 Act 1 of Crossings, A Fairy Play, by Walter de La Mer. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Crossings, A Fairy Play. Characters Mr. Charles James Wildershen. Read by Larry Wilson. Sarah or Sally, his first daughter, read by Emma Hatton. Francis or France, his second daughter, read by T.J. Burns. Anthony or Tony, his son, read by Thomas Peter. Anne, his third daughter, read by Campbell Shelp. Miss Agatha Wildershen, his sister and their aunt of Bayswater, read by Carol Palster. Reverend Jeremy Welcombe, vicar of Little Crossings and a friend of the children's aunt, Susan, who is dead, read by Eva Davis. Miss Julia Welcombe, his sister, read by Avae. Josephine, their niece, read by Linda Olsen-Vitek. Lady Minch of the Hall, Great Crossings, read by Anita Sloma Martinez. Mr. Josiah Widge, the cabman of Little Crossings, read by Scotty Smith. Mr. John Budge, the butcher of Little Crossings, read by Neema. Mrs. Budge, read by Nikalia. Jemima Budge, their small daughter, also called Polly, read by Trisha G. Mr. William Honeyman, the baker of Little Crossings, read by Lynette Colkins. Mrs. Honeyman, read by Elsie Selwyn. Emily Honeyman, their small daughter, read by Devorah Allen. The candlestick maker of nowhere, read by Chuck Williamson. Beggarman. Of everywhere. Read by Elsie Selwyn. The Queen of the Fairies, read by The Story Girl. Fairies, numberless and innumerable, read by Nikalia Schwartz. Mrs. Marshall. LaFamoy's Cook. Read by Elsie Selwyn. Stage Directions, read by Todd. Act One, Aunt Agatha and Bayswater. Time, a foggy Saturday afternoon, the 7th of December. Scene, a large, drafty, forbidding drawing room with a small fire in it in Bayswater. On the left is a lofty window, casting, with its draperies, a dim and stagnant light into the room. High doors painted in shades of brown are to the right and between the window and the bleak marble chimney piece. On a stool in front of the vast brass fender, Squat's Anne, a child aged about five with all her dolls. Her hair is parted in the middle and severely plaited on either side of her smooth round cheeks. It is of the rarest, fairest tinge of gold. Her Aunt Agatha has designed her clothes. She peeps out of her body as if out of a cupboard. Sally, a slim, dark girl of seventeen, with a gentle, mobile face, is seated before an old-fashioned black piano as the curtain slowly rises. She speaks in a low, clear voice, and is if out of her thoughts. Her hair is drawn back tightly from her forehead. Her Aunt Agatha has chosen her clothes. Anne, to her dolls— Now you must be as quickly quiet as a mouse, Odds-Botikins. Sam of all, you mustn't loop, please. Sally is going to sing you to sleep. She rocks her favorite and ugliest doll, Sarah, to her breast. Sally, in faintly tragic mockery, sings, Break, break, break, on the cold, gray stones, O-C. Then twists the accompaniment off into the first four bars of Sally in our alley. She stoopes over the keys. Silence. Without, the lamp-lighter lights the lamp. What shall I sing, Mummy-Kins? The fogs in my throat. Sometimes, Sally, you sing such extremely sad songs. They make Odds-Botikins cry, they do. Cough the old frog out. Sally sings. Dark-browed sailor, tell me now, Where, where is Arbery? The tides of flow, the wind of blow, To his eye who pined for Arbery. Master, she, her spices' showers, Or nine and ninety leagues of sea, The laden air breeze faint and rare, Dreams on far-distant Arbery. Oh, but sailor, tell me true, To a man who mapped this Arbery? Though dangers brew, let me and you Embark this night for Arbery. Whales the wind from star to star, Rock the loud waves their dirge and sea, Through foam and rack a boat drift back, Ah, heart-beguiling Arbery. Towards the conclusion of the song, Appears in the doorway on the left, And, chained on ample bosom, Stands listening and wraps to Lemnity to Sally's drains, Mrs. Marshall, the family's cook. She is of the shape of a tub, Has a little bonnet on her head, And carries an immense brown paper parcel, A pelican-handled umbrella, A bulging handbag, et cetera. The music ceases, The fog darkens. Mrs. Marshall, pensively wagging her head, Music have charms, Miss Sally, But a mournful, grubrious song For your young ears, With them hair-brained young fellas Gone and drowned in an empty boat, Nor not as I ever much envied My poor sister at south end, Shrimps, niggers, and all. I've come, Miss Sally, To take my departure, And yet I am't not at home As wasn't to be expected To shake the dust off my feet, And the silver counter three times And not an egg-spoon missing. Oh, Miss Marshall, don't say such things. I simply can't believe it. What shall we do without you? Why there, Miss Sally, partons a-parton And you can't drag nobody back, And in a land of so-called Christians, Once they're gone, Which isn't what I'm hoping to do yet a while, Never having been a rolling stone Nor set much store by moss. What I'm saying is, Lord forbid I should complain, Lightwork I never found, too kept to twenty, And mere scullery made In a no-woman's family, When I was scarcely out of my cradle. Fifteen years, and your poor mother-in-law, I've seen you are growing up Like grains of mustard seed. But there, it's not for me to be Throwing stones in glassed houses. I'm going to my daughter's, Miss Sally, My rosies, to a home, Which and bays while that cannot be found, Referring only an amount of speaking To number eight. Yes, yes, Miss Marshall, I know, I know. Not that I'm working about in my words To deny that your aunt means well, Miss Sally, Though I never knew anybody what meant well worse, But there's our Heavenly Courses, Miss, And neither here nor there. With a prolonged shake Of her large, little, bonneted head, She waddles over to Anne. Good-bye, and God's precious be with you, You poor, small, innocent bundle, Motherless love, and your babies and all. She hugs Anne to her capricious bosom. Good-bye, darling, darling cook, I love you, I do. Bless your sweet blue heavenly eyes, And maybe you'll come and have a Better dripping toast to your tea With your old Miss Marshall, When you'll pour Paws his own man again. Do Sally. There, Miss Sally, You're looking peaked and worn In your pretty cheeks, And nobody that can be called a man To watch the roses fade, But the proof of the puddens in the Eden, And may the Lord be a comfort to you all. She is going out when Francis, A tall, straight, reddish, boyish girl of about fourteen In a large, checked coat, Strides in carrying a parcel. Cooksy-comes, faithless, perjured, Cooksy-comes, only just in time, Unkind, unnatural creature, You were actually going without saying good-bye to me, And here I've been lavishing all my fortune on you. She rapidly exposes the contents of her parcel. Yes, slippers, bedroom slippers. Oh, Miss. The very largest in stock, the man said, roomy, and made especially in two layers for private wear and bed. Take them ungrateful thing before I dissolve into tears. I hope that Miss Francis, you shouldn't, you shouldn't, Miss Francis. I couldn't, I couldn't, Miss Francis. But you must, and you must, I insist, I'll be hurt, I'll howl, I'll tear my hair, I'll jump up the chimney, I'll, I'll give them to Aunt Agatha. I hope that really, Miss Francis, you shouldn't, I couldn't, you shouldn't, I couldn't. They go out, wrestling and disputing, their voices die away. Anne, ponderingly, We haven't any friends now, have we, Sally? My dear. She goes over to the fire and kneels down beside Anne. Francis returns, ruffled but triumphant. It's a shame, Sally, a wicked poison of shame. She was positively crying, her tears all salt down my back. To think of it, Emma gone, cook gone. She seizes the poker and plunges it into the fire. A pig, a perfect incomparable pig. Sally, glancing nervously at the door. Shh, Francis, think what you are saying. She may be in at any moment. And you know we are not allowed to poke the fire. Anne, sagely staring. If you poke that fire, France, it'll go out it will. France, dear, we must try, try and be patient. Patient, Aunt Agatha, it's sheer tyranny. Sheer, black, medieval, evil tyranny. Look at the guy she makes of us. I won't be a slave. What right has she to practice her silly old theories on us? In an icy, superior voice. Education, Francis, means to lead out. So it does on a chain. Someday she shall see, even if I can't bark, I can bite. But, France, dear, what is the use? We do nothing. We see nobody. We never so much as poke our noses out into the world. We are just bits of dumb, ugly old furniture. Like you, old forelegs. She leans forward, whispering hotly. Last night, Sally, I lay awake thinking. And I made up my mind. I just made up my mind that sooner than growing up, Aunt Agatha's way, I'd cut off this wretched old pigtail, jump out of the window, and run away to see. I want to see things. I want to do things. I want to go all round this old blade old spheroid and up the other side. I can't breathe in this cage. If you went and jumped out of the window, France, you'd break your leg. When the Dawson's housemaid fell out of the window, she broke all her legs. You know, Francis, dearest, it is useless to grumble. I agree there isn't much, much liberty. I might be still in the nursery for all I can see, and now even Miss Marshall's gone. But there... She dabs her