The Project Gutenberg eBook of Icebound, by Owen Davis.

Copyright, 1922, 1923,
By Owen Davis.

All rights reserved

Published July, 1923

With the production of “The Detour,” about a year ago, I managed to secure some measure of success in drawing a simple picture of life as it is lived on a Long Island farm; encouraged by this, I am now turning toward my own people, the people of northern New England, whose folklore, up to the present time, has been quite neglected in our theatre. I mean, of course, that few serious attempts have been made in the direction of a genre comedy of this locality. Here I have at least tried to draw a true picture of these people, and I am of their blood, born of generations of Northern Maine, small-town folk, and brought up among them. In my memory of them is little of the “Rube” caricature of the conventional theatre; they are neither buffoons nor sentimentalists, and at least neither their faults nor their virtues are borrowed from the melting pot but are the direct result of their own heritage and environment.

“Icebound” was originally produced in New York, February 10, 1923, with the following cast:

It is late October, and through the two windows at the back one may see a bleak countryside, the grass brown and lifeless, and the bare limbs of the trees silhouetted against a gray sky. Here, in the room that for a hundred years has been the rallying point of the Jordan family, a group of relatives are gathered to await the death of the old woman who is the head of their clan. The room in which they wait is as dull and as drab as the lives of those who have lived within its walls. Here we have the cleanliness that is next to godliness, but no sign of either comfort or beauty, both of which are looked upon with suspicion as being signposts on the road to perdition.

In this group are the following characters: Henry Jordan, a heavy set man of fifty, worn by his business cares into a dull sort of hopeless resignation. Emma, his wife, a stout and rather formidable woman of forty, with a look of chronic displeasure; Nettie, her daughter by a former marriage, a vain and shallow little rustic beauty; Sadie, a thin, tight-lipped woman of forty, a widow and a gossip; Orin, her son, a pasty-faced boy[4] of ten with large spectacles; Ella, a “Maiden lady” of thirty-six, restless and dissatisfied.

Ella and Sadie, true Jordans by birth, are a degree above Emma in social standing, at least they were until Henry’s marriage to Emma made her a somewhat resentful member of the family. In Emma’s dialogue and in her reactions, I have attempted a rather nice distinction between the two grades of rural middle-class folk; the younger characters here, as in most other communities, have advanced one step.

Rise: At rise there is a long silence; the occupants of the room are ill at ease. Emma is grim and frowning. Nettie sits with a simper of youthful vanity, looking stealthily at herself from time to time in a small mirror set in the top of her cheap vanity case. Ella and Sadie have been crying and dab at their eyes a bit ostentatiously. Henry makes a thoughtful note with a pencil, then returns his notebook to his pocket and warms his hands at the stove.

There is a low whistle of a cold autumn wind as some dead leaves are blown past the window. Orin, who has a cold in his head, sniffs viciously; the others, with the exception of his mother, look at him in remonstrance. An eight-day clock in sight, through the door to the hall, strikes four.

Some folks not so far off may get fooled before long about how much grandma and I was to each other.

[Again there is a pause, and again it is broken by a loud sniff from Orin, as the women look at him in disgust. Sadie speaks up in his defense.

You girls always made her nervous, and I guess she’s pretty low. (He looks at his watch again) I said I’d be back before closin’ time. I don’t know as I dare to trust those boys.

You can’t tell about things, when Sadie’s husband died we sat there most all night.

Yes, and you grudged it to him, I knew it then and it isn’t likely I’m going to forget it.

My first husband died sudden—(she turns to Nettie)—you can’t remember it, dear.

You didn’t remember it very long, it wa’n’t much more’n a year before you married Henry.

Well, he was as dead then as he’s ever got to be. (He turns and glances nervously out window) I don’t know but what I could just run down to the store for a minute, then hurry right back.

[Sadie puts her arm about Orin and looks spitefully at Ella. Doctor Curtis, an elderly country physician, comes down the stairs and enters the room, all turn to look at him.

[They stand glaring at each other before either attempts to pass the Doctor, whose ample form almost blocks the doorway.

Hannah’s with her, you know. I told you I didn’t want anybody up there but Jane and Hannah.

You don’t have to tell me, I brought both of you into the world. The right nursing might pull her through, even now; nothing else can, and I’ve got the two women I want. (He crosses to Henry at stove) Why don’t you put a little wood on the fire?

Jane Crosby enters on stairs and crosses into the room. Jane is twenty-four, a plainly dressed girl of quiet manner. She has been “driven into herself” as one of our characters would describe it, by her lack of sympathy and affection and as a natural result she is not especially articulate; she speaks, as a rule, in short sentences, and has cultivated an outward coldness that in the course of time has become almost aggressive.

Get it as quick as you can, Jane; I don’t know as it’s any use, but we’ve got to keep on tryin’.

Jane’s been up with her three nights. I don’t know when I’ve seen a more dependable girl.

Oh, I guess there is; maybe there’d be more if there was more reason for it. It’s awful cold up there, but I guess I’ll be gettin’ back.

It’s quite a bit past four, I don’t suppose—I don’t suppose you can tell——

Did you hear him? “Didn’t know when he’d seen a more dependable girl than her!”

If I set out to tell how she’s treated me lots of times, when I’ve come over here to see grandma, nobody would believe a word of it.

It’s my place she took, in my own mother’s house. I’d been here now, but for her. I ain’t goin’ to forget that. No! Me, all these years payin’ board and slavin’ my life out, makin’ hats, like a nigger.

You’ll keep that common little thing of your wife’s from insultin’ me, Henry Jordan, or I won’t stay here another minute.

Just as soon as you’re the head of the family, Henry, you’ve got to tell her she ain’t wanted here!

Well—I don’t know as I’d want to do anything that wasn’t right. She’s been here quite a spell.

I guess mother’s made her earn her keep. I don’t know as ever there was much love lost between ’em.

Nettie, there, is just the same as my own. I adopted her legal, when I married Emma.

Yes, and the funny part of it is grandma may leave me a whole lot, for all any of you know.

Well, I guess it would be fair enough if she was to remember the trouble I’ve had with my business. I don’t know what she’s worth, she’s as tight-mouthed as a bear trap, but I could use more’n a third of quite a little sum.

I like to see folks reasonable. I don’t know what you’d want of a third of all mother’s got, Ella.

I mean I never had anything in all my life; now I’m going to. I’m the youngest of all of you, except Ben, and he never was a real Jordan. I’ve never had a[13] chance; I’ve been stuck here till I’m most forty, worse than if I was dead, fifty times worse! Now I’m going to buy things—everything I want—I don’t care what—I’ll buy it, even if it’s a man! Anything I want!

