The Squire | Page 3

is old and strong enough--if you clutch it, no fear of falling.
{Chris.} What of it?
{Izod.} (removing some of the leaves from the stonework) Look there--footprints--where a boot has kicked away the old crust from the stones.
{Chris.} (in an earnest whisper) What of it?
{Izod.} (pointing above) More footprints up there, stopping at that window, and under the window this key-ring, without a speck of rust on it.
{Chris.} (earnestly) Tell me what you think--tell me what you mean!
{Izod.} (comes down to her) I mean that that is the Squire's room, and that this bunch of keys belongs to the man who seems more anxious than anyone in the parish to be in the Squire's company. I mean that if the Squire wants to entertain a visitor unbeknown to you or anybody about the place, that is the way in.
{Chris.} Climb to a window, when there's a door there?
{Izod.} (pointing to door R., C.) Who sleeps at the head of the stairs, outside the Squire's room?
{Chris.} I do. (Izod gives a short whistle) But the dog, Izod,--nobody that the dog doesn't love, dares try to pass the gateway--the dog!
{Izod.} Who gave the dog to the Squire, a twelve- month back?
{Chris.} Ah!
{Izod.} (holding out bunch of keys) Why, the man whose name is cut on that key-ring! (Chris. snatches the keys from him, and puts them behind her back. Izod seizes her hand) Give them up to me, you devil!
{Chris.} (firmly) I'll call Gilbert Hythe, if you touch me, darling, (he releases her) Listen, Izod; I've been here, on this bit o' land, resting under this old roof, and working in this old yard, since I was a mite--so high. I've been here in times of merrymaking and times of mourning, and I've seen the grass grow over all the Veritys but one--the Squire who gives me the same living that goes to the best table, and as soft a pillow as lies on the best bed. No, I'll keep the keys, Izod dear; you go and swallow Gilbert Hythe's dinner.
{Izod.} (slouches over to door L., with a scowl) You don't care if the Squire does snub your poor brother. Faugh! you've nothing of the gipsy but the skin. (He goes out into outhouse, door L.)
{Chris.} (looks at the keys, and slips them into her pocket) A bunch of his keys; they are safer in my pocket than in Izod's--poor Izod is so impulsive. (she crosses to R. C., goes up the steps and calls at door. Calling) Squire! Squire! Here's Gilbert Hythe with two men. Don't let 'em bring their boots indoors.
(Izod appears at door L.)
{Izod.} (savagely) Christiana!
{Chris.} (turning) Hush! (coming down steps)
{Izod.} How long am I to be treated like this?
{Chris.} (going towards L.) What's wrong, dear?
{Izod.} What's wrong! Why, it's only cold meat!
{Chris.} Go in, Izod! Here's the Squire! go in!
(She pushes Izod in L.)
(Kate Verity comes out of house R., C. and down the steps; she is a pretty woman, bright, fresh, and cheery; she carries a small key-basket containing keys, and an account book and pencil, which she places on R., table as she turns from Gilbert; she throws the shawl over the mounting stone as Gilbert Hythe appears in the archway, followed by Robjohns, Junior, a mild-looking, fair youth, and a shabby person in black with a red face.)
I'm close at hand if you want me, Squire. Here's Gilbert! (she goes into outhouse L.)
{Kate.} What are you doing with the gun, Gilbert?
{Gil.} I've been putting the ferrets at the ricks. (holding out hand eagerly) Good afternoon, Squire.
{Kate.} (shakes her head at Gil.) What a mania you have for shaking hands, Gilbert.
{Gil.} (withdrawing his hand) I beg your pardon.
{Kate.} Who are those men?
{Gil.} The son of old Robjohns, the fiddler, and a reporting man on the "Mercury."
{Kate.} Well, Master Robjohns, how's your father? (sits R.)
(Rob. comes down L., C., nervously.)
{Rob.} (with a dialect) Father's respects, and he's ill a-bed with rheumatics, and he hopes it'll make no difference.
{Kate.} Who's to play the fiddle to-morrow night for the harvest folks?
{Rob.} Father wants me to take his place. I'm not nearly such a good fiddler as father is, and he hopes it'll make no difference.
{Kate.} Your father has played at every harvest feast here for the last five and twenty years--is he very ill?
{Rob.} Father's respects, and he's as bad as he can well be, and he hopes it'll make no difference.
{Kate.} Good gracious! Gilbert, have you sent the doctor?
{Gil.} The doctor's busy with an invalid at the White Lion at Market-Sinfield--a stranger.
{Kate.} No stranger has a right to all the doctor. (rises and stands by table R., making notes in book) All right, Master Robjohns, you shall play the fiddle to-morrow night.
{Rob.} Thank'ee, Squire.
{Kate.} Christie!
{Gil.} Christie!
{Chris.} (from within L.) Yes!
{Kate.} Give Master Robjohns something to drink.
{Chris.} (appearing at the door)