handkerchief at her nose. No quass, no crown, France. Anne, cheerfully to her, Sarah. No quass, no crown, Sarah. What's more, my dear, but you mustn't breathe a single word. Life may be going to be an adventure, after all. Father's been talking to me. He is most dreadfully worried about money matters. He doesn't think we can possibly stay on here. And, and now, a letter's come. She glances over her shoulder, listens a moment, then whispers. We may be going away. Sally, going away? Where, when, how? Into the country, to a house in the country. Francis leaps to her feet. A house in the country? Sarah, my Sal, own marble halls, obey's water. Beloved aunt, farewell. Will there be paddling, Sally? Not paddling, mummy-kins, but woods and fields and haystacks and cows and geese and rocks. Moo, moo, gobble, gobble, ca, ca, and Christmas, nan, holly and mistletoe, and icicles and real white country snow. To Francis. Of course, nothing can be settled until Aunt Agatha agrees. And it's not quite certain whether she won't come with us. Francis, loringly. She shan't, Sally. Poppy and Mandragora and all the drowsy syrups. But where, you black-locked angel, where? It's Aunt Susan's house. Crossings, where mother was a little girl. Poor Aunt Susan died a few weeks ago, you know? And I think the house has been left to father in her will. I see it. Francis, it all comes darkly stealing in. But my dear, this is what's called in the books Eureka. This is bliss. No more prep, no more algebra, no more scales in that musty, fusty old practice room. No more when I was your age. This loathsome den. Oh, Sally, Sally, it can't be true. To hide her emotion, she buries her face in her skirts and breaks into an extravagant keening. Tony appears, a schoolboy, about 13. He has forgotten to take off his two capricious top hat and is carrying an umbrella and a battered portmanteau. My child, these tears, what can't be true? She's not. He points a solemn, kid-gloved finger towards the zenith. A better place. Sally, horror-stricken. Tony, Tony, you've run away. Tony, imitating his aunt. Alas, my poor Sarah, no. Milly mumps. Mumps. Mumps. What's mumps, Tony, please? What, oh, sister Anne, you're glad to see your poor old half-starved Tony, ain't ya? Hands in pockets, he broods over the fire. The others join him, and they presently sit in a row. Their backs turned on the world at large. Tony continues, sententiously. All the other fellows, dancing their eyes at, Billy Bones made a rag-up about it. He chanced allorously. When bread's a soddust in suites and lumps, and every man jack of use down in the dumps, then hay for chicken-pox, high for whooping cough, for measles and mumps. Not much fun coming home here, sister's mine. Where is she? Marooned in the fog. You can't see a cab-horse outside until you are stunned by his nose-bag. And Sally, as my… has it let her come? Anne, solemnly. We're going away, Tony. Crossing's Tony. Moo, moo! Gobble, gobble! Caca! Sally and Francis gnawed violently. Tony, incredulously. Gobble, gobble! I know! Good for geese. Sally and Francis gnawed more violently. Well, going away. What of it, you chuckle-headed madrens, if she's coming? It's not really quite… quite settled yet, Tony. And you mustn't breathe even a single syllable. But I feel in my bones it will be something… well… different. There's no doubt we are a very bad and stupid family. But I do think it can be good for one to never be allowed to do a single wicked thing for a… for a decent reason. It makes life a kind of trap. Father's in it too, you know, poor dear. But so is Aunt Agatha for that matter. Just cages. Cages? Even a miserable canary has a lump of sugar now and then. Cook told Emma that sometimes men put little bird's eyes out to make them sing. That's cruel, that is. They crouch in a desolate bundle over the sinking fire. Silence. Enter, soundlessly, Miss Wildersham. She is the portrait of which the Bayes' water-drawing-room is the frame. Followed by Mr. Wildersham, she surveys the scene. Most refreshing, a really happy family. What was I saying, Charles, how poor Susan would have enjoyed the picture. The children start up simultaneously and stand in a dumb glum row facing her. I am loath to disturb you children, but I must remind you, Sarah, that it's five minutes past six, and that Anne is not in bed. I must remind you, Francis, that your face is the colour of a red Indians and that you are not doing your preparatory work. And I must remind you, Anne, that only one doll is allowed at one time in the drawing-room. And apparently someone has been disturbing the fire. Francis vanishes. Tony fumbles for his portmanteau and begins to edge furtively towards the door. Sally with a deep sigh. Yes, Aunt Agatha. And having made a wild clutch at her dolls is let off. She breaks into a steady dismal yell. Oh, Sally! Samoville! Samoville! You know he's got whooping-corp. Mr. Wildersham sinks, with a groan, into an arm-chair. Tony's fist has closed upon the door-handle. His aunt sweeps round upon him. And pray, Anthony, what brings you home with your hat and your umbrella and your portmanteau? Mumps. Oh, mumps this time, is it? Mumps. I sincerely trust, Anthony, it is not mumps, which prevents you from pronouncing your aunt's name. Cough, boy, or blow your nose. You were going to speak to Anthony about his report. Were you not, Charles? Mr. Wildersham wearily passes a report to his sister and sits with fingers together, gloomily gazing into the fire. She adjusts her lornette, opens and silently reads the report, with an occasional ominous glance at Anthony. Miss Wildersham suddenly glaring up at him with a fixed smile. Ha! Second thoughts, Anthony! It would seemingly be advisable to discuss this remarkable document to-morrow morning at an early breakfast. Your masters appear to be of one mind, that you haven't any. Your sisters might profit by it, and it will be something for us to look forward to. Sardonically pointing the hat in portmanteau. And now remove these baubles. You will find bread and margarine in the kitchen and excellent cold water in the tap. No doubt you are exhausted after the term's exertions, and would like to go to bed. Tony goes out. He is heard in the distance, forlornly whistling, Britain's never-never shall be slaves. Mr. Wildersham poking the fire. I cannot understand, Agatha, why this room, summer and winter, always strikes cold. For my part, Charles, it is not the room that strikes cold. Young people do not require artificial warmth, it is this crazy legacy of Susans. We have just surprised our fauna in their wilds. I ask you, Charles, are they the kind of creature on which to make such a demented experiment? In common fairness, Agnes, you cannot visit Susan's eccentricities on me. She too had theories about the bringing up of children. So have you. She did not think that mine, ours, had enough freedom, enough life, and responsibility. Her argument was that human beings of any age who are not happy cannot be wise. By her will she leaves crossings to me and trust for Sally and the others. On two conditions. First, that as I have explained, they spend a complete fortnight alone there, and next that at the end of it they themselves confess that they have been happier and have proved themselves to be wiser than they were when they left your charge. Susan seems to have entertained a touching belief in the school of experience, however high the fees may be. School of fiddle-sticks, pray, Charles, are children intended to be happy. Is anyone who tries to do his duty happy? Am I happy? Has my sex won its rights and liberties merely to be happy? And who, may I ask, is to judge whether they are wiser? Are they? No, that is to be the ordeal of the vicar of little crossings. Mr. Jeremy, welcome. Hmm, Mr. Jeremy, welcome. What will happen? Mark my words, Charles. The children will simply run wild. They will overeat, oversleep, underdress, and do no lessons. Sarah will run up ruinous bills with the tradespeople. Her good heart, as you call it, will welcome every beggar and footpad that comes whining to the door. Francis will read trashy novels. Anthony will be out at all hours of the day and night. He will smoke, burn, and burrow. Crossings will become a byword for miles around. Ask for Anne. She'll be kidnapped. Or stray off into the woods and be lost. That's my prediction. I see nothing but evil wherever I look. Mr. Rollershan, pacing up and down. I am sorry, Agatha. It is not exactly a cheerful view. I am immensely grateful to you. You have, um, mothered the motherless. But well, think of my position. Servants gone, income going. This house is impossible. We cannot, I am well aware, have you, um, always with us. However crazy the scheme, I have no choice. To refuse would be neither fair nor prudent. Besides, I confess I am a little curious. I am anxious to see what the children will make of their opportunity. Let me be candid. I am restless, ill at ease. Susan's letter has brought the old times back to me. Crossings. He cast his eyes toward the ceiling. I begin to doubt this house. These draperies, these angles, this still life, this appalling hush. Draperies? Angles? Hush? What are you saying, Charles? There is a gloom, a demoniac gloom. A what gloom? I said demoniac. I blame nobody. I blame... He starts forward. Can't you