ACT I. _SCENE. Drawing-room at Mr. Harabin's; an elegantly furnished

room in Mayfair. At back, in centre, fireplace, with fire burning. To right of fireplace a door leading to lady Susan's sitting-room. A door down stage left._

_Enter footman left showing in Lady Darby_

_Lady Darby._ (_A lady of about fifty._) Where is Lady Susan now?

_Footman._ Upstairs in her sitting-room, my lady. (_Indicating the door right._)

_Lady D._ Where is Mr. Harabin?

_Footman._ Downstairs in the library, my lady.

_Enter Second Footman showing in Inez, a widow of about thirty, fascinating, inscrutable_

_Lady D._ (_To First Footman._) Tell Lady Susan I wish to see her at once.

_Inez._ And will you say that I am here too?

(_Exit First Footman at door right. Exit Second Footman at door left._)

_Lady D._ (_Going affectionately to Inez, shaking hands very sympathetically._) My dear Mrs. Quesnel, you know?

_Inez._ Sue wrote me a short note saying that she had discovered that Mr. Harabin had--and that she had made up her mind to leave him.

_Lady D._ Yes, that's what she wrote me. Now, my dear, you're her oldest friend. You'll help me to persuade her to--to look over it and hush it up.

_Inez._ Oh, certainly. It's the advice everybody gives in such cases, so I suppose it must be right. What are the particulars?

_Lady D._ I don't know. But with a man like Harabin--a gentleman in every sense of the word--it can't be a very bad case.

_Enter Lady Susan._[25]

If the voice does not deftly stress "now" in Lady Darby's first speech, and the "upstairs" and the "downstairs" of the footman, this opening will fail of its desired effect. Everything in this well-written beginning of an interesting play depends on bringing to the delivery of the lines right use of the dramatist's greatest aids: gesture, facial expression, pantomime, and above all the exquisite intonations of which the human voice is capable. Write this scene as a novelist would handle it, and see to what different proportions it will swell. Note in the final result how much less connotative, how much more commonplace the dialogue probably is. Contrasting two passages--one from a novel, the other in a play drawn from it--will perhaps best illustrate that the dialogue of the novel and of the play treating the same story usually differ greatly.

And when it became clear that somebody, good or bad, was without, Patty, having regard to the lateness of the hour and the probability of supernatural visitations, was much disposed to make as though the knocking were unheard, and to creep quietly off to bed. But Mistress Beatrice prevailed upon her to depart from this prudent course; and the two peered from an upper window to see who stood before the door.

At first they could see no one; but presently a little figure stepped back from the shadow, looking up to the window above, and Beatrice Cope, although she discerned not the face, felt more than ever certain that this summons was for her.

"'Tis but a child there without, Patty," she said. "Maybe 'tis some poor little creature that has lost its way, and come here for help and shelter. Heaven forbid that we should leave it to wander about, all the dreary night through!"

Patty's fears were not much calmed by the sight of this lonely child. "'Twas the Phantom Child," she murmured, "who comes wailing piteously to honest folks' doors o' nights; and if they take it in and cherish it, it works them grievous woe."

Mistress Beatrice, however, tried to hear as little as she might of what Patty was saying; and she went downstairs and undid the heavy bar very cautiously. Then she opened the door a little space; and Patty Joyce stood by her staunchly, although disapproving of what she did.

And when the door was opened, this persevering applicant proved to be only the boy Bill Lampeter, who was known at White-oaks as at Crowe Hall, and a score of country Granges beside. He did but crave a drink of milk and a bit to eat, he said. He had been a-foot all day, and had had nought to eat; and seeing a light burning in the houseplace, he made bold to knock and ask for what he needed.

The boy's breath was short and hurried, and his grimy face was pale and damp with toil of hard running. He did not seek to enter, but kept glancing over his shoulder into the darkness behind him.

Beatrice sent Patty for food and drink, standing still herself in the doorway; and the maid was no sooner gone than the boy drew nearer and spoke.

"Oh, mistress," he said, hoarsely, "I have been beat to-night--but I told 'em nought. The corporal he raddled my bones terrible--but I set my teeth, and I told 'un nought. I bit him when he took they shining white things o' yourn, wi' the writing; them as I could not give to Mr. Cope, the day I warned the porter at Goodrest that the red-coats was upon 'em. I had the white things safe, mistress, hid in my smock"--(he put his hand to his breast, where the rough garment he wore was heavily quilted and closely drawn).--"And I would ha' giv' them to Mr. Cope, the first chance I got--I would, honest and true. But the scouting party caught me; and they says, 'Thee be allays running from one Grange to another, thee little ne'er-do-weel; thee can tell us what we wants to know about Goodrest in the hills'--And I was telling of 'em just what tales comed into my head, for fear of unpleasantness, mistress, when the corporal, a great rough chap, seizes hold of me, and says, says he, ''Tis all a pack o' lies, this here. Search him,' he says, 'and see if he carries messages or tokens.' And then I fought and bit, for I know'd they'd find your bright things in my smock; and I bit his hand nigh upon through, that I did," said Bill, with grim satisfaction, and an oath at which poor Beatrice shuddered.

