Robjohns!

     Rob. (turning round, up stage) Father's respects,
     and he has always heretofore cut up the ducks at
     the harvest feast.

     Kate. Well?

     Rob. Father's mortally fond of duck, but he
     always cut 'em up fairly and friendly.

     Kate. Yes?

     Rob. My best respects to you, Squire, and as I
     come, in place of father, I hope you'll make no
     difference. Good day to ye, Squire.

     (He goes off through archway. Kate rises, goes
     up C., and down L., C.)
     Kate. Thank you, Gilbert, for thinking so much
     of to-morrow.

     Gil. (looking at her earnestly) Don't name it,
     Squire.

     Kate. (awkwardly) The summer's over—the
     winds are getting quite cold—good afternoon, Gilbert.

     (Kate takes shawl off stone and goes towards steps,
     where Gilbert intercepts her.)
     Gil. Squire!

     Kate. Yes?

     Gil. Will you listen to me?

     Kate. (L. C.) Business?

     Gil. (R. of her) The business of my life.

     Kate. Oh, Gilbert! Again? (sits)
     Gil. (puts gun down R., of archway) Squire—
     Squire Kate, I—I can't take "no" for an answer.

     Kate. Are you a strong man or a weak one?

     Gil. Strong enough to keep from drink and
     gambling, when you make me mad; weak enough to
     crawl about this place for the sake of a look from
     you. Strong enough to love you with all my soul;
     weak enough not to hate you for wrecking my life.

     Kate. Don't talk fiddle-de-dee nonsense about
     your life being wrecked. Gilbert, we were children
     together, we were lad and lass together, and perhaps,
     if we both live, we may be old people together—but
     we mustn't be man and woman together; it doesn't
     answer. Now, tell me, what are you supposed to be
     on my land?

     Gil. Folks call me the bailiff, but I'm more of a
     handyman. I work for Squire Kate, my dear
     master—and I love Squire Kate, my dear mistress.

     Kate. Then take a word of advice—cut yourself
     adrift from Squire Kate's apron strings. (Gilbert
     turns away) When my father, John Verity, died,
     and left his girl alone in the world, you helped me
     out of debt and difficulty; but all the skill on earth
     can never squeeze more than bread and butter out
     of this dear broken-down old place. (she rises) So
     go away where there's a world for you, a world to
     work in and a world to live in. (she holds out her
     hand to him) Thank you for the past. Good-bye.

     Gil. (R. C., falteringly) If I come back—rich—
     in a year, would there be any chance for me?

     Kate. (in a whisper) No. (crosses to R.)
     Gil. Good-bye, dear Squire Kate, (goes to her)
     Kate. Good-bye, old friend Gilbert, (they shake
     hands)
     (She sits on garden seat, thoughtfully. Takes small
     purse from her pocket, looks at wedding ring in
     it, and kisses it. Gil. goes quickly up stage, then
     turns and looks at her; after a moment he comes
     softly, unperceived, to C.)
     Gil. (quietly) Kate.

     Kate. (rising with a start) Eric!

     Gil. Oh!

     Kate. (seeing Gil.) You!—why have you come
     back? (reseating herself)
     Gil. (bitterly) Eric! Eric! The young soldier
     who is privileged to wind the apron strings round
     his neck—who lolls away his leisure here with his
     feet higher than his head, and a cigar between his
     teeth.

     Kate. (confused) Don't heed me—I don't know
     what I have said!

     Gil. Said! Called me by another man's name.
     Oh, I didn't mean to trap you.

     Kate. (rising) Trap! (takes up key-basket)
     Gil. I beg your pardon, (meekly) but it was
     concerning this very Mr. Thorndyke that I returned
     to speak to you.

     Kate. I won't hear you. I'm going indoors.

     Gil. (calmly) I won't let you. (standing before
     her)
     Kate. You know what you are here?

     Gil. Is it mistress and servant?

     Kate. I was your mistress—you are my discharged
     servant.

     Gil. Humbly, then, as an old servant, I ask you
     to consider what this Mr. Thorndyke really is.

     Kate. (coldly) A gentleman and a soldier.

     Gil. Not a gentleman, because he's a soldier—
     what does he do here? (pause)
     Kate. We are friends.

     Gil. They don't say that in the parlour of the
     White Lion.

     Kate. Oh! Do they dare—?

     Gil. Oh, yes, they dare.

     Kate. The idlers in a pot-house malign the
     woman out of whose land they get the very crust
     they eat. (covers her face with her hands and sits
     on garden seat) How hard! How cruel!

     Gil. (earnestly) I have stopped their tongues
     when I have been by. I have always said—

     Kate. (raising her head) You, Mr. Hythe?
     Thank you. In the future don't meddle with their
     legitimate pleasures, (laughing with pain) They've
     so little to amuse them. How selfish I am! (the
     bell rings) Who is that?

     (The Rev. Paul Dormer appears in the archway
     from L., He is a dark-browed man, about forty,
     but with white hair; he is attired as a clergyman,
     but his dress is rusty, shabby, and slovenly; he
     carries a heavy stick.)
     Gil. (surprised) Parson Dormer! (going up C.)
     Kate. (rising) Mr. Dormer! (Dor. comes down,
     meeting Gil.)
     Dormer. (to Gil. roughly) You're Gilbert
     Hythe, I think.

     Gil. You think aright—I am.

     Dormer. Can you carry a basket?

     Gil. Where to?

     Dormer. To the White Lion!

     Gil. What for?

     Dormer. For the sake of a sick woman.

     Gil. I can carry a basket to the White Lion.

     Dormer. (gruffly) Thank you.

     Gil. (looking at Dor.) For the sake of a sick
     woman?

     Dormer. (turning away) Ah!

     Gil. (to Kate.) Call me when I'm wanted,
     Squire. I'm going to say good-bye to the dog.
     (Goes off through archway to R., Dor. sits R., of
     table.)
     Kate. (L. C.) If your business is with Gilbert
     Hythe, you can dispense with the mistress of the
     house, Mr. Dormer, (about to