[Nettie looks at Ella in cruel amazement and all but Orin burst into a laugh—Ella turns up and hides her face against the window as Orin pulls at his mother’s skirt.

You’re right, nephew, and we’re wrong, all of us. I’m sorry, Ella, we’re all sorry.

Laugh if you want to—maybe it won’t be so long before I do some of it myself.

If she ever spoiled anybody it was him, and she’s had to pay for it. Sometimes it looks like it was a sort of a judgment.

There hasn’t been a Jordan, before Ben, who’s disgraced the name in more’n a hundred years; he stands indicted before the Grand Jury for some of his drunken devilment. If he hadn’t run away, like the criminal he is, he’d be in the State’s Prison now, down to Thomaston. Don’t talk Ben to me, after the way he broke mother’s heart, and hurt my credit!

I don’t remember him very well. Mother thought it better I shouldn’t come around last time he was here; but he looked real nice in his uniform.

It was his bein’ born so long after us that made him seem like an outsider; father and mother hadn’t had any children for years and years! Of course I never want to sit in judgment on my own parents, but I never approved of it; it never seemed quite—what I call proper.

Come, come, no rows! Is this a time or place for spite? We’ve always been a united family, we’ve[15] always got to be,—leavin’ Ben out, of course. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

Mum! Say Mum! (He pulls at Sadie’s dress) Why should anybody want to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear?

You could make a skin purse out of a sow’s ear, but I’ll be darned if you could make a silk purse out of one. I’ll bet God couldn’t.

His father was a good man, and if he talked about God different from what you do, it was because he knew more about him. And as for my being here at all—(she rises with her arms about Orin)—I wouldn’t do it, not for anything less than my own mother’s deathbed.

As far as I see, the only time you ever get together is when one of you is dead.

[The outside door opens and Jane enters, a druggist’s bottle in her hand; she is followed by John Bradford, a man of about thirty-five. He is better dressed than any of the others and is a man of a more cosmopolitan type,—a New Englander, but a university man, the local judge and the leading lawyer of the town.

Court set late. I couldn’t get here before. Jane tells me that she’s very low.

She can’t see you; she ain’t really what a body could call in her right mind.

No—Mother wasn’t ever the kind to neglect things; if the worst does come she’ll find herself prepared. Won’t she? Won’t she, Judge?

If I could make her well by givin’ up everything I’ve got in the world, or ever expect to git, I’d do it!

If it’s in my mind at all, as I stand here, that she’s a rich woman, it’s because my mind’s so worried, the way business has been, that I’m drove most frantic; it’s because, well—because I’m human; because I can’t help it.

His father didn’t leave much, you all know that, and it’s been scrimp and save till I’m all worn to skin and bone.

Judge! My brother’s name ain’t in her will, is it? Tell me that? Ben’s name ain’t there!

She’d cut him off, she said, the last time he disgraced us, and she’s a woman of her word.

And the very next day she sent for you because I was here when she telephoned; and you came to her that very afternoon because I saw you from my front window cross right up to this door.

Possibly. I frequently drop in to discuss business matters with your mother for a moment on my way home.

It was five minutes to four when you went in that day, and six minutes to five when you came out, by the clock on my mantel.

It’s best we should try to bear this without any fuss, she’d ’a’ wanted it that way.

She didn’t even want me to cry when poor Will died, but I did; and somehow I don’t know but it made things easier.

[The early fall twilight has come on and the stage is rather dim, the hall at R. is in deep shadow, at the end of Henry’s speech the outside door supposedly out at R. is open, then shut rather violently.

[He clings to his mother afraid, as all turn to the door, and Ben Jordan steps into the room and faces them with a smile of reckless contempt. Ben is the black sheep of the Jordan family, years younger than any of the others, a wild, selfish, arrogant fellow, handsome but sulky and defiant. His clothes are cheap and dirty and he is rather pale and looks dissipated. He doesn’t speak but stands openly sneering at their look of astonishment.

God! You’re still the same, all of you. You stink of the Ark, the whole tribe. It takes more than a few Edisons to change the Jordans!

I knew she was going to die; twice I asked her if she wanted to see you, and she said no——

Yes, she’s been a lonely old woman. I hated to think of her there, in the churchyard, hungry for him.

Do you think I came here, standin’ a chance of bein’ sent to jail, to let you tell me what to do?

If she’s dyin’ up there, it’s more’n half from what you’ve made her suffer; you’ll wait here till we go to her together.

Nobody but Ben would have the impudence to show his face here, after what he’s done.

[Henry staggers back and strikes against a table that falls to the floor with a crash. Nettie screams.

It’s him. (He looks bitterly at Ben) He brings out all the worst in us. He brought trouble into the world with him when he came, and ever since.

[Hannah, a middle-aged servant, comes hastily half-way downstairs and calls out sharply.

[She exits up the stairs, as the Doctor crosses through the hall and follows her.

She’ll go. There ain’t scarcely a drop of Jordan blood in her veins, and she’s the one that goes to mother.

You had it right, I guess. I’ve made trouble ever since I came into the world.

I’ve always known that, any place I’ve been, exceptin’ only those two years in the Army. That’s the only time I ever was in right.

I would find it easier to pity you if you had any one to blame besides yourself.

Jane is seen on stairs, they all turn to her nervously as she comes down and crosses into room. She stops at the door looking at them.

[There is a moment’s silence broken by the low sobs of the women who for a moment forget their selfishness in the presence of death.

The Jordans won’t ever be the same; she was the last of the old stock, mother was—No, the Jordans won’t ever be the same.

It’s no use tryin’ to tell you what I feel. I’ve known her since I was a boy. I did the best I could.

I’ve got a call I’d better make—(He looks at watch)—should have been there hours ago, but I hadn’t the heart to leave her. Who’s in charge here?

He’s gettin’ old. When Orin had the stomach trouble a month ago, I sent for Doctor Morris. I felt sort of guilty doin’ it, but I thought it was my duty.

Hannah and I can attend to everything. Henry! (She turns to him) You might come over for a minute this evening and we can talk things over. I’ll make the bed up in your old room, Ben, if you want to stay.

Now, Henry Jordan, if she’s all through givin’ orders, maybe you’ll begin.

We was thinkin’ now that mother’s dead, that there wasn’t much use in your stayin’ on here.

We don’t aim to be hard, and we don’t want it said we was mean about it; you can stay on here, if you want to, until after the funeral, maybe a little longer, and I don’t know but what between us, we’d be willing to help you till you found a place somewheres.