"Oh, hush!" she said. "There is no help in swearing, boy."

"_He_ swore," Bill replied. "But when he got the tablets, he were fine and pleased. And he said, 'This is a stag of ten, my boys; and should he snuff the breeze too soon we have means to keep him where he is till morning. Hold that little viper fast,' says he,'and for your lives don't let him give us the slip.'--So one of the troopers took me behind him on his horse, with a rope round my body, drawn cruel tight at first. And I panted and groaned, and made as though he were killing of me; and after a bit he slacked the rope a little, so as I could put my head down and gnaw it through in the dark. And at the dip of a valley, where the shadow was deep under the trees, I slipped off quiet-like into the long grass. He knew the rope was loose in a minute, and he snapped his pistol; but the covert was good, and I crope into the heart of a holler tree covered o'er wi' ivy. I bided there, till they was tired o' hunting round.--But oh, mistress, the poor gentleman at Goodrest is undone!--They talked together while the trooper was making me fast upon his horse; and I heard a word now and again, for I listened with all my might. There were but four of 'em; and they said they weren't strong enough to surprise Goodrest, but must ride back to quarters for help. And as we went past Grantford Farm, the corporal called a halt; and one held his horse while he went in and spoke with the farmer. And, mistress, Hugh Stone of Grantford is known for a bitter Whig. ...And presently Hugh of Grantford comes out, and his little brother with him; and the boy had that as you wrote upon--that as they took from me--in his hand. And the corporal says, looking over his shoulder quick and short, 'Does he understand?' says he. 'Oh, aye,' says Hugh of Grantford, 'he understands fine.' And I could see wee Jock did not like the job he were put upon; and I made a face at him from ahint the trooper's back, and he liked it less nor ever then."

"What job, Bill?"

Bill Lampeter looked in amazement at this beautiful, terrified lady, who did not understand.

"Don't 'ee see?" he said. "Jock o' Grantford were to take your writing to Goodrest, and play upon the gentleman there, to keep him biding till the red-coats come. What were it as you wrote down that day, mistress?"

As in a flash of painful memory Beatrice saw the dainty tablets once more, with words traced upon them in a hand rendered somewhat unsteady by the slow pace of the sorrel horse--a hand unmistakable, however, to the eyes of Charlie Cope.

I pray you, do not stir far from home. There is risk abroad.

B.C.

She understood then; and she turned quickly to Patty Joyce, who had come back bringing bread and milk ere Bill's tale was half done. Bill, even in the eagerness of his disclosure, had clutched the bread and cheese; and now he drained the mug of milk, while the good-natured maid stood open-mouthed, her eyes fixed upon Mistress Beatrice.

"Patty," the young lady whispered, "I think you are faithful and true.... I must trust you with a perilous secret. This gentleman whom they seek at Goodrest is my only brother; he has papers of importance in his keeping, and a warrant is out for his arrest. They will lure him to his destruction by means of me, his sister; he knows my handwriting and will trust to my warning. He will lie close at Goodrest, as a hare upon her form; and they will take him--oh! they will take him prisoner!--ere morning dawns. I must to Goodrest now, in the dark night.--Boy! is there time? is there time?"

Bill Lampeter nodded, munching his bread.

"They'll not be back afore the dawning, them troopers," he said. "They've limed the twig, ye see; the bird is made fast. If Mr. Cope do hear the country's up, he'll bide where he be there at Goodrest, reckoning 'tis safest to keep still. Between now and the first streak as shows over the Black Scaur, mistress, you can do as you will."

"Eh, Mistress Beatrice, you can't never go," said Patty, trembling. "You couldn't dare to do it. And this here boy," she whispered, standing close to Mistress Beatrice, "is a very proverb for wicked story-telling. 'Tis a naughty little varlet; who knows that he has not been set on to bring this tale?"

"'Tis true enough, though I be a story-teller," said Bill, whose ears were sharp. "Yon gentleman at Goodrest has need of thee the night, mistress. And now let me lie down on the straw in the big barn, for my bones do ache, and I be dizzy wi' running."

