skylark go.

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! Did 'e now? Serve 'er right, bringin' an 'eathen bird to confirmation class.

      CONNIE. I'll take it to her.

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. No. Yu leave it there, an' let Mr. Strangway du what 'e likes with it. Bringin' a bird like that! Well 'I never!

      [The girls, perceiving that they have lighted on stony soil, look at each other and slide towards the door.]

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. Yes, yu just be off, an' think on what yu've been told in class, an' be'ave like Christians, that's gude maids. An' don't yu come no more in the 'avenin's dancin' them 'eathen dances in my barn, naighther, till after yu'm confirmed—'tisn't right. I've told Ivy I won't 'ave it.

      CONNIE. Mr. Strangway don't mind—he likes us to; 'twas Mrs. Strangway began teachin' us. He's goin' to give a prize.

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. Yu just du what I tell yu an' never mind Mr. Strangway—he'm tu kind to everyone. D'yu think I don't know how gells oughter be'ave before confirmation? Yu be'ave like I did! Now, goo ahn! Shoo!

      [She hustles them out, rather as she might hustle her chickens, and begins tidying the room. There comes a wandering figure to the open window. It is that of a man of about thirty-five, of feeble gait, leaning the weight of all one side of him on a stick. His dark face, with black hair, one lock of which has gone white, was evidently once that of an ardent man. Now it is slack, weakly smiling, and the brown eyes are lost, and seem always to be asking something to which there is no answer.]

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. [With that forced cheerfulness always assumed in the face of too great misfortune] Well, Jim! better? [At the faint brightening of the smile] That's right! Yu'm gettin' on bravely. Want Parson?

      JIM. [Nodding and smiling, and speaking slowly] I want to tell 'un about my cat.

      [His face loses its smile.]

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. Why! what's she been duin' then? Mr. Strangway's busy. Won't I du?

      JIM. [Shaking his head] No. I want to tell him.

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. Whatever she been duin'? Havin' kittens?

      JIM. No. She'm lost.

      MRS. BURLACOMBE. Dearie me! Aw! she'm not lost. Cats be like maids; they must get out a bit.

      JIM. She'm lost. Maybe he'll know where she'll be.

      MRS.

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