see? Can't you feel it? Ah, the very air. We are being hunted. I implore you, Charles, control yourself. This isn't seemly. A protracted pause. Mr. Rolisham gloats out of the window into the fog. Enough of this fatuity. I am to understand that the children are to know nothing of this insane proposal. They are simply to be flung to the wolves. That, I gather, is another of your poor Susan's conditions. Exactly. They are to go to crossings alone and to fend entirely for themselves. He flings a caution from one share to another. Liberty, equality, fraternity. The shibboleth, I believe, of such French moralists as Rousseau and Robespierre. I wish you well of Susan. She has passed over, and my lips, unfortunately, are sealed. You have told Sally? So far, but I must explain further. He rings the bell, rings again, then calls out of the door on the left, Sally. Sally enters. Her shoulders draped in an immense fringed funeral shawl. Yes, Aunt Agatha? And why, my dear Sarah, this charming array? It's so cold in my room, my fingers wouldn't hold the needle, Aunt Agatha. Besides, Anne is very restless, so I was going to bed. And where is your dressing gown? Tony's feet were so cold. I, I... The good Samaritan in her prettiest shawl. Mr. Wollersham, on his medal at last. The fact is, Sally, I have decided that you and the children shall all start off for crossings on Tuesday. Sally shuts her eyes to conceal her rapture. Yes, Father. Your aunt, or Mrs. Dobby, may or may not come with you, or be there when you arrive. If neither comes, you will have to carry on by yourselves for a while. Does that prospect alarm you, my dear? Sally looks at her aunt and wriggles a little closer into her shawl. No, Father. You won't miss us, Sarah? Not much. Miss you. Aunt Agatha, I shall indeed, and oh, Daddy. She kneels down beside his chair and hides her face on his knee. How I shall miss you! And I do pray things will come right. I'm holding my thumbs for you. Tied. Please, Sarah, we are not acting a charade. What, what's this? Anne enters from the left in her nightgown. Seeing her large, ugly doll. Oh, oh, be careful, Aunt Agatha. She is walking in her sleep. Lost in dream, her eyes wide open, her right hand lifted a little into the air, and comes to her aunt. Gropes over her dress, touches her cheek. Miss Wildersham starts back with a peculiar cry of apprehension. Anne wakes, stands staring. Oh! She turns away in dread and runs to Sally. Sally! Sally! I dreamed it was a fairy. A dark silence falls. The gas flame of the street lamp begins to leap and dip, casting unpleasing shadows into the gaunt room. Mr. Wildersham puts up his eyeglass. On my word, Agatha, I don't like the, the feel of all this. To use your own word, it isn't seemly unreal as if, as if arranged, you know, like the beginning of some sentimental childish play. And yet, God knows, this is a devil-fearing household. Miss Wildersham, motionless. God? Charles! Devil? Charles! Do you realize who is drinking it all in? After a last desperate gasp, the flame of the street lamp expires. Curtained. End of Act 1. Act 2 of Crossings, A Fairy Play, by Walter de La Mer. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act 2. The Ghost and the Wine. Time about ten o'clock at night on the tenth of December. Scene. In the vague looming light of star shine and whorefrost, the dark, low-ceiling parlor of crossings. Beyond its slightly bow-shaped French windows lies outspread the gentle sloping lawn of a wintery garden, skirted by woods of hazel, holly, and thorn. A young moon that has been in the heavens is set, and the winter constellations tremble there like fireflies. On the left of the room is an open hearth, with a roomy inglenook and sphinx-headed fire-dogs, and beyond the hearth is a casement window, a peeping window. A dial-clock stands silent on the chimney-piece, flanked by two old candlesticks, and surmounted by a queen-and-mirror, its quicksover dimmed and foxt with age. On the nearer side of the hearth is a low, round-headed door, its twin door being to the left of a Chippendale bureau, which stands against the right wall and faces the hearth. Toward this side of the room is a spinnet. Against the darkness of the curtains, motionlessly gazing into the night, is what would clearly appear to be the shape of a gentle little old woman, a tired in a black silk-flannel dress and a cap. Firm-lipped, round-browed, keen-eyed, she is the portrait of which this parlour at crossings is the frame. She may once have been Miss Susan Woltersham. A thin, wind-like music stirs in the woods. It dies off into nothingness when the muffled clanking of a distant bell resounds through the house, followed after an interval by a more prolonged and violent peel. A pause. Then beyond the windows, a decrepit four-wheeled cab, drawn by an old knock-kneed white mare, is seen to crawl into sight and come to a standstill in the whorefrost. Tony, in his silk hat and muffled up to the eyes, scrambles down from the box beside the cabman. He fears in at the windows. They are locked. The voices of the children are heard gabbing together in a cab. Tony disappears, and presently the little peeping window is thrust open. He is seen straddling its sill. He lights a match. Ahoy! Ahoy! Anybody here? The ghost vanishes. Oh, Serene Sallie, not a squeak, not a whisper. I'll climb in and open the door. Wistling to give himself confidence, he clambers in through the casement and opens the French windows. Sallie, Francis, and Anne, their shapes hunched up like arctic explorers, descend from out of the cab and come slowly in. Clustered together, they stand mute, gazing as if spellbound about them. How ghostly! How ghostly, Sallie! Sallie, to herself. A dream, always. Tony, opening a door. Ahoy! Ahoy! Anybody here? Oh, Tony, hush, the echo. Besides, we don't know for certain. Aunt Agatha may be... be somewhere, you know? The train was hours and hours, hours late. To herself. It couldn't have come too slowly, utterly still as if one had been lost, and found. Look, Francis, it is as if the frost light, why, floated in the air. And oh, a spinet like Mrs. Somerset's. That I have been longing for, for ages and ages. She runs her fingers over the tinkling ivory keys, and as if in echo, the wood music wells faintly into the room. Francis stealthily pushes the jar the further door. Francis, to herself. Dark enough there. Sallie, I tell you what, nobody would know it wasn't here. It isn't true. Mrs. Sallie, will you pull down this horrid shawl from my mouth? I can't be seeing nothing, and my breath's wetted the wall. Anne slowly revolves as Sallie unwinds her gray scarf and shawl, revealing the child at last in her bay's water livery. Tony, meanwhile, tiptoes about in his heavy boots, lighting candles. He crouches, matching hand, over the hearth. Tony, a fire, in the dead of night. What would Aunt Agatha say? I like this place I do. This is the house where I was borned. The others bowed themselves down in laughter, their hands over their mouths. I'm just as hungry as a wolf. If I don't get something to eat this very minute, I shall expire into a corpse. How perfectly lovely the flames make everything, as if a hundred thousand million eyes are twinkling at us. Come along, Tony. Allons-sauvain, let's explore. Oh! Oh! Oh! Mr. Widge, the prehistoric cabman of little crossings, has suddenly deposited a huge trunk on the floor. In a seven-caped ulster he stands, like Ararat, awaiting his fare. Oh, Mr. Cabman, is that you? I am pleased to see you again. She searches feverishly in her pockets a little handbag. Do you know? I think, Mr. Cabman, a most curious thing. I think I must have packed my purse in the trunk. There's nothing like keeping things safe. Is there? Even when you are absent-minded, please sit down. You must be positively frozen up there in the cold. Mr. Widge, sardonically. Frozen, Miss? Not Mr. Widge, Miss. Too thick through. Last time we'd come along here, we would take in somebody out, we were. Which butter wouldn't melt in the poor lady's mouth. God blessy. Leaves nobody day, don't. A spectral wail of music drifts in on the air. The old mare lifts her head and nays. Whoa! There! That's my old poorly eyes, starving in the frost. Bamboxes, odomoles, tips and tops and ridicules there may have been, but that poor, dead and gone Miss Susan were a lady she were. I'll wait outside. A dubious whinnying rises faint and shrill out of the midst of the woods. The children stand, stalk still, listening. Anne trots off to the little window, mounts a chair and looks out. Tony boldly. Only the wind. That means snow. Come along, Francis. They emerge furtively through the door to the right, carrying candles. Sally takes Anne to the fire and sits her in the inglenook. There, Mummy Kins, warm your ten toes. There's St. Good Queen Bess, oh, a shining on her throne. Up Jesse, down docket. My money's gone. Another brandy ball? One, two, and in goes you. Anne crunching up her brandy ball. If we were all to wake up here, Sally, everything, everything would be a dream. Wake up, Mummy Kins. We mustn't. We just simply mustn't. I couldn't bear it. She aesthetically whisks up a candlestick, then pauses, drops a solemn, half-mocking little curtsy as if to someone in her mind, and kneels down before the trunk. Now for the purse. My