The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays | Page 4

centre. A long flexible gas-bracket
depends from the ceiling above it. Another many-jointed gas-bracket
projects from the middle of the high mantelpiece, its flame turned down
towards the stove. There are wooden chairs at the table, above, below,
and to left of it. A high-backed easy chair is above the fire, a kitchen
elbow-chair below it._
_The kitchen is very tidy. A newspaper newly fallen to the rug before
the fire and another--an evening one--spread flat on the table are
(besides a child's mug and plate, also on the table) the only things not
stowed in their prescribed places. It is evening--the light beyond the
little square window being the gray dimness of a long Northern twilight
which slowly deepens during the play. When the curtain rises it is still
light enough in the room for a man to read if the print be not too faint
and his eyes be good. The warm light of the fire leaps and flickers
through the gray, showing up with exceptional clearness the deep-lined
face of old DAVID PIRNIE, who is discovered half-risen from his
armchair above the fire, standing on the hearth-rug, his body bent and
his hand on the chair arm. He is a little, feeble old man with a
well-shaped head and weather-beaten face, set off by a grizzled beard
and whiskers, wiry and vigorous, in curious contrast to the wreath of
snowy hair that encircles his head. His upper lip is shaven. He wears an
old suit--the unbuttoned waistcoat of which shows an old flannel shirt.
His slippers are low at the heel and his socks loose at the ankles._
_The old man's eyes are fixed appealingly on those of his daughter,
who stands in the half-open door, her grasp on the handle, meeting his
look squarely--a straight-browed, black-haired, determined young
woman of six or seven and twenty. Her husband_, JOHN, _seated at the

table in his shirt-sleeves with his head in his hands, reads hard at the
paper and tries to look unconcerned._
DAVID. Aw--but, Lizzie--
LIZZIE (_with splendid firmness_). It's nae use, feyther. I'm no' gaein'
to gie in to the wean. Ye've been tellin' yer stories to him nicht after
nicht for dear knows how long, and he's gettin' to expect them.
DAVID. Why should he no' expect them?
LIZZIE. It disna do for weans to count on things so. He's layin' up a sad
disappointment for himself yin o' these days.
DAVID. He's gettin' a sad disappointment the noo. Och, come on,
Lizzie. I'm no' gaein' to dee just yet, an' ye can break him off gradually
when I begin to look like to.
LIZZIE. Who's talkin' o' yer deein', feyther?
DAVID. Ye were speakin' o' the disappointment he was layin' up for
himself if he got to count on me--
LIZZIE. I wasna thinkin' o' yer deein', feyther--only--it's no guid for a
bairn--
DAVID. Where's the harm in my giein' him a bit story before he gangs
tae his bed?
LIZZIE. I'm no sayin' there's ony harm in it this yinst, feyther; but it's
no richt to gae on nicht after nicht wi' never a break--
DAVID. Whit wey is it no richt if there's nae harm in it?
LIZZIE. It's giein' in to the wean.
DAVID. Whit wey should ye no' gie in to him if there's nae harm in it?
LIZZIE (_keeping her patience with difficulty_). Because it gets him

into the habit.
DAVID. But why should he no' get into the habit if there's nae harm in
it?
(_John at the table chuckles. Lizzie gives him a look, but he meets it
not._)
LIZZIE. Really, feyther, ye micht be a wean yerself, ye're that
persistent.
DAVID. No, Lizzie, I'm no' persistent, I'm reasoning wi' ye. Ye said
there was nae harm in my tellin' him a bit story, an' now ye say I'm not
to because it'll get him into the habit; an' what I'm askin' ye is, where's
the harm o' his gettin' into the habit if there's nae harm in it?
LIZZIE. Oh, aye; ye can be gey clever, twistin' the words in my mouth,
feyther; but richt is richt, an' wrang's wrang, for all yer cleverness.
DAVID (_earnestly_). I'm no bein' clever ava, Lizzie,--no' the noo,--I'm
just tryin' to make ye see that, if ye admit there's nae harm in a thing, ye
canna say there's ony harm in it, an' (_pathetically_) I'm wantin' to tell
wee Alexander a bit story before he gangs to his bed.
JOHN (_aside to her_). Och, wumman--
LIZZIE. T'ts, John; ye'd gie in tae onybody if they were just persistent
enough.
JOHN. He's an auld man.
LIZZIE (_really exasperated_). I ken fine he's an auld man, John, and
ye're a young yin, an' Alexander's gaein' to be anither, an' I'm a lone
wumman among