You can’t help me, any of you. Of course now she’s dead, I’ll go. I’ll be glad to go.

I hate you, the whole raft of you. I’ll be glad to get away from you. She was the only one of you worth loving, and she didn’t want it.

She couldn’t have done a thing like that without sayin’ why. She said something, didn’t she?

Very well. The day that will was drawn she said to me, “The Jordans are all waiting for me to die, like carrion crows around a sick cow in a pasture, watchin’ till the last twitch of life is out of me before they pounce. I’m going to fool them,” she said, “I’m going to surprise them; they are all fools but Jane—Jane’s no fool.”

And she went on—(He turns to Jane) You’ll forgive me Jane; she said, “Jane is stubborn, and set, and wilful, but she’s no fool. She’ll do better by the Jordan money than any of them.”

Of course if I am a good lawyer you can’t break that will, because you see I drew it.

I——Ha! Ha! Ha!——I told you I was going to have my laugh, didn’t I? Ha! Ha! Ha!

If anybody asked me, I’d say it was a judgment on all of yer. You Jordans was always stuck up, always thought you was better’n anybody else. I guess I ought to know, I married into yer!—You a[33] rich family?—You the salt of the Earth—You Jordans! You paupers—Ha! Ha! Ha!

[She slaps his face and he roars loudly; she takes him by the arm and yanks him out of the room, followed by Henry, Emma, Nettie and Ella—through his roars, they all speak together as they go.

Well, I just won’t spend my hundred dollars for mournin’. I’ll wear my old black dress!

[The front door is heard to shut behind them. Jane, Ben and Judge are alone. Judge stands by stove. Jane is up by window, looking out at the deepening twilight. Ben sits at right.

Ha! Ha! Ha! “Crow buzzards” mother called us—the last of the Jordans—crow buzzards—and that’s what we are.

You can’t stay here, Ben; you know that as well as I do. I signed the warrant for your arrest myself. It’s been over a year since the Grand Jury indicted you for arson.

No, but if it’s known he’s here, I couldn’t save him, and it’s bound to be known.

He means they’ll tell on me. (He nods his head toward door) My brother, or my sisters.

Let ’em! What do I care. I’m sick of hiding out, half starved! Let ’em do what they please. All I know is one thing,—when they put her into her grave her sons and daughters are goin’ to be standin’ there, like the Jordans always do.

Hannah will have your room ready by now. There are some clean shirts and things that was your father’s; I’ll bring them to you.

[Ben turns and exits up the stairs. Jane crosses and sits by stove, sinking wearily into the chair.

And she left him nothing, just that hundred dollars, and only that because I told her it was the safest way to do it. I thought he was her one weakness, but it seems she didn’t have any.

She left a sealed letter for you. It’s in my strong box; you may learn from it that she cared more about you than you think.

For her own, for Uncle Ned, who never did for her, for Ned, for the Jordan name. I don’t understand, and I don’t think I care so very much; it’s been a hard week, Judge.

[She shuts her eyes. For a moment he looks at her with a smile, then turns and quietly fills the stove with wood as Ben comes slowly downstairs and into the room.

Steady there! It’s just one of the neighbors, I guess. (Bell rings again as Hannah crosses downstairs and to hall) Hannah knows enough not to let any one in.

When I got back, time before this, from France, I tried to go straight, but it wasn’t any good, I just don’t belong——

He mustn’t. You got a bad name, Ben, and I ain’t a-goin’ to take any chances.

Well, you could, maybe, if you was to fix a bail bond. You’d take bail for him, wouldn’t you, Judge?

So the money ain’t enough. You want all us Jordans fawnin’ on you for favors. Well, all of ’em but me will; by mornin’ the buzzards will be flocking round you thick! You’re going to hear a lot about how much folks love you, but you ain’t goin’ to hear it from me.

Was it because you loved her, because you wanted to[39] ask her to forgive you, before she died—or was it because you wanted to get something for yourself?

I’m just curious. You’ve got so much contempt for the rest, I was just wondering? You were wild, Ben, and hard, but you were honest—what brought you here?

I thought so. Then when you saw her you were sorry, but even then the money was in your mind—well—it’s mine now. And you’ve got to take your choice,—you can do what I tell you, or you’ll go with Mr. Jay.

Is that so? Well I guess there ain’t much doubt about what I’ll do. Come on, Jim?

All right. (He takes a pair of handcuffs from his pocket) You’ll have to slip these on, Ben.

Yes. (He sits at table and takes pen, ink and paper from a drawer) I can hold court right here long enough for that.

You’ll stay here till then, Ben; you won’t leave town! You’ll work the farm,—there’s plenty to be done.

You’ll work for once, and work every day. The first day you don’t I’ll surrender you to the judge, and he’ll jail you. The rest of the Jordans will live as I[41] tell them to live, or for the first time in any of their lives, they’ll live on what they earn. Don’t forget, Ben, that right now I’m the head of the family.

[He sits moodily at right, looking down at the floor. Jane looks at him for a moment, then turns up to window.

Thought I smelled it. (He buttons his coat) Well, nothin’ to keep me, is there, Judge?

I was sorry to hear about the old lady. It’s too bad, but that’s the way of things.

Well—It’s early for snow, not but what it’s a good thing for the winter wheat.

This room also shows some traces of a family’s daily life, and to that extent is less desolate than the “parlor” of the first act, although the stern faith of the Puritan makes no concession to the thing we have learned to call “good taste.” The old-fashioned simplicity seen in such a room as this has resulted from poverty, both of mind and of purse, and has nothing akin to the simplicity of the artist; as a matter of fact, your true descendant of the settlers of 1605 would be the first to resent such an implication; to them the arts are directly connected with heathen practices, and any incense burned before the altars of the Graces still smells to them of brimstone.

At back center folding doors, now partly open, lead to dining room. In this room may be seen the dining table, back of the table a window looking out on to the farm yard, now deep in midwinter snow. At right is an open fireplace with a log fire. Below fireplace a door to hall. Up left door to small vestibule in which is the outside door. Down left a window overlooking a snowbound countryside. The clock above the fireplace is set for quarter past four. Several straight-backed chairs and a woodbox by fireplaces. A sewing table and lamp at center. A sewing machine near window[43] at left. A wall cupboard on the wall right of the doors to the dining room. An old sofa down left, two chairs at right. When the door at left, in vestibule, is opened, one may see a path up to the door, between two walls of snow.

Discovered: Ella sits right at sewing machine, hemming some rough towels. Orin and Nettie are by fireplace. Sadie sits right of center. Sadie and Orin are dressed for outdoors. Nettie’s coat, hat and overshoes are on a hat-rack by door at left. Orin, as the curtain goes up, is putting a log on the fire.