gracious goodness, if I had lost it. She pulls a large key out of her bodice by a black ribbon, unlocks the trunk, and pushes back its red-lined canvas lid. The voices of Francis and Tony are heard within, hollily calling. One by one, Sally tugs out Anne's dolls. Fair Nann, Sarah, Sammaville, Elsbeth, Oddbottkins. Poor Oddbottkins' nose is the least bit flattened, and which all comes of kissing the back of Sally's clothes brush. She sits on her heels, talking to herself. You must know, if I didn't just go on talking nonsense, I simply couldn't bear it. I couldn't, and as for responsibility, you keep on saying it, but you must know it's there, all the time. Dear, dear, Sarah, we's in the country, crossing's now. She suddenly crouches in as if petrified. Please, Sally, is this a drawing room? Sally burrowing into the trunk and scattering out higgledy-piggledy, clothes, combs, shoes, galoshes, brushes, sponge bags, etc. A drawing room? No, no, no. Then I may have all my dollies here. I like this place, I do. I like places what are not drawing rooms. She arranges her dolls in a row, their feet toward the fire. Frances and Tony return laden with spoil from the pantry and store-covered. She isn't. All the little beds are made, and not on one is anti-laid. All the little beds are made, and not on one is anti-laid. All the little beds are made, and not on one is anti-laid. We've searched everywhere, over, under, up and in, the sweetest, coziest, lonesomest rooms, and the kitchen, tombstone floor, enormous copper pots and pans, jack-in-the-bean-stack crockery, bootjacks, warming pans, hams and cheeses, jams, jellies and jorums, bins, bottles and blunderbee. And there, Sally, beeping and whispering at us from where the cuckoo comes out of the clock. A mouse, my dear. It can't. It can't be real. She blows her nose. Excuse me, elder sister, Salina Loon. It makes me cry. Sally, emerging once more out of the trunk like a seal out of the water. There. I knew it was safe somewhere. Now we must pay the cab man, will you, Tony? I think it comes best from a man. How much? Oh, he'd know that. And then, perhaps, don't you think give him double? He's a little outspoken, but he couldn't possibly have been kinder, could he, Francis? Tony goes out, but hastily reappears. I say, the old boy sitting up there in the stars like a toadstool, fast asleep, and Polly too sighing like a grampus. Why did you open the doors? What doors? The cab doors. But we didn't. Tony, staring. They are wide open now. In such a queer smell in the cab, like roots, bracken roots, and moss, and mold. Like woods, you know. There's rabbits in the garden too. One hopped out as I popped in. And, to herself. Bunnies! Bunnies! She mounts up to the window again, making a curious little persuasive whistling noise. Rabbits, Tony. I always thought they hibernated. Perhaps Aunt Susan used to feed them. To herself. And now, the cab man. With a resolute set of her small head, she goes toward the window. But is transfixed midway by the discovery, on a low stool under the curtains, of an infinitesimal greenish bottle filled with a pale green liquor, and, set round about it, minute goblets. Out in this comparative darkness, their crystal gleams strangely, like concentrated starlight. France, quick! Did you ever see anything so perfectly magical and lovely? I think we never noticed them before. The children gather round the little stool, gazing. And, nodding her head. I know what that is, Sally. That's what the little dwarves is we're drinking in the picture of Snow White. Frances pours a trickle of the wine into one of the goblets, and lifts it to her nose. Smell, Sally. Like wild roses, honeysuckle. No. Wood violets. I can't think. We mustn't taste it. Tony, sniffing. Oh, oh, oh. That makes Nan's head go round, that does. That smells like honey. Balancing the glass a little dizzily, Tony tiptoes out to rouse the cab man. Mr. Wage follows him in, clocking a drowsy eye at the little glass held up to his nose in his enormous red-mitten fist. With a sustained wink at Tony, he drains it at a gulp, and subsides instantly into a profound reverie. Mr. Wage, as if out of a swoon. Now, what I says is this, ladies and gentlemen, least ways, one gentleman. It's three school years and ten amours that crow flies since Joseph Wage were of an age when there weren't no consequence in the manner of speaking what kind of an age he were. Why, and now? With infinite mournfulness. Melted. That's why I say melted to the very cockles. It's round us, round us. You and me and all of us. Open your eyes in your innocent craniums and see. You ask me. Well then, what I say is, maybe Crossing's Woods is Crossing's Woods. He's in a manner of speaking, sticking up out of the ground, to the by-witch, criss-cross, and the more the merrier. And yet, and yet, ladies and gentlemen. He stoopes almost double, his head thrust out of his capes. There's more there than what makes the eye. As far as it's being dead of nigh and so cold as you can't count your bones snapping and you all packed tight as little fishes in my old cab, not to mention the luggage. Why, five and twenty shillings, miss, and thank you kindly, which is less than half price and not a nape any for the toddlers. And when me old friend Widge says, there, he means... Raising his capes like a vulture. Everywhere. Sally with a deep sigh. Everywhere, Mr. Widge. Thank you, Mr. Widge. I'm sure that must be very reasonable. She counts out the money into his hand. He is groping his way out when Anne tugs him by the sleeve. That's a brandy ball, Mr. Widge. That's for poor poly out in the cold. Mr. Widge, stretching out his hand, on which lies the brandy ball, beams round on them all like a winter sunset. May Amul made the very first horse that munched oats in the ark. Bless your kindly nature, Missickens. Fold a roll, fold a roll, fold a roll, oh, oh. And good night all. Good night, Mr. Widge. The sound of the cab rolling away dies out in the frozen silence. Sally, apprehensively. Would you ever believe, France, that the least little drop of wine like that in that enormous cab man? We must be very, very careful of it. Tony, pouring out some private decoction from a great saucepan on the fire. Come along, children, supper. Sally and Frances sit themselves on the floor by the hearth. And, meanwhile, has secretly licked out the last flavor of a wine from Mr. Widge's glass and stands, eyes shut, smacking her lips. When she opens them again, she discovers a little letter, cock-hat shape, that has fallen off the table onto the floor. She sits down and examines it in a frost-light. Sally, uneasily. Twenty-five shillings. It seems a good deal, France, for half price, you know, and not counting Nan. Still, the cab man would know best, though, Father said, a most curious thing. I was thinking of him just now, and of Aunt, and, you know, and trying to really hope she was being as happy as we are. And I couldn't. I simply couldn't remember her name. Tony, his mouth full of biscuit. Susan silly. Frances, mopping her face. I do wish you'd swallow your own crumbs, Tony. No, not Aunt Susan, Bayswater, that Aunt. It's the smell of that curious wine, I suppose, and all I can just remember is that it began with an A. Tony, steadily. I love my Aunt with an A because she's amiable and all are blowing and are growing. I hate her with an A because she's angelic, angular and aristocratic. I took her to the sign of the Ape and alligated her and treated her to artichokes and... and Ash, her name is... er... er... Anne, sneezing in the cold at the window. A tissue. They all burst out laughing. Anne creeps over behind Sally and puts her hands over her eyes. I saw a star then, Sally, enormous star. It wonk at Anne out of the wood. And there... there was a... What do you think, three guesses, Sally? A pair of glass slippers. No. A gin in a bottle? No. I can't think. Tell me, Mummy Kins, I'm seeing such Catherine wheels in my head. A letter, Sally, from the fairies. Look! A letter and a dress to me with Sarah Wildersham. Crossings. Who could it be from? She opens it and looks for the signature. It's... Tony. What a sorrowful thing. It's from Aunt Susan. As if... She reads it aloud. My dear Sally, I write these lines in the room in which I hope you will read them, though when I do not know. Not very far away, perhaps. They are to say, how do you do to you all, and welcome, and to tell you not to be much cast down by the little troubles and cares of this world, and especially if you bring such troubles on yourselves. Have courage and walk straight through them, everyone. Your dear mother was my only sister, and what I am hoping is that you will all be comfortable in this little old house where she and I were born, and where we spent our childhood together. Be as happy as you may, and as wise as you can, and be these both together. Saturday's child worked hard for her living, but I expect she had a little rest on Sunday. There, that isn't a very long sermon, is it? Goodbye, my dear Sally. And I send you and your sisters and your brother my regard and affection, and remain your affectionate Aunt Susan. P.S., a kiss for little Anne. Sally sits, stooping low over the letter. She draws Anne close and kisses her. There, precious, precious, Mummy-kins, I give you Aunt Susan's