He caught at the doorpost as he spoke; and Patty Joyce's suspicion vanished in pity for the worn-out creature. She kindled a flame to light the lanthorn which hung in the houseplace; and herself crossed the wide courtyard to make Bill a comfortable resting-place in the soft hay and clean straw which filled the great barn.[26]

This is the same scene in the play:

(_Louder rapping. Trembling with rage and disappointment, Sandiland disappears down the path. Beatrice stands a moment, looking as if waking from a nightmare._)

_Patty._ (_Outside, rapping more._) Miss Beatrice, Miss Beatrice! Quick!

_Beatrice._ (_Crossing dazedly to door. By it, dully._) Who?

_Patty._ Open quick. Me and Bill.

_Beat._ (_Recovering._) Bill!

(_Quickly she unbolts the door. Patty enters, half supporting Bill. She looks about as if surprised at not seeing any one beside Beatrice. Bill's clothes are torn and he is covered with dirt. There is blood on his hands where cords have torn the flesh. He looks white and wretched and breathes hard as if from recent running. He should play the whole scene with nervous excitement that suggests a collapse at the end of it._)

_Bill._ (_Apologetically, as he stumbles toward Beatrice._) I've had a bit of a scrap. (_Aside to Beatrice._) Get rid o' 'er.

_Beat._ You can trust her. What has happened?

_Bill._ Scoutin' party got me. Corporal raddled my bones terrible when I fought and bit, fearin' they'd find your message hid in my smock. They near tore it off, damn 'em.

_Beat._ You have the tablets?

_Bill._ No.

_Beat._ They have them? (_With relief._) Then they haven't reached James!

_Bill._ The gentleman? Oh, ay. When we come to Grantford Farm--I were trussed up be'ind a trooper--Corporal called out little Jock o' Grantford--his fayther's a bitter Whig--and bade 'im take your message to Goodrest, to keep the gentleman waitin' till the red coats be come.

_Beat._ (_To Patty._) Where's Grizel?

_Patty._ In the paddock'm. But--

_Beat._ Saddle her at once. I must to Goodrest. (_Patty hesitates._)

_Bill._ (_Menacingly as he reaches for a candle-stick._) She said--To once.

(_Unwillingly but quickly, Patty goes out centre._)

_Bill._ (_Pointing to the door where the full moon shines in clearly._) Ay, but that ain't 'id yet.

_Beat._ (_As if struck by a sudden idea._) How did you get free?

_Bill._ Gnawed the ropes; slipped off in the long grass. Trooper's pistol missed me. Stayed in a holler oak I knows till they was tired 'untin'.

_Beat._ Knowing you are loose, they will start at once.

_Bill._ If they ain't fools. But most folks be. Risk somethin' on that. (_Beatrice is busy with her dress and cloak. He starts to help her but has to support himself by table._) Don't go through Whitecross Village. There the soldiers be. Take the footpath by Guiting; the bridge be shaky but 'twill hold.

(_Enter Patty, centre._)

_Patty._ Grizel's ready'm.

_Beat._ (_Nodding her understanding to Bill--to Patty._) Close up here. Look after Bill. Be ready to let me in when the first cock crows. My stirrup! (_Goes out swiftly, followed protestingly by Patty. Bill drags himself to right of door watching, and says after a minute._) She's up!

_Patty._ (_Rushing in as there is the sound of swift hoof beats._) She's gone! (_She falls sobbing hysterically by the left side of door._)

_Bill._ (_As he holds himself up at right_.) The damned brave lady!

_Curtain._

First of all, the novelist permits himself an amount of detail which the dramatist must forego because of his more limited space. Interesting details which do not forward the purpose of the scene or act the wise dramatist denies himself--note in Ibsen's revision of certain lines in _A Doll's House_ (p. 350) the cutting, between the first and final versions, of what concerns Dr. Rank. It was in part unnecessary detail which made the dialogue of the play on John Brown (pp. 309-313) so ineffective. In what follows immediately, a skilful hand seems in column one to have cut details of column two which, though interesting in themselves, delay the essential movement of the scene and help to swell the whole play to undue proportions.