Ah! (She bends closer to the fire as the log blazes up) I do love a good fire! Oh it’s nice to be warm!

Mother told me that the next time you started talkin’ indecent I was to leave the room.

Tell your mother I don’t wonder she’s sort of worried about you. I’d be if you was my daughter.

She’s always picking on me, Aunt Ella! To hear her talk anybody would think I was terrible.

Then you know a lot. I heard Horace Bevins say a week ago that he didn’t know as it was any use tryin’ to have a Masonic Lodge in the same town as you.

They never was a Bevins yet didn’t have his tongue hung from the middle; the day his mother was married she answered both the responses.

If you was to live with Jane for a spell, I guess you’d find you had a plenty to put up with.

I guess all she’d say would be, “Let ’em if it seemed to make ’em any more comfortable.”

Never mind, Orin, just run out to the barn and tell your Uncle Ben we’ve got to have a path cleared under the clothes-lines.

Yes. (She takes the last finished towel and speaks to Ella) I’ll come back for more.

Yes. No! Yes. No! Folks that ain’t got no more gift of gab ain’t got much gift of intellect. I s’pose Hannah’s out there.

When Jane comes back, I wish you and Nettie would leave me alone with her, just for a minute.

He’s always borrowin’. Didn’t he borrow the hundred dollars grandma left me? I’m not going to stand it much longer.

We’re fools to put up with it. Everybody says so. We ought to contest the will.

Everybody says so but the lawyers; they won’t none of ’em touch the case without they get money in advance.

I don’t call myself beholden for that. She had to have some one, with Ben here, and her unmarried, and next to no relation to him.

Everybody’s callin’ you the chaperon! (She laughs) Not but what they ought to be one with him around; he’s awful good lookin’.

You keep away from him. He’s no blood kin of yours, and he’s a bad man, if he is a Jordan. Always makes up to everything he sees in petticoats, and always did.

It will be awful, Ben in State’s Prison,—and I guess he’ll have to go, soon as he stands his trial.

He got drunk and had a fight with the two Kimbal boys, and they licked him, and that night he burned down their barn; everybody knows it.

He’ll get about five years, father says. I guess that will take some of the spunk out of him.

[Ben enters at right with a big armful of firewood and crosses and drops it heavily into woodbox, then turns and looks at them in silence.

How do you think I like it? Workin’ a big farm in winter, tendin’ the stock and milking ten cows. How do I like it?

I am ’til they’re done, then I expect she’ll find somethin’ else for me to do.

Another month of it, then State’s Prison, I guess. I don’t know as I’ll be sorry when the time comes.

Oh, Uncle Ben! No, I’m not goin’ to call you that. After all, you’re not really any relation, are you? I mean to me?

[As she looks up at him, the outside door opens and Henry and Emma enter. They see Nettie and Ben together by the fire.

Emma thinks, considerin’ everything, that it’s best Nettie shouldn’t talk to you.

Why don’t you keep her at home then? You don’t suppose I want to talk to her.

Oh, we ain’t wanted here, I guess. We know that, not by you, or by her;—and Henry’s the oldest of the Jordans. All this would be his, if there was any justice in the world.

Father wouldn’t have taken that hundred dollars grandma left me if there had been any justice in the world. That’s what I came here for, not to talk to him. To tell Cousin Jane what father did, and to tell her about Nellie Namlin’s Christmas party, and that I’ve got to have a new dress. I’ve just got to!

A new dress, and my rent ain’t paid. She’s got to pay it. My Orin’s got to have a roof over his head.

I got a chance to set up in business, so as I can be independent. I can go in with Mary Stanton, dressmakin’. I can do it for two hundred dollars, and she’s got to give it to me.

You ought to be ashamed, all three of you, worryin’ Jane all day long. It’s more’n flesh and blood can stand!

Didn’t you say at breakfast you was coming here to-day to make Cousin Jane endorse a note for you? Didn’t you?

Endorsing a note ain’t lending money, is it? It’s a matter of business. I guess my note’s good.

You don’t think we want to ask her favors, but Henry’s in bad trouble and she’ll just have to help us this time.

There’s one way out of your troubles. One thing you could all do, for a change, instead of making Jane pay all your bills. I wonder you haven’t any of you thought of it.

Jane Crosby’s White Slave, that’s what they call you. Jane Crosby’s White Slave.

Well, I don’t say I hanker none to tell her, but I’d rather be in my shoes than your’n.

She’ll turn you over to Judge Bradford, Ben; he’ll lock you up. It ain’t goin’ to help me none with the bank, a brother of mine bein’ in jail.

[There is a moment’s pause and Jane enters door right. Hannah follows to door and looks on eagerly.

I ain’t going to move out of this chair to-day. You do what you damned please.

Send for Jim Jay, have me locked up, do as you please. Oh, I’ve said it before, but this time I mean it.

[She crosses up to wall closet and opens it and selects a large bottle, and turns. Ben rises quickly.

It’s one of the horses. I don’t know what’s the matter with her. She’s down in her stall, just breathing. She won’t pay any attention to me.

What you got? (He steps to her and takes the bottle from her and looks at it) That stuff’s no good. Here! (He steps to cabinet and selects another bottle) If you hadn’t spent five minutes stalling around, I might have had a better chance.

I allers said ’twas easier to catch flies with honey than ’twas with vinegar.

She made him go! It wouldn’t surprise me a mite if she’d pushed that old horse over herself.

He wouldn’t let me in the barn. (For the first time in the play, she laughs lightly) Well—(She looks about at them) we have quite a family gathering here this afternoon. I am wondering if there is any—special reason for it?

I’ve a lot to do; suppose I answer you all at once. I’m sorry, but I won’t lend you any money.

Of course, I didn’t think they’d call that note of mine; it’s only five hundred, and you could just endorse it.

I got a chance to be independent, Jane, and——No. I haven’t any money. I won’t have before the first of the month.

To a penny. I’ve lived, and run this house, and half supported all of you on what I’ve made the place earn. Yesterday I spent the first dollar that I didn’t have to spend. I mean, on myself. But that’s no business of yours. I am worth just as much as the day I took the property, and I’m not going to run behind, so you see, after all, I’m a real Jordan.

Seems so. I never knew one of ’em yet who didn’t seem to think he could take it with him.

Well, Jane, I don’t know as it’s any use tryin’ to get you to change your mind?

You can leave that for us to be. I guess it’s about the only thing we’ve got a right to. Get your things on, Nettie!