kiss, and we will try to make each other happy, won't we? Tony, ladling out to Black Current Jam with a large wooden spoon. We will. What's more, Sally, there's nobody here, so it looks as if we were going to be alone for a bit, so we must share out the work. I'll do the fires, and perhaps the boots and chop down the trees, and chop up the logs, and explore, and pluck the poultry. I'll make the beds, and look after the larder, and do all the cooking-potatoes in their jackets, Tony, and dripping toast, and minced pies, and, and tipsy cake. And I'll help in everything, and do the mending, and the housekeeping, and the tradesmen, and look after Mummy-kins. And Anne will polish up all the candlesticks, and all the cold scuckles, and wind up all the clocks. Please, Sally, may I wind up all the clocks now? Very soon, Mummy-kins. And keep them on hours slow in the mornings, and two hours slow in the evening. Jiminy, France, if it hadn't been for the mumps. Sally, rootingly. I didn't think, France, I could ever be so happy. On the very verge, you know. It's as if one had died, and how strangely still the house is, and the cold, starry garden, I had hardly dare breathe. Time is so queer. Six hours ago, we were kissing poor Father Goodbye under that hideous old portico. Six hours ago, it was Bayswater. Can you believe that the house is there? There, now? What is to prove it isn't a dream? I think, Sally, if I were to wake up now, and, and Bayswater, I should never forgive myself. I should just numb off like stone in my bed. Who knows, France? Perhaps we are just people in a story. Then us will all be changed into wild swans, Sally, and fly, fly away over the trees to the sea. She rocks herself to and fro as if she heard the unending lullaby of the tides. I say, I'm getting the creeps. Sally, scrambling to her feet. So am I, Tony. If we go on moaning like this, we shall fall asleep in real earnest. At the muddle. All mine. Come along, France. Come along, Tony. We must keep the house as if Aunt Susan were coming back the very next minute. All tidy, and you go and choose the bedrooms. And don't you think, France, as it's so warm and cozy here by the fire, we might, just tonight, make a little bed for mummy-kins in that chair, and all curl up on the settle. Would you like that, Nan? Anne, out of a huge yawn. Please, Sally. The new and me will wake up and see the moon shining and hear the wind. Sally busies herself about the room. Frances and Tony, laden with clothes out of the trunk, go off with candles by the door at the left. Sally undresses Anne to her petticoats, swaths her up in a big dressing gown, and tucks her up in an armchair. There, you sweet old Sally-kins. Only joy, so sleepy. Say prayers, and Sally shall sing you a hush-a-bye on that queer little old piano. With little ceremonious gestures, she one by one blows out the candles. Anne nods. Sally is just about to sit down at the spinnet when Frances' voice is heard calling her from above. She goes out. The long, low room is lit now only by the smoldering firelight. In its further shadowiness becomes visible, the ghostly figure that appeared to be in watch for the children. Suddenly, Anne starts out of her first sleep with a cry, wriggles up into her chair, and kneeling with sleep-ridden eyes, pierced over the top of it at the interloper, who smiles gently at her out of a quiet, old, peaceful face. Do you live here, if you please? You must be very, very lonely all alone. You're standing extremely far off from the fire. Please come and warm yourself. The ghost lightly races her hands as if unwilling or forbidden to approach nearer. Anne frowns and rubs her eyes. Anne can't see you all the time because her eyes go round and round. Sally comes softly in. Anne, to ghost. Why now? She's gone. Sally puts her arms about the child. There, Anne. There. You were dreaming, sweetheart. Anne, indignantly. I'm not dreaming, Sally. She smiled at me, she did. But, oh, so lonely. Sally, whispering and glancing uneasily over her shoulder. Who, my sweet? Who was lonely? Where? Anne, drooping to sleep again and muttering drowsily. The little old lady, of course. And you said you would sing to me. The small, plaintive voice ebbs into silence. Sally covers the child up, then lifting her candle, opens the door opposite to that by which Francis had gone out and calls faintly. Who is that? Please, is anyone there? Silence. She locks the door, then lifts her candle higher, peers toward the dark window and mocks in a small voice at her reflection there. Ghosts indeed. Silly Sally, silly Sally. She kneels down for a moment or two beside Anne, then seats herself at the spinnet. The tinkling keys sound like a faintly contangorous voice reawakened out of a quiet century's old. She sings. Now silent falls the cackling mill. Sweet, sweeter smells the briar. The dew wells big on bud and twig. The glowworms wrapped in fire. Then sing, lowly, lowly with me, and softly, lee, la, lo, love, to his high time and wild time, and no time, no love. The western sky has veiled her rose, the night wind to the willow. Sigh it, now lovely lean thy head, thy tresses be my pillow. Then sing, lowly, lowly with me, and softly, lee, la, lo, love, to his high time and wild time, and no time, no love. Rise in the break, bells in the sea, the moon or moor and mountain, curdles her light from height to height, bedazzles pool and fountain, leaf fox hoot owl, whale warbler sweet, tis midnight's now a brewing, the fairy mob is all aboard, and witches at their wooing. Then sing, lowly, lowly with me, and softly, lee, la, lo, love, to his high time and wild time, and no time, no love. During the last refrain, the nearer door has dothily opened, admitting Francis, a tired in a high-filled bed-cap, swaying balloon-like skirts, and soaks and shawls, sheening with as many colors as Joseph's coat. She twirls in a soundless pirouette to the music. Sally turns and sees her. She startled me. Sally, Sally, my angel, my own. I could dance the eyes out of my head. You could have no notion how that tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, skips echoing up in those hundreds of little old empty rooms and corridors. Empty and empty. Sleep? Not me. Dream this side, say I, when you can. But, France, you mad thing, what on earth have you on? Well, I was just sick to death of Aunt Aunt Bayswater's taste and frocks. Oh, how they jeered at me at school. It really is very queer. I discovered that if you turn them inside out like this, and mercy, what is an inside out in this delicious old topsy-turvy dream of a house? You look so... It means, Sally, that even Aunt's dressmaker must have rebelled. But the nightcap and those marvelous shawls. All out of the wardrobe in the third little room down the corridor, past the enormous, enormous bowl of pot-pourri on the teeny-tiny window-cell, looking out at the dove-coat. One was cooing. Cooing, Sally, like this. Ooh! As if to that nimble moon we saw on the train that sunk down under the woods. But you never saw such a sight. But I have seen such a sight. In the long-looking glass, that's what frightened me, Sally. She lays her finger on her lip with wide-open eyes. Frightened you? What? Why, I could have vowed I saw an old, old, smiling ghostly face peering into the glass with me over my shoulder. Sally, to herself. And Anne, too. But, my dear, it's friendly, the house, the wind, the very tick of that old clock out there, even the cabman's old white, rattle-ribbed polly. They are friendly, France, and if we only love them enough, I feel in the very bones of me that they'll love us, too. Inside out. That's it. And I'll—I'll be dashed, France, if we don't go out and do the same. Why shouldn't we? Oh, how I've wasted myself. It's freedom, and tomorrow may never come. But, hush, we mustn't wake Anne. As soon as she is gone, Frances, laying her hands upon the air, is once more beginning to rotate, when Tony abruptly appears as if straight out of the Arabian nights. A Turkish towel for a turban round his head, an old scimitar stuck in his silk sash, his face as black as a chimney. He strides forward, snatching up his school top hat and rattling a tattoo on it as if it were a drum. Princess, the hour is late. The horse is wait by the brazen gate. It is our fate. We must away. For the last derise of thump, he contretines his hat and flips it into the fire. Bold Prince Avant. I have an aunt. She's pale and gaunt. And she says, I can't. Oh, Tony, Tony. I could dance myself into my grave. And listen, listen. Surely that cannot be only the rising of the wind. Tony, ferociously. The house is lone. The trees do groan. And wail and moan. I'll seize the throne. How let's be gone. Sally reappears, arranged in all the colours of the rainbow. They dance. And in the midst of their dancing, the clock outside tolls its first stroke. Solemnly they count the strokes, and at the twelfth, Midnight. They stand aghast. The wind sweeps moaning round the benighted old house as if further than with the music of remote, inhuman instruments and voices. Curtain. End of Act Two. Act Three of Crossings. A Fairy Play by Walter de La Mer. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act Three. Witcher, Baker, and Candlestick Maker. Time, eleven o'clock, and a frosty winter morning, the twenty-first of December. Scene. An old-fashioned, gaily painted, stone-flagged, sunny kitchen. Hams, punches of herbs, strings of drying oat-cakes hang from the beams. To the left is a door leading into the house, and beyond it is a brick oven and a kitchen range, its brass and steel merrily twinkling in the flame-light. Beyond the hearth is a casement window festooned with ivy. At the back of the kitchen is an immense dresser, gaily bedangled with crockery, and flanked with huge cakes, a game pie, a goose, and so on. A door leads out to the pantry. On the right is another door opening into a spellery and a frosted, sunny cobblestone kitchen garden. Between these two doors is a settle. In the middle stands a kitchen table. A jug with a branch of holly in it is on the table. Pen, paper, and ink, a pastry board, a pestle and mortar, a rolling pin and a bag of flour. On the other side are Anne's dolls in a row and a high chair. Four earthenware hot water bottles weighed in size are somewhere in view. A fairy appears in the entry, flaxen-haired with skin white as frost, but carmine-cheeked and carmine-lipped. She is disguised as an old peddler-woman in a shawl and a steeple hat bound round with elf-flowers, and peeps and piers in at the door from out of the snowy garden. At length she enters and looks secretly round her as they're furtively seeking for what she cannot find. And what appears to be her own tongue. Eel-a-car-ya. Mem-sy-mam-mam-mam. Eel-a-car-ya. Mem-sy-mam-mam-mam. With odd gestures she puts a posy of elf-flowers beside Anne's dolls, and at the sound of whistling disappears. Mr. Budge's head appears at the casement window. He comes round to the door and knocks with his knuckles, softly whistling the while the tune of Bonnie Dundee. He is a stoutish, reddish, cheerful man of the true blue tradition of butchers with a shining face fringed with whiskers and his dress in a butcher's blue apron with a scarf wound round his neck. Francis, singing out from above, Sally, Sally, Mr. Budge in the kitchen Sally enters in gay colors. Her bae's water dress inside out under an apron. Her hair is tied up with cherry-colored ribbons. Good morning, Mr. Budge. Please come in. And what a lovely, lovely morning. Mr. Budge gallantly accepting her invitation. Tis so. A wonderful fine morning, Miss. And thank ye kindly. Trees and hedgerows that bediesend with horsfrost. You might be best man at a wedding. Nine degrees of frost, Miss. And that's slippy. Old bones must tread cautious like. Please sit down, Mr. Budge, if you are sure you can spare the time. Time no, Object, Miss. When I'm sticking your bright smiles away. I've come, Miss. Not for orders. He reads rapidly and a little shame facedly from a long red tradesman's book which he afterwards deposits on the table. Three fat turkeys, five fat fowl, four fat duck, nine pound pork sausages, five pound sirloin, two leg of mutton, and one choice fat dachover goose. Sally looks alarmed. Now, do we know, Miss, I think, maybe, with the other little fiddle fattles. There is enough there on order, Miss, so to speak, as should see you all well into the new year. Traded cautious like. No, Miss, not orders. He produces two sheets of full scab from an inner pocket, which, with precautionary glances round him, he stealthily pushes across the table. I've brought to you the second, the supplementary list, as promised, for the grand party, Miss. Oh, Mr. Budge, it is good of you. The very thing, we have sent off the others. And Mrs. Budge really doesn't think we would have any harm in sending invitations to all of these children, even if we don't know any of them. Harm, Miss, know how. Sally, sagaciously arguing down her own hesitation. Of course, Mr. Budge, I know one doesn't usually ask strangers to a party, but this won't be a grand party, not a ball, Mr. Budge. And one isn't a stranger as soon as one's a friend, isn't one. And this is the country, isn't it? Not like London, where nobody you know knows anybody until he knows the other person is known to the kind of person he knows. Not even one's neighbors. I can't imagine, Mr. Budge, what should I have done if you had been just a...just a... if you hadn't been a friend, too? To so, to so, Miss. Oh, yes, it's the country, sure enough. Just look at the morning, that dazzling snow. I just keep saying thank you, thank you, and what a sweet cold smell the garden sheds, just as if flowers. I'm very glad God made the country, Mr. Budge, and so much of it. To so, Miss. And a wonderful fine job of it, too, taken all together. You didn't by any chance meet my brother, Mr. Budge? Mr. Budge looks very solemn, hand to chin, and head on one side. A square set up, young gentleman, very cap, leggings, carrying a gun. Well, between you, me, and the deep blue sea-miss, no. But there, I'm astonishing poor observer. Out of bounds. Aim all safe, Miss. He'll follow his stomach, to so. Sally, reading slowly from list. Miss Arabella Luizia Sophonisba Minj. What a mouth, or... what a remarkable name. Very particular lady. Daughter of my lady Minch. Bullock a week, regular. Lives up at the hall. We couldn't do without her. But, being so open to every eye, miss, so to speak, I forget her in my first. And, of course, your own little girl is coming, Mr. Budge. Jemima, isn't it? Jemima, Miss. Mimmy, so-called, too. When she's particular good. Sarkton, sure. Jemima, come in, miss. If you be so kind as to have her. Has the Candlestick maker any or nieces or nephews or god-children or that kind of thing? Not to be known to me. Not a crossings, man, miss. Queer chap, too. Isn't he? I suppose he couldn't make a living, I mean, not a real living, only in things, could he? Candlesticks wear out so very, very slowly, Mr. Budge. He knows all the country places, villages, houses, rivers, streams, woods, hills, everything, right down to the very tip of land's end. He's calling this morning. So is Mr. Honeyman. Mr. Honeyman is going to give my sister Frances a lesson in jam-tarts. Honeyman? Now, if the young gentleman fancies anything in the room, a dismal cough is heard and Mr. Honeyman's head appears at window. Here is Mr. Honeyman. Mr. Honeyman wraps on the door, though he is in full view. He is a long, lank, cadaverous man with black hair and is dressed in a cardigan jacket and an apron white with flower. Good morning, Mr. Honeyman. Do come in and rest a moment. We were just talking of you, weren't we, Mr. Budge? Angels, you know. It's cold. Morning, Mr. Budge. Angels, Miss? Not me. Least wise, not this side of Jordan. I've called Miss on pleasure-bent, so to speak, signifying not business. He reads from a long red tradesman's book, which he afterwards deposits on the table. What with the plum cakes, ice cakes, macaroons, archangels, buns, three-dozen current, six-dozen bath, and the mince pies and the cheese cakes, and the maids of honour. Well, Miss, the bakery's all of a smoke. Sally clasps her hands in dismay. Mr. Honeyman drops his voice and hands her an enormous envelope. Mrs. Honeyman sent the list number two, the secret list, Miss, as promised, for the party. Oh, thank you, Mr. Honeyman. That's just what I wanted. Very welcome, Miss, I'm sure. To Budge. Ever since that morning, Mr. Budge, when the young lady give us that sippet of green, flowery smell and wine, and me as good as tea-total these twenty years, and no more than on and off my death bed, so to speak, why? With a deep breath. It unfroze me, out and in, clouds and cares and cobwebs. I've been a ten-year younger man for it, Mr. Budge. Tis so. Posingly. A thrilling balsam for sure. A sign to Honeyman. And that's why, Mrs. Budge, she says to me, take along the book we, Budge, in black and white, just to warn the poor morsel. I... I... Sally, gazing in Mr. Honeyman's list, but with far away eyes, thinking of the two books. Mr. Honeyman! Meaning me, miss, to be sure. Was my aunt Susan a... a great eater? Eater, miss? Well, now, eater? Which is to say, loaves, cakes, rusks, biscuits, etc. per day, per week, per annum. That's what might be called a conundrum, miss. There was she, poor Letty. There was the three maids grod in their respectful ages about her like willows round a tombstone. There was old Tom Weatherill, the gardener, and the boy. Eater's one and all, miss. Very sagaciously. But to subtract and divide the summum total, miss, per appetite? Well, as I was saying, there I'm asked, be I by the book, Mr. Budge? Words being words, Mr. Honeyman, to so. But age being age, miss, and teeth in the descendant, I'd say not a remarkable meat-eater. And now, poor dear Letty, she ain't gone beyond it. I see, but, but now, bills, Mr. Budge, I've heard my father sometimes speak of bills, you know, and I suppose, of course, my aunt Susan was very particular. She just settled, I mean. Settled, miss? The very word, and regular. Think of that, Mr. Honeyman. Mr. Honeyman violently shakes his head. But Mr. Budge blunders on. Maybe now, miss, you put dainty head to window last night, and saw nigh full moon, making, as you might say, a dead set at crossings up a loft there. A fuller moon, considering her size, I never observed this twenty-year gone. A moon for lovers, miss, and parted. Just so. Well, now, skies keeping clear in you in due course with comely formate window, what do us, you, me, and Mr. Honeyman