_Horatio._ Mary that can I, at _Horatio._ That can I. least the whisper goes so, At least the whisper goes so; Our late King, who as you know our last King. was by Forten- Who[se image even but now Brasse of Norway. appeared to us,] Was as you knowe by Fortin- Brasse of Norway, Thereto prickt on by a most Thereto prickt on by a most emulous cause, dared to emulate pride The combate, in which our Dar'd to the combat; in which valiant Hamlet, our valient Hamlet, For so this side of our knowne (For so this side of our knowne world esteemed him, world esteemd him) Did slay this Fortenbrasse, Did slay this Fortinbrasse, who Who by a scale compact well by a seald compact ratified, by law Well ratified by lawe and heraldy And heraldrie, did forfeit with Did forfeit (with his life) all his life all those these his lands His lands which he stoode Which he stood seaz'd of, to seazed of by the conqueror, the conquerour. Against the which a moity Against the which a moitie competent, competent, Was gaged by our King: Was gaged by our King, [which had returne To the inheritance of Fortinbrasse, Had he bin vanquisher; as by the same comart, And carriage of the article desseigne, His fell to Hamlet;] now Sir Now sir, young Fortenbrasse, young Fortinbrasse Of unimprooved mettle, hot and Of unimprooved mettle, hot and full, full, Hath in the skirts of Norway Hath in the skirts of Norway heere and there heere and there Sharkt up a sight of lawelesse Sharkt up a list of lawelesse Resolutes resolutes For food and diet to some For foode and diet to some enterprise, enterprise, That hath a stomacke in't: and That hath a stomacke in't this (I take it) is the [which is no other Chief head and ground of our As it doth well appeare unto watch. our state But to recover of us by strong hand And tearmes compulsatory, those foresaid lands So by his father lost;] and this I take it Is [the maine motive of our preparations The source of this our watch, and] the chiefe head Of this post hast and Romadge in the land.

[_Bar._ I thinke it be no other, but enso; Well may it sort that this portentous figure Comes armed through our watch so like the King That was and is the question of these warres.

_Hora._ A moth it is to trouble the mindes eye: In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell The graves stood tenantlesse, and the sheeted dead Did squeake and gibber in the Roman streets As starres, with traines of fier, and dewes of blood Disasters in the sunne; and the moist starre, Upon whose influence Neptunes Empier stands, Was sicke almost to doomesday with eclipse. And even the like precurse of feare events As harbindgers preceading still the fates And prologue to the Omen comming on Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our Climatures and countrymen.]

_Enter the Ghost_. _Enter Ghost_.

But loe, bemold, see where it But softe, behold, loe where it comes againe. comes againe Ile crosse it, though it blast Ile crosse it though it blast me: stay illusion, mee: stay illusion, If there be any good thing to (_It spreads his arms_) be done, [If thou hast any sound or use That may doe ease to thee, and of voyce grace to mee, Speake to me,] if there be any Speake to mee. good thing to be done That may to thee doe ease, and grace to mee, Speake to me.[27]

Unnecessary detail should, then, be cut from dialogue both because it is usually the chief offender in making the play unduly long, and because it weakens the dialogue of which it is a part. In argument it is a time-honored principle that it is far better not to pile up all the evidence you can on a given point, but by selecting your best argument, or two or three of the better type, to strike hard with the selected material. The same principle underlies writing good dramatic dialogue. Say what you have to say as well as you can, and except for emphasis or when repetition produces some desired effect, don't repeat. In the speech quoted below it became clear in rehearsal that the bracketed part was not necessary because what preceded showed sufficiently the affection Miss Helen had roused in the faithful old servant, Alec. However characterizing or amusing the remainder might be, it clogged the movement of the scene. Consequently it went out.

_Dick._ Hello--what's this Alec?

_Alec._ A grand pianner, sir.

_Dick._ Of course, but where did it come from?

_Alec._ Miss Helen, she gave it to 'em at Christmas.

_Dick._ She--gave it to--them--?

_Alec._ Yes.

_Dick. (Laughing_.) But they don't play it, do they?

_Alec._ No, she plays it--. An' you oughter hear her play, sir. At evenin's after supper when the wind'd howl around the house she'd make it sound like Heaven in here. If I ever get up there I don't want white angels and gold harps in mine,--I jes' want Miss Helen an' a grand pianner. (_Dick is very sober. [He doesn't speak_.) An' she can sing, too. You oughter hear her,--little soft things,--none o' this screechy stuff. An' all the old dames sit around--an' then when my work was done out in the barn I'd come in an' sit over there in the corner out o' the way like, an' listen like a old lady myself--with my Adam's apple getting tight every once in a while thinkin' o' things. I tell you she's--she's a regular--humdinger.]

_Dick._ (_Quietly._) What time do you expect her back?

Time forbids any form of fiction to be encyclopaedic. The drama is, as we have seen, the most selective of the forms of fiction. Failure to remember this has hurt the chances of many a promising dramatist. Few have such skilled and loyal advisers as Lord Tennyson found in Sir Henry Irving when his over-long _Becket_ must be cut for stage production. How much of the following scene in the original do we think at first sight we can spare? Much which Sir Henry removed we should like to keep, but time-limits forbade and he cut with exceeding skill to the best dramatic phrasing offered of the essentials of the scene.