I don’t know what I’m goin’ to do about that note. I s’pose I’ll find some way out of it.

Emma is a little upset. I hope you won’t mind her talk. I guess her part of it ain’t any too easy.

Poor Henry! Of course I s’pose you’re right not to lend it to him. But I don’t know as I could do it, but I’m sensitive.

I got everything ready for to-morrow’s wash, but the sheets off your bed, Miss Ella.

After that, I’m going to stay and help Aunt Ella. I was wondering if you’d be here all the afternoon.

Like when my dyspepsia’s coming. There’s two things I can’t abide, her and cucumbers.

No, it isn’t exactly a national holiday, but we’ll have the turkey, and I’ll get some preserves up, and I want you to bake a cake, a round one. We’ll have candles on it. I got some at the store this morning.

[Jane crosses up and starts to clear the dining-room table of its red table cover, as Ben enters door left.

Well, I fixed Old Nellie up. (He puts his bottle back in its place in the wall cabinet) Just got her in time. Thought she was gone for a minute, but she’s going to be all right.

She knew what I was doin’ for her too; you could tell by the way she looked at me! She’ll be all right, poor old critter. I remember her when she was a colt, year before I went to high school.

I guess it’s mostly because they ain’t to blame for it. I mean what comes to ’em ain’t their fault. If a woman thinks she’s sick, ’til she gets sick, that’s her business. If a man gets drunk, or eats like a hog, he’s got to pay for it, and he ought to. Animals live cleaner than we do anyhow—and when you do anything for ’em they’ve got gratitude. Folks haven’t.

[She has seated herself at left center by table. Ben at left of table, hands her the basket as she picks up some sewing.

It’s funny, but except for a dog or two, I don’t remember carin’ nothin’ for any of the live things, when I lived here I mean.

I guess so—Sometimes I kind of think I’d like to be here when spring comes—and see all the young critters coming into the world—I should think there’d be a lot a feller could do, to make it easier for ’em.

Everybody’s always makin’ a fuss over women and their babies. I guess animals have got some feelings, too.

I’ll be in prison. (He looks at her. She drops her head and goes on sewing) You forgot that, didn’t yer?

What’s the difference? A prison ain’t just a place; it’s bein’ somewheres you don’t want to be, and that’s where I’ve always been.

Maybe that’s it, somebody that knew better’n I did. It galled me at first, but pretty soon we got over in France, an’ I saw we was really doin’ something, then I didn’t mind. I just got to doin’ what I was told, and it worked out all right.

Maybe I’ll go back there some time. I don’t know as I’d mind farming a place over there. Most of their farms are awful little, but I don’t know but what I’d like it.

Look out there! (He points out of the window at the drifted snow) It’s like that half the year, froze up, everything, most of all the people. Just a family by itself, maybe. Just a few folks, good an’ bad, month after month, with nothin’ to think about but just the mean little things, that really don’t[65] amount to nothin’, but get to be bigger than all the world outside.

Somebody like the Jordans, that’s been doin’ it generation after generation. Well, look at us. I heard a feller, in a Y.M.C.A. hut, tellin’ how nature brought animals into the world, able to face what they had to face——

That’s what nature’s done for us Jordans,—brought us into the world half froze before we was born. Brought us into the world mean, and hard, so’s we could live the hard, mean life we have to live.

They laugh over there, and sing, and God knows when I was there they didn’t have much to sing about. I was at a rest camp, near Nancy, after I got wounded. I told you about the French lady with all those children that I got billeted with.

They used to sing, right at the table, and laugh! God! It brought a lump into my throat mor’n once, lookin’ at them, and rememberin’ the Jordans!

Just a few folks together, day after day, and every little thing you don’t like about the other raspin’ on your nerves ’til it almost drives you crazy! Most folks quiet, because they’ve said all the things they’ve got to say a hundred times; other folks talkin’, talkin’, talkin’ about nothing. Sometimes somebody sort of laughs, and it scares you; seems like laughter needs the sun, same as flowers do. Icebound, that’s what we are all of us, inside and out.

Maybe it is! (She takes it) You were with that French family quite a while, weren’t you?

Most a month; they was well off, you know; I mean, they was, before the war. It was a nice house.

Tell me about the dinner they gave you the night before you went back to your company.

They was all dressed up, the whole family, and there I was with just my dirty old uniform.

It was a fine dinner, but it wasn’t that. It was their doin’ so much for me, folks like that—I’ve sort of pictured ’em lots of times since then.

All of the young ones laughing and happy, and the mother too, laughing and tryin’ to talk to me, and neither one of us knowing much about what the other one was sayin’.

She was scared of me somehow, but I don’t know as ever I’ve seen a girl like her, before or since.

Maybe ’twas that dress you told me about; seems to me you don’t remember much else about her; not so much as what color her hair was, only just that that dress was blue.

And then I say, dark as something I point out to you, that isn’t dark at all, and you say, “No, lighter than that!”

Like enough. Maybe there’s mor’n one family like that lady’s, but I’ll be damned if they live in Veazie. (He crosses and opens cupboard and selects a bottle) I might as well run out and see how the old mare is getting on.

[He exits at door right. Jane laughs softly to herself, and runs to closet and takes out a large cardboard box and putting it on the table, she cuts the[70] string and removes the wrapping paper, then lifts the cover of the box and draws out a dainty light-blue gown with soft lace on the neck and sleeves. She holds it up joyfully, then covering her own dress with it, she looks at herself in a mirror on wall. As she stands smiling at her reflection, there is a sharp knock on the outside door. Jane hastily returns dress to box and as the knock is repeated, she puts the box under the sofa at left and crosses and opens the outside door.

I’ll just put it here. (He puts coat on chair) Have you time to sit down a minute?

Why, Jane! (He crosses to her and holds out his hand. She takes it) Many happy returns!

Time enough ahead of you. (His eye falls on the box, imperfectly hidden under the sofa; out of it a bit of the blue dress is sticking) Hello! What’s all that?

You have plenty of money; you ought to have every comfort in the world, and some of the luxuries.

I want you to get Ben off. I want you to fix it so he won’t go to State’s Prison.

I want you to go to old Mr. Kimbal for me and offer to pay him for that barn of his that Ben burned down. Then I want you to fix it so he won’t push the case, so’s Ben gets off.

Those are just words, Judge, and words don’t matter much to me. I might say I wasn’t asking you to compound a felony. I was askin’ you to save a sinner, but those would be just words too. There’s nobody else; you’ve got to help me.