yonder, what do us gauge providence on? Come another month, gone. Another lunatic month? Sally ponders the riddle brightly. Why, full moon again, Mr. Budge? Mr. Budge, slapping his leg, and with a rapturous guffaw. There, miss, I led it to it. The wits of he. Full moon again, Mr. Budge. In solemn triumph. Well, that's how Miss Susan paid her bills, miss. Regular as full moon, to so. Sally sits, pale and wide-eyed, staring at the books. Mr. Honeyman, unusually. But there, miss, it weren't bills Mr. Budge and me was making our call for, in respects to which, it being agreed there's two sides to him, and the king's head not being, so to speak, so much as come into view. No, what Mrs. Honeyman was taken the liberty of suggesting, is this ways. You've been so kind as to ax our little Emily to the party and all. She'm a neat, quiet, handy little soul, and remarkable wishful to come and give a hand to the housework, hard soil and work, and pretty lettuce ends. There, miss, I'm not a noratory. She'd just jump for joy. Sally takes his hands. And we'd be overjoyed to have her, Mr. Honeyman. Not, of course, to work, but to share. Please tell, Mrs. Honeyman. There, there, miss, say no more. It's the kind thoughts, the inward wishings of the heart. Confidentially. Three weeks ago, come to tomorrow, doctor, he says to me, Honeyman, what with your brooding only on the side, and with them teeth not being able to domesticate your food as a Christian should, and refusing all physics, why, Honeyman, he said, if you keep on like this, come Christmas, you'll be in your grave, or a madhouse. And now, miss, your kind thoughts and little bottles and advice and such. But there, flattery never buttered, no parsnips. Turns away, throws his hands up, with fierce astonishment. There's customers here. Why, in crossings, miss, as stick their proud noses into the lord's heaven fairly sniffing for the last trump. Sits down exhausted. Mr. Budge, ruminatingly. Aye, Mr. Honeyman, to so, to so. Francis heard without. This way, Mr. Candlestick maker, come along. Francis enters, pea cocked up in radiant colors, her bay's water clothes inside out. She is followed by the Candlestick maker, who stays on the threshold, looking in. He has come out of the old nursery rhyme, is related to the pied-piper, wears a dark green cape or cloak and hat, and carries an odd-shaped fiddle. Anne follows. Good morning, Mr. Budge. Good morning, Mr. Honeyman. Good morning, Mr. Budge. Good morning, Mr. Honeyme. The water in my jug basin was iced this morning. You don't say so, Missy. Oh, Missy. Anne, discovering fairy flowers. Oh, Sally, look, look. Aren't they beautiful? Do herself. I know them. Oh, thank you, Mr. Budge. How very kind of you. Not my given, Miss. Though maybe, Missy, we'd find a few berries on this fork of holly. He gives Anne a spray of holly. They must have been from you, Mr. Honeyman. Aren't they lovely? Not me, Miss, but here's a kissin' green spriggit of mistletoe Emily put in my hat for the little litigant. He gives her a sprig of mistletoe. Who can't have put them there, then? She shows them to Mr. Budge, who squints and sniffs at them with curiosity. As he does so, Sally lifts her head abruptly as if she had been called and sees the candlestick-maker. For a few moments she stands gazing at him unobserved, then turns back to the table. Frances, rolling up her sleeves and brandishing the rolling pin. Ready. I'm ready, Mr. Honeyman. What's the lesson to be today? The jam tart, if you please, Miss, which is to say the jam puff also, and the maid of honour. Time permittin'. Mr. Honeyman proceeds to give Frances her cookery lesson. A gay whistling is heard. Tony and the beggarman is seen across the window and then appear at the door. Tony is thickly muffled up in leggings, fur cap, etc., and carries a faggot of wood, a rook rifle, and a dead rook. The beggarman is gaunt and elongated with hair like an ancient thatch. He blinks like a cat, looks as hungry as a hawk, and carries a stick cut from a wayside hedge and a penny whistle. Morning, Mr. Budge. Morning, Mr. Honeyman. I've brought a gentleman friend, Sally, for a mug of cider. He helped me collar this game. Two more friends in the wood. Won't come in. Shy. He throws down the faggot by the fire, hangs the rook on a beam, and goes out to fetch a jug of cider with which he returns. Mugs are passed round. Mr. Budge to beggarman. Travelling. Beggarman, enchanting nasal voice. Here today and gone tomorrow. Now to buy with now tomorrow. Come the night-shine packs down all ring poor rabbit's funeral. Cold numbing on last week's crust. Two candlestick-maker. You and the month. Candlestick-maker nods. The merry company sip and talk. Mr. Budge rises. Mr. Budge to Sally. What I'd make bold to say, Miss, seeing as how music's provided all being friendly like together, sun-climbing high and Christmas-wearing near. Maybe this gentleman would oblige the company with a song. A song! A song! A song! A song! The beggarman goes to the door and thrusting his head out of it pipes a note or two on his whistle. Beggarman to Sally. Me, friends, is a little fly ledgy like you wouldn't call company folk. But give them the K. They yobbs like nightingales. He sings. Now all the rows to London town are windy white with snow. They're shouting and cursing and snorting to and fro. But when night has her hundred lamps neckering frostfires creep, then still all Dale and Hill all snows fall in deep. Distant chorus from without. Then still, oh, Dale and Hill, oh, snows fall in deep. A cottoner craps his lathery wrap the owl slurs town's gee-well. The fine dark grunts and sniffs and snuffs bleed sheep and cattle blow. Soon moll and nan and dream are laid and snoring dicks asleep. Then still, oh, Dale and Hill, oh, snows fall in deep. Distant chorus from without. Then still, oh, Dale and Hill, oh, snows fall in deep. A good song. A rare good song. And as neat a breeze of nightingales as ever I heard. Rough, but toonsome, I warrant the sound on it trilled the air for miles around. A rare song. A powerful song. And that pipe, too. Something in the nature of the flag that I take it. Mrs. Honeyman's Uncle Israel now rest his soul was a source-bride performer on the French horn. To Mr. Budge. Do we think, Mr. Budge, the company might be cheered by foal dole do? To Sally. There be grand-makers of music in these parts, Miss. He hums the air. To Begriman. Perhaps you would lift your voice in the topmost line and you, sir. To Candlestick-maker. Might make a commitment of the second. A rare rich tenor. And me full bass. Now then, 1, 2, 3, 4, and all together. Fall dole do. As south wind up on me now. Fall dole do. And green groves are growing. Fall dole do. And my heart inside me now we know. To the merry, merry month of May. Fall dole do. And my heart inside me now we know. To the merry, merry month of May. Fall dole, too.theless Shed to clear z kelman, now affl. Fall dole, too. And my heart's sun mowing now. A lovelier than the lilac tree. A lovely love they love to show for we know. In merry, merry month of May. In merry, merry month of May. Loud applause. Mr. Budge. To Sally. And old catch that. and a favor to little crossings these hundred years gone. Time and tide, Miss, but never was Mornin' wasted sweeter. Very good day, Dee, and good day all." Tony, having filled the beggarman's pockets with loaves, pies, a bone of sirloin, a cold chicken, et cetera, follows him out. Francis to Anne. Come along, Mummy Kins. Anne to Mr. Honeyman. Francis and Anne goin' for a walk, Mr. Honeyby, in the woods. See Jack Frost's I do, in long cloaks like candlestick men, and hats ever so high. Mr. Honeyman, stooping and smoothing her hair with his long bony fingers. You don't say so, Missy. Sharp eyes, Missy. Not but what there be queer comings and goings in crossings woods as I've heard tell. To Sally, nodding his head towards Francis. Sheem that light nimble with her fingers. Francis and Anne go out. Good day, Miss, and joy to your party, to where a dark life that showed not but shadows. And don't you worry to head over that there a book, Miss? Lest purse-proud young lady I never saw. He goes out. Sally sighs, then turns in faint surprise at seeing the candlestick-maker. Oh, Mr. Candlestick-maker, what a wasted morning. Wasted? Nothing. Nothing done. She begins to peel potatoes. He to polish a copper pan. And yet, Mr. Candlestick-maker, we are not, you know, being torpid. That's what his housemaster said Tony was. Torpid. There's Tony now. I think he learns more in one day in the woods than he did in a whole term at school, even in that queer company. Yesterday afternoon he came home, just green, and was, oh, so ill. He had been smoking a clay pipe, shag, he called it, and he vowed he wouldn't smoke again until, until he could be without being ill. And what Tony vows to himself, Mr. Candlestick-maker, he sticks to. If only he would vow to be not bottom of his form, but just next to the bottom, next term. You'll learn much quicker by experience, don't you? Now, I know that butchers have hearts which they don't hang up on hooks in their shops. Now I know that one gets cross when one's tired, and not merely because of ants, or nieces, and things. Now I know whatever happens, the country is always here, here, and the sunshine, and the