He was drinking, with a crowd of young men; the two Kimbal boys jumped on him and beat him up rather badly. That’s about all we know, aside from the fact that Ben was drunk, and that that night the Kimbals’ barn was set on fire.

I think a case of assault could be made against the Kimbal boys, and I think it would stand.

It is quite possible that the old man, if he knew that action was to be taken against his sons, and if he could be tactfully assured of payment for his barn, say by Ben, in a year’s time, might be persuaded to petition to have the indictment against Ben withdrawn.[74] In that event, I think the chances would be very much in Ben’s favor.

Ever since she’s died, you’ve helped me about everything. Before she died you were just as good to me, and nobody else was.

I am glad you said that, because it clears me from the charge of being what poor Ben calls “one of the crow buzzards,” and I don’t want you to think me that.

Yes—I’ve done that for a long while. Don’t you think you could get used to the thought of being my wife?

It isn’t a thing that I am going to hurry you over, my dear, but neither is it a thing that I am going to give up hoping for.

When you told me, that day, that Mrs. Jordan had left me all her money, I couldn’t understand; then, afterwards, you gave me the letter she left for me. I want you to read it.

Maybe, reading it, you’ll get to know something you’ve got a right to know, better than I could tell it to you.

It’s here. (She opens drawer, and selects a letter in a woman’s old-fashioned handwriting, from a large envelope of papers) She was a cold woman, Judge. She never let me get close to her, although I tried. She didn’t love me. I was as sure of it then as I am now. (She holds out the letter) Read it.

If it’s about the thing I’ve been speaking of, I’d rather hear it in your voice.

“My dear Jane, the doctor tells me I haven’t long to live, and so I’m doing this, the meanest thing I think I’ve ever done to you. I’m leaving you the Jordan money. Since my husband died, there has been just one person I could get to care about; that’s Ben, who was my baby so long after all the others had forgotten how to love me. And Ben’s a bad son, and a bad man. I can’t leave him the money; he’d squander it, and the Jordans’ money came hard.”

“If squandering the money would bring him happiness, I’d face all the Jordans in the other world and laugh at them, but I know there’s only just one chance to save my boy,—through a woman who will hold out her heart to him and let him trample on it, as he has on mine.”

“Who’d work, and pray, and live for him, until as age comes on, and maybe he gets a little tired, he’ll turn to her. And you’re that woman, Jane; you’ve loved him ever since you came to us. Although he doesn’t even know it. The Jordan name is his, the money’s yours, and maybe there’ll be another life for you to guard. God knows it isn’t much I’m[77] leaving you, but you can’t refuse it, because you love him, and when he knows the money is yours, he will want to marry you. I’m a wicked old woman. Maybe you’ll learn to forgive me as time goes on—It takes a long time to make a Jordan.” (Jane drops her hand to her side) Then she just signed her name.

You can’t go like that, angry. You have to pay a price for being a good man, Judge—I need your help.

Yes, and you’ll have to give it to him, if what you said a little while ago was true.

Nettie and Ella enter quickly, after a slight pause, Nettie running in from right, followed more sedately by Ella.

That’s what money does. If mother hadn’t left her everything, he wouldn’t have touched her with a ten-foot pole.

Well, if she’s fool enough to stay in this place, I guess he’s about the best there is.

Then trust her for gettin’ him; by the time she gets through in Veazie, this town will be barer than Mother Hubbard’s cupboard by the time the dog got there. (Her eye falls on Jane’s box, partly under sofa.) What’s that?

Some folks would say a dress like that wasn’t decent, but I wouldn’t care, not if it was mine, and it might have been mine—but for her.

Yours! Grandma wouldn’t have left her money to you. She hated old people. Everybody does. She’d have left it to me, but for Jane Crosby!

I always wanted a dress like this; when I was young, I used to dream about one, but mother only laughed. For years I counted on gettin’ me what I wanted, when she died; now I never will.

Maybe but not me. Oh, if I could have the feelin’ of a dress like that on me, if I could wear it once, where folks could see me—Just once! Oh, I know how they’d laugh—I wouldn’t care——

Here! (She hands the box to Nettie) Shove it back under the sofa. I’ll go and see. (She turns and crosses to door left and out to the vestibule. Nettie, with the box in her arms, hesitates for a moment then turns and exits at right, taking the box with her.[81] Ella opens the outside door at left, showing Orin on the doorstep. Ella looks at him angrily) For time’s sake, what are you ringing the bell for?

Poor Sadie! Wait, Orin! (She sits at table and takes checkbook from the drawer and writes) Just take this to your mother.

Be quiet, Ella. Here, Orin. (She hands him check) Don’t lose it, and run along.

All right. Mum said we was goin’ to have dinner early, and go to a movie! Good night.

Two hundred dollars. You can try that dressmaking business if you want to, Ella.

Folks change, even in a few weeks, outside and in. Hard work don’t hurt anybody.

Icebound, you said. Maybe it don’t have to be like that. Sometimes, just lately, it’s seemed to me that if folks would try, things needn’t be so bad. All of ’em try, I mean, for themselves, and for everybody else.

If you’d put some pork fat on those shoes to-night, your feet wouldn’t hurt so bad.

[He sits looking moodily into the fire. After a moment’s hesitation, Jane crosses and sits in the chair beside his, the evening shadows deepen around them but the glow from the fire lights their faces.

Your mother didn’t. She found me once trying, the day I was fifteen. I remember how she laughed at me.

When a woman marries into a family, she mostly shuts her eyes and jumps in all over.

She left me without a dollar, knowin’ I was going to State’s Prison, and what I’d be by the time I get out.

Because she thought you’d take better care of the money than any of the rest of us.

But I ain’t such a fool as Henry, and the women folks. They think you took advantage and fooled her into what she did. I thought so at first, now I don’t.

She’d watched you; she knew you were worth mor’n all of us in a lump. I know it, too, but some way it riles me worse than if you wasn’t.

Don’t you suppose I know what you’ve been doin’ to me. Tryin’ to make a man of me. Tryin’ to help me. Standing up to me and fightin’ me every day, tryin’ to teach me to be decent. Workin’ over me like I was a baby, or somethin’, and you was tryin’ to teach me how to walk. Gettin’ me so upset that every time I don’t do what I ought to do, I get all het up inside; I never was so damned uncomfortable in all my life.

I do. Let a man get miserable, and he is miserable. A woman ain’t really happy no other way.

They all hate me, and they all want something, all the time. I can’t say yes, and it’s hard to always say no. Then there’s the farm, big, and poor, and all worked out. The Jordans have been taking their living out of this soil for more than a hundred years, and never putting anything back.

Worked right, like they do out West, this place could be what it ought to be. How can I do that; it needs a man.

By a man, if he loved the old place— You Jordans robbed this soil always. Suppose one of you tried to pay it back—it would mean work and money, for a couple of years maybe, then I guess you’d see what gratitude meant.

Then help me for that month. We could plan how to start out in the spring. I’ve got books that will help us, and I can get more. We could do a lot!

Of France then, of the family that was so good to you—of the beautiful lady—of the daughter, if you want to, the one that was most grown up—and of the wonderful blue dress. Just shut your eyes and think, ’til I come back!

[She exits through doors to dining room and closes the doors after her. Ben sits in glow from the fire, his eyes closed. In a moment the door at right is thrown open and Nettie stands in the doorway, the light from the hall falling on her. She has on Jane’s blue dress and is radiant with youth and excitement.

[He looks at her and for a moment sits in stupid wonder, then rises slowly to his feet.

God! How I’ve starved for somethin’ pretty to look at! God! How I’ve starved for it!

That’s why I came down, I wanted you to see! I waited there in the hall till she went out.

I’ll get out of that somehow! I’m going to make a fight. I ain’t goin’ to let ’em take me now.

Just one then! (She holds up her lips, and as he kisses her ardently, the dining-room doors back of them open and Jane stands in the doorway, looking at them. She has removed her apron and has made some poor attempt at dressing up. Back of her we see the table bravely spread for the festive birthday party. There is a large turkey and other special dishes, and a round cake on which blaze twenty-two tiny candles. They turn their heads, startled, as Jane looks at them, and Ben tightens his arms defiantly about Nettie) Let me go!

To hell with your dream of grubbing in the dirt. Now I know what I want, and I’m going to get it.

Let go, dear. (She draws away) I’m ashamed about wearin’ your dress, Cousin Jane. I’ll take it right off.

You needn’t. I guess I don’t want it any more. (For the first time her eyes leave Ben’s face. She turns and steps past them to the door at right and calls) Supper’s ready, Ella!

At rise the characters are grouped exactly as they were at the opening of the play. The white slip covers, however, have been removed from the chairs, and the backing through the window shows partly melted snow drifts. Henry sighs; the clock strikes two. Henry looks at his watch.

I sat right here, in the same chair I’m settin’ in now, but to your grandfather’s funeral, right after I married Henry, I was treated like one of the poor relations! I had to stand up.

A parlor’s where a person’s supposed to sit and think of God, and you couldn’t expect it to be cheerful!

Seems like we’d had trouble and disgrace enough in this family without her takin’ all the slip covers off of the chairs and sofa!

That Boston woman that’s building the house over on Elm Street ain’t so much as goin’ to have a parlor. I stopped her right on the street and asked her what she was plannin’ to do soon as the first of ’em died.

Well, if Jane’s coming I wish she’d come; this ain’t exactly my idea of pleasant company.

She most bites mine off every time I see her. I must say she’s changed, Jane has; she ain’t the same girl at all she was a few weeks ago.

And I ain’t! The only difference between us is I ain’t worth much and I know it, and you ain’t worth nothin’ and you don’t.

If anybody says anything about Jane lately, that’s the way he always talks! The worse she treats him the better he seems to like it.

Well, I don’t know as I’m surprised more about his insultin’ the rest of us, but it’s sort of comical his talkin’ that way about you, Nettie.

They passed my house together once a week ago Wednesday, once the Tuesday before that, and twice the Sunday after New Year’s.

And Eben Tilden’s boy told Abbie Palsey that Tilly Hickson heard Aaron Hamlin say he’d seen ’em together at the picture show!

He said he’d get out of it somehow, but he can’t, and I just won’t have folks laughing at me!

It’s all right, it never meant nothin’ to her, and I guess it didn’t mean much to me. It’s just as well it’s over.

Well—what’s passed is passed. Folks that plant the wind reap the whirlwind! There’s no use cryin’ over spilled milk.

You said to heat this room up and wait here for you and the Judge. Why? I got my stock to tend.

It’s a bad time for me to get away from the store; What was it you wanted of us?

No. I’ve come to know that your mother didn’t really want that I should have the Jordan money.

In a way, Judge, it’s like there had. Your mother left me a letter dated later than the will.

It was like she left me all her money in trust, so I could keep it safe until the time she was hopin’ for come, and in a way it did come, not quite like she wanted it, but near enough so I can give up a burden I haven’t strength enough to carry any more.

Let me finish, Jane. Jane has asked me to draw a deed of gift, making the Jordan property over to Ben.

I am a religious man, but there was a time when even Job gave up! So—all our money goes to Ben—and he can’t even buy himself out of prison!

Kimbal agreed not to press the charge against you. It seems that there were certain extenuating circumstances. A motion has been made for the dismissal of the indictment, and it won’t be opposed.

It means a lot to me. There’s things I’d like to do. I haven’t dared to think about ’em lately—now I’ll do ’em.

Well, Ben, so you’ve got the money! I guess maybe it’s better than her havin’ it; after all blood’s thicker than water! We’ll help you any way we can and—er—of course you’ll help us.

What was we when I got back from France? There was a band met us boys at the station. I was your brother all right that day, only somehow, in just a little while you forgot about it. I was a Jordan when I was hidin’ out from the police, and all that kept me from starvin’ was the money Jane sent me! I was your brother the night mother died, and you said you wouldn’t go my bail.

I’m the head of the family now, ain’t I, and you can bet all you’ve got I’m going to be a real Jordan.

From now on, there ain’t nobody got any right to think in this house but just me! So run along home, the whole pack of you, and after this, when you feel like you must come here—come separate.

Well, I don’t care! I don’t see how anybody would expect me to be a mind reader!

As far as I care, you can go nail it on a door. (Henry and Emma start to exit) No, hold on, I’ll pay it.

Yes, I don’t know as it would do me much good at the bank, havin’ a brother of mine in the poorhouse.

Depends on the head. Mine’s thick, I guess. Anyhow, none of them is going to bother it. I’m boss here now.

You’ll find a copy here of the inventory of the estate, and other legal papers. Everything is in order.

And my accounts, Ben; you’ll find the exact amount your mother left. I spent some money about six weeks ago, on myself, but I’ve been careful ever since and I’ve made up for it.

You said, Judge, she didn’t have to go by that letter of my mother’s, if she didn’t want to? She didn’t have to give anything back at all?

Then if I was you—(to Jane) I wouldn’t talk so[106] much about the little you spent on yourself. I guess to look at you it wasn’t much.