woods, and the light, and the music of all of it. What kind of life was yours, Mr. Candlestick-maker? When you were young, I mean younger. Mine? Just going round with the world? Up hill, down dale. These crossing woods, Mr. Candlestick-maker, I sometimes think they come into the house. All the day the dry twigs are whispering, and the wind is full of voices, and sometimes in the dead of night I waken as if a bell had just ceased ringing. I listen, and it is as if I heard little pattering footsteps and high crickety voices in the garden. Nights full of strangeness, and there's a pretty wide hymn between wake and dream. Yes, Mr. Candlestick-maker. Now Anne is a strange child. She will sit for hours quiet alone in these little old rooms. I have come in, and it is as if she had just stopped talking to someone. There couldn't be a ghost, I suppose, that could talk to the child. Could there? I'm not afraid. Only a little trembling and excited, and now that it's near full moon-time, one lies awake as if one were leagues and leagues under the sea. Is that like sleeping in the woods? Yes, but a bigger bed, and many candles, and the sigh of the whole world turning in its sleep. Do you lie on your back and see the stars rocking in the trees, the chair, the pliads, and Charlie's wane? Do they stretch far, crossing woods? Miles on miles, to the world's end. And nothing stirring, only the little nightbeasts and the nightingales? Is their song very sorrowful in the summertime, Mr. Candlestick-maker? As sorrowful, I mean, as the poem says. Well, it is what you might call compounded. Now you would think he would crack his little skull for joy, and now he will wail like a churchyard of widows. As for nothing stirring, there are strange busiings in crossing woods, some moonlight nights. A small, strange countenance peeps in at the window. Here, these woods! Stirrings, whisperings, trumpetings, a shaking of leaves, lights gleaming and scattering, more than I could make candlesticks for. In these parts they say, every century, a reveling of the silent is held, and a queen is crowned. They are like the bees, they flock from all countries of the world, from Chetka to Peru. It is the queen's region, crossing woods. An unearthly minglement of light and shade, as if the sun were an eclipse, dims into the sky. The fire begins to roar. You don't mean, Mr. Candlestick-maker, the little people? An outlandish, whining voice is heard droning. Sally draws herself in like a snail. The candlestick-maker stands, a peculiar smile on his face. Berry, without. Of your nevelent nature, spare a crust for a creature, a drink and a doe, for a homeless soul. Sally, strangely moved. What voice is that? I have heard it in a dream, somewhere, somewhere, surely stranger. It's not in one's own mind. Berry, without. Of slumber but tossings, white the rhyme in bear-crossings, cold is shed, barn and buyer, leddie, a coal from your fire, leddie. A fairy appears, disguised, hooded and hadded fantastically as a peddler, with a crutch and a tray of ribbons, knick-knackery, etc. Berry, speaking as if in a language not her own. Days greetings, Mamazella, days greetings, and to thee, Wanderer. She throws up her hands in salutation, and looks at him shrewdly from under her hood. Greetings, greetings, are you hungry? She offers a platter of bread. Cold, please seat yourself at the fire. Berry, refusing the food. Nay, not for eating. Thirsty? She offers the fairy cider in a little mug. The fairy takes the mug and flips a few drops from it on step-stone and lintel, muttering. Halla ye Habamiren heist, stars light your dark-eyes, Mamazella, frost-rose your cheeks, Mamazella, birds tongues of April be in your mouth, Mamazella, and see foam to your fingers. A weasome, loosome, flaxen, children can dwells here. Sally to candlestick-maker. She means Anne. The candlestick-maker keeps his eyes fixed on the fairy, who peers this way and that, rocking her body to and fro the while with a slow rhythmic motion. Nay, ye lady, I ask but to make known, Mamazella, there's many a pretty bubble here for your choosing. Many a pretty bubble. How much are they? Not but a wee, small, handful of her pretty hair-lotx, Mamazella. Now, Ravalli, enough to keep a genuine snuggle? But my sister is not here, and what do you want them for? Fairy, mumbling. Ah, Mamazella, a barking sub-barking, a gift, a gift. Queens must be crowned. Ribbons, shoeties, pretty laces, and oh, sleepy odours. The bosom to lull, when the swart raven yells, and the taper burns dull. Mr. Candlestick-maker, she frightens me. Candlestick-maker to the fairy. The lady says the child is not within. I cross my thumbs. He spreads out his hands, their thumbs crossed, high and menacingly above his head. Fairy whines. I, my good gentleman, but where go the children, there go we, mischief none to them that wish us well. She casts him a prolonged, searching glance, and, muttering, turns away, but thrusts suddenly her head into the doorway again, and cries incantation or implication upon him. On her going, the sunlight brightens into the kitchen once more. Sally, swiftly returning to herself. Poor, poor old thing, I can't let her go like that. She hastens out, calling. Peddler, peddler! A whistling is heard, and Tony enters. I say, who's the old woman, a mighty quick walker? Sally returns, her left hand on her breast. She refused everything except a penny with a hole in it, and she gave me this, a frost flower like those in Anne's little bunch. The candlestick-maker crosses over to the doorway, and stares uneasily out over the snow. Well, she is out of our sight, and I too must be gone. There are few paths and crossings woods when snow comes down. I would keep the little maid, maybe, at home, after dusk. And you'll not be coming again, Mr. Candlestick-maker, you'll not. Do you by any chance make copper-candle snow latherns, Mr. Candlestick-maker? And would you make one for me? I? Musingly gazing at her. Any light that lightens the way? It is a long journey for all. I'll come again. He goes out. Sally watches him awhile, then comes in. Tony has begun to chop up wood for kindling. Quit fellow that, Sally! Sally, not hearing him, as she brutally sings to herself. And the taper burns low, Tony. Yes, Sally. My dear, if you should be going out in the dead of night again, would you just tap as you pass at my door? I heard your footsteps, and I listened, and listened, and there were the frosty stars blazing, and I thought, you know, why, that you must be a ghost of legs. Did you, Sally? I'm sorry, the snow. I only went trapping. I suppose your-your gentlemen friends are only resting in the woods. They eat a good deal, Tony. And perhaps Aunt-Aunt Spayswater, you know? They're all right, Sally. I keep them at arm's length. Sally, kissing him. Yes, my dear, and I'm glad it's a friendly arm. Oh, how I love it all, just being myself, just opening my eyes in the quietness, just breathing. Still, it's a little lonely and anxious sometimes, not a word from father, and these strangers. You are the man of the house, Tony, and such a comfort. Trust me, Sally. That candlestick maker now, he's a queer chap. What is his real job? I suppose he didn't jump out of a rotten potato. My dear, he helped me peel all these. He is so practical. I'll keep my eye on him. What makes you anxious, Sally? Oh, Tony! The bills! The bills! And— The man come in, laden with holly and box, and in burning excitement. Us met such a funny queer lady in the woods, Sally. She did come and touch me with her fingers, and stroked my hair, and stooped at me like—like a nicycle. And we runned and runned. I wouldn't have runned. I liked that lady I did. Sally sits down, deeply troubled. Oh, France! I'm thankful you ran away. She came here, too. She frightened me, and the candlestick maker says the woods are dangerous—at night. That music—that singing, you know? And France—they were both very kind, Mr. Budge and Mr. Honeyman, I mean. But we must owe them pounds, and pounds, and pounds. I dare not even look in the books. And Mr. Budge says that Aunt Susan paid absolutely everything sharp at full moon. It's nearly full moon now. She turns out a large leather housekeeper's purse. My dear, two pounds, fifteen chillings, and five pence. It just means we're ruined. What shall I do? And the party, too. Anne, sliding up and patting Sally's hand. Nan, not hungry, Sally. Cheer up, Miss Sallykins. Do, Sally? Why, that's quite simple. We must make a clean breast of it, I suppose. Just disorder everything, and—and fast. I did feel a little billious this morning, too. I'll cook the cookery for the party, and Tony shall make the ginger beer. Let's write now. I say, that's a bit of humble pie, isn't it? I'd sooner eat humble pie than Proud put in any day. At least here. They gather round the table, Sally in the middle, Tony sprawling on one side of her, Francis on the other, and, with a scrap of paper and a large pencil, draws up a small chair in front of the table, and kneels down beside it. Francis, writing, My dear Mr. Budge, the Miss Wildershums send their compliments and regrets, and beg that the turkeys, and the ducks, and the chickens, and the— A fairy peeps in at the door. A fairy pears in at the window. Nan will write fairies, Nan will. Poor Sally, fairy money. Curtain. End of Act 3.