Well, we’ll fix things so you can keep on spendin’. Only let’s see somethin’ come of it. I never was so damned sick of anything in my life as I am of that old black dress of yours!

I’ve got plenty of clothes upstairs. I’m sorry now I ever bought them, but I’ll take them with me when I go.

She’s done a lot, she’s given up the money. I don’t know as I like that; ’course I like gettin’ it, but not if she’s going away.

I don’t suppose you remember about plannin’ what you and me was to do with this old farm?

Because I couldn’t be happy here, Ben—It’s been harder than anything I ever thought could come to anybody, the last few weeks here—and so I’m going. (She turns to Judge) I’ll go upstairs and get my things. I’ll stop at your office, Judge, on the way to the station.

You’re goin’ to-day? Before I order my new farm machinery or anything? You’re goin’ to leave me with all this work on my hands?

Well—that’s a lesson to me! Oh, she’s a good woman! I ain’t denyin’ that—but she’s fickle!

I been doin’ kitchen police around this town for quite a spell now, Judge, but from this day on I ain’t goin’ to take that sort of talk from anybody.

I didn’t mean that. I don’t want you to think I ain’t grateful for all you’ve done for me.

If it wasn’t for you, I’d want to die; that’s what I did want. I was afraid of that prison, just a coward about it. Now I’m a free man, with a big life openin’ out ahead of me—I got everything in the world right here in my two hands, everything—and I owe it to you!

I am very glad to say that you don’t owe me anything. I don’t like you, I haven’t forgiven you for what you did to your mother’s life. Nor for a worse thing, one you haven’t brains enough to even know you’ve done. Don’t be grateful to me, Ben, please. I think nothing could distress me more than that.

I haven’t meant to be, as I said I don’t like you. I haven’t any faith in you. I don’t believe in this[109] new life of yours. You made a mess of the old one, and I think you will of the new.

No matter what you say, you can’t get away from me. I’ll be grateful till I die. But for you I’d have gone to that damned prison!

How Jane? Jane went your bond the day your mother died. Jane took you in and taught you how to work, made you work, taught you through the one decent spot in you something of a thing you’d never know, self-respect. Worked over you, petted you, coaxed you—held you up—Then you hurt her—but she kept on—She went herself to Kimbal, after he had refused me, and got his help to keep you out of prison—then, against my will, against the best that I could do to stop her, she turns over all this to you—and goes out with nothing—and you ask “How Jane?”

[The Judge looks at Ben with contempt and turns and exits. Ben is left in deep thought. Jane comes downstairs dressed for a journey with a hand bag, etc. She enters.

Good-by, Ben. (She crosses to him, her hand out) Good-by. Won’t you say good-by?

There’s things I got to know. (She looks at him but does not speak) The Judge tells me ’twas you got Kimbal to let me go free. (He looks at her—she half turns away) Answer me. (Pause) The Judge tells me you gave up what was yours—to me—without no other reason than because you wanted me to have it. That’s true, ain’t it? (Pause) You sent me every cent you had, when you knew mother was dying, then you went bail for me, like he said—and did all them other things. I don’t know as any woman ever did any more—. I want to know why!

You’re forgetting, I guess, how long we was alone here—when you was in France—then the months we didn’t know where you was, when the police was looking for you—She used to make me promise if ever I could I’d help you.

No. I won’t do that. I’ve done enough; you’re free, you’ve got the money and the farm.

They ain’t worth a damn with you gone—I didn’t know that till just now, but they ain’t.

Oh, it don’t take long for a man to get hungry—it only takes just a minute for a man to die; you can burn down a barn quick enough, or do a murder; it’s just living and getting old that takes a lot of time—Can’t you stay here, Jane?

Nettie—that couldn’t stand the gaff—that run out on me when I was in trouble.

Then you be quiet and let an expert talk. I was lonesome and I wanted a woman; she was pretty and I wanted to kiss her—that ain’t what I call love.

That don’t worry me none—I guess the feller that wrote the dictionary was a whole lot older’n I am before he got down to the L’s.

You’ve got good in you, Ben, deep down, if you’d only try. (Ben turns) I know, it’s always been that way! You’ve never tried for long; you’ve never had a real ambition.

I don’t know what ’twas you promised mother, but you’ve broke your word. No man ever needed a woman more’n I need you, and you’re leaving me.

It’s true, ain’t it; truth ain’t always fair—You ain’t helped me none, you’ve hurt me—worse than being broke, worse than bein’ in jail.

When you’ve been trying to do a thing as long as I have, it gets to be a part of you.

Maybe I had, but if I do it will be with the truth between us. Here’s the letter she left for me, Ben—I got a feeling somehow like she was here with us now, like she wanted you to read it. (She holds it out) It’s like she was guiding us from the grave—Read it.

“My dear Jane: The doctor tells me I haven’t long to live and so I am doing this, the meanest thing I think I’ve ever done to you. I’m leaving you the Jordan money. Since my husband died there has been just one person I could get to care about, that’s Ben, who was my baby so long after all the others had forgotten how to love me.” (He mumbles the letter to himself, then brings out the words) “Hold[114] out her heart and let him trample on it, as he has on mine.”

It wasn’t all your fault—you were a lonely boy—she never said much—she was like you, Ben, ashamed to show the best that’s in you.

The best in me. I ain’t fit that you should touch me Jane—you’d better go.

I love you—mor’n I ever thought I could—tenderer—truer—but I’m no good—You couldn’t trust me—I couldn’t trust myself.

I don’t want you changed. I want you what you are, the best of you—just a man that loves me—if you do love me, Ben.

I’m going to do the thing I always meant to do—Good times and bad, Ben, I’m going to share with you.

You said I was a good sport once—You shook hands on what we’d do to bring this old place back—there’s plenty to be done. I’ll stay and help you if you want me.

I guess you’ll be mighty happy—marriage changes folks—and any change in him will be a big improvement.

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Henry Jordan	John Westley
Emma, his wife	Lotta Linthicum
Nettie, her daughter by a former marriage	Boots Wooster
Sadie Fellows, once Sadie Jordan, a widow	Eva Condon
Orin, her son	Andrew J. Lawlor, Jr.
Ella Jordan, the unmarried sister	Frances Neilson
Doctor Curtis	Lawrence Eddinger
Jane Crosby, a second cousin of the Jordans	Phyllis Povah
Judge Bradford	Willard Robertson
Ben Jordan	Robert Ames
Hannah	Edna May Oliver
Jim Jay	Charles Henderson

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Icebound: A Play

ICEBOUND

FOREWORD

ACT ONE

ACT TWO

ACT III

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE