The Unequal Yoke: A Play in One Act

THE UNEQUAL YOKE* A Play In One Act By Blanche Kendall McKey "Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers" — Corinthians 6:14 CAST OF CHARACTERS Dr. Raymond Winthrope. Beatrice Winthrope, his daughter. Miss Jane Kingston, her aunt. Harold Bachelor. Time: The Present. Scene: The living room of Dr. Winthrope's home in New York City. Late afternoon of a bright June day: At back, C, French doors optm upon a sun-flooded conserva- tory. Palms and flowers are dis- closed, and a bird sings in a cage which stands in view of the audi- ence. A door L. leads into the hall. French windows on the R. are bathed in sunlight. At R. back is a bookcase upon which stands ji vase of flowers; and upon the L. there is a desk. Down stage L. is a fireplace with a large easy chair near. At R. is a settee. Chair left C. The furnishings are har- monious, and the general air is one of luxury. At rise: Jane Kingston, a dignified maiden lady of about forty, not without charm, is seated upon the settee R. trying to become interested in a book. A bird's, song comes from the conservatory. She rises restlessly, returns the book to the case at back R. and crosses to the books upon the desk L. Looking into them aimlessly, one of them opens, as if by habit, to a marked passage. Jane. — (Reads) : "And I think in the lives of most women and men, There's a time when all would be smooth and even. If only the dead could find out when To come back and . (She looks at the book significantly and lays it back reverently. In thought she crosses to the French doors, at back, through which the sunshine is streaming.) If only the dead could find out when to come back — " (The birds sing in the conservatory. Jane does not see Dr. Blanche Kendall McKey *The Improvement Era prize-winning one-act play, in Jubilee contest.

THE UNEQUAL YOKE 85. Winthrope enter from L. Winthrope is in middle life, distinguished in appearance and manner. His hair is slightly gray.) Winthrope. — My dear Jane. Jane. — (Extending her hand C.) You do not seem surprised. Winthrope. — My man telephoned to the hospital, and I ran away. It must be something important which would bring you across the continent without a word of warning. Jane. — It is important — to me. Winthrope. — (Placing large chair for her L.) Have you seen Beatrice? Jane. — No; she's matinee-idling with your handsome young protege. Winthrope. — Oh — (He indicated chair again.) Jane. — I prefer to pace about. Winthrope. — (Coming C.) My dear Jane, what are you worry- ing over? Jane. — (Facing him C.) My dear Raymond, real mothers are fussy enough; but we unmarried make-believes, who have the love without the maternal insight, cap the climax. I can't eat without Bea, nor can I sleep. I havn't known a minute's peace since you brought her East. Winthrope. — So this is a long belated acceptance of my long extended invitation to come and live with us here? Jane. — No. (Crosses back of settee.) After serious deliberation I have crossed the continent to make a point-blank proposal which, if made by letter, you would, probably have refused. Winthrope. — (Sitting on arm of large chair L.) Yes? Jane. — I want you to let me take Beatrice back home. Winthrope. — (Rising.) Well — Your desires are — modest. (He crosses to fireplace.) I am a little curious to know how much you think you are asking of me? Jane. — I think I am asking a great deal, but no more than you have the courage to grant. Winthrope. — Jane, I can't help admiring your — force. Jane. — Out West they call it "nerve." Are you prepared to answer Winthrope- — Yes. I flatly refuse. Jane. — (Sitting on settee-) Then we'll dismiss the subject for the time being. Winthrope. — We will dismiss it for all time. (Pause.) Jane. — I suppose it doesn't interest you to know that I disagree? Winthrope. — (Crossing to her.) I am grateful to you, Jane, for what you have done for my daughter. You have sent her to me an exquisitely bred young woman. But in as much as I acceded to my dying wife's request and turned little Beatrice over to you, I feel

852 IMPROVEMENT ERA justified now in insisting upon your living up to your part of the agi cement. Eighteen years is a long time for a man to wait. You do not need to feel the loneliness I managed to live through, for you are more than welcome to share our home. Jane. — (Rising.) You entirely misinterpret my motive. Winthrope. — Then you are not desiring to take her back West because — you miss her? Jane.- — Not at all. Winthrope. — You would not expect me to believe that you have not been lonely without her? Jane. — (Struggling with quick tears.) My life is as barren as an arid plain. Winthrope. — (Crossing to her.) I understand all that. This bouse is big enough for twenty people. Jane — (Crosses L. Winthrope goes R.) My being here might not remedy matters. I want to take Beatrice back home for her own sake. Winthrope. — Again I give you credit for possessing courage. Jane. — Call it "nerve" if you wish. But you are right — it wasn't easy to say that. Winthrope.— I think we understand each other. In what way am I not eligible as a father? Too much money? Too much physi- cian? Too much what? Jane. — I am not especially objecting to you. It is the entire situation which is dangerous. I don't want my little Beatrice to make the mistake her mother did. (The shot goes home. There is a pause.) It was a mistake, wasn't it? Winthrope. — No man ever loved a woman more tenderly than I loved your sister. Jane. — Love alone doesn't bring happiness. There must be a union — (From the hall L. come the laughter and gay voices of Beatrice and Harold.) That is what I object to. Winthrope. — Not to my taking a promising lad into my heart? Jane. — No; but I most strenuously object to your daughter following your example. (The gay conversation has come close now, and Beatrice and Harold enter. He is manly, attractive; she beautiful, the finest type of American young womanhood.) Beatrice. — We are late, father. (She sees Jane L.) Aunt Jane! Aunt Jane! (She rushes into her arms.) Jane. — My dear! My dear! (There is a battle with tears, Harold goes R. Winthrope after searching, draws from his pockets two handkerchiefs and advances.) Withrope. — May I proffer — (the women laugh.) May I pre- sent my young friend? Miss Kingston, this is Harold Batchelor. Jane. — (Extending her hand.) How do you do?

THE UNEQUAL YOKE 853 m Harold. — I have heard a great deal about you, Miss Kingston — wonderful things. Jane. — Thank you. I have been reading a little about you. Bea's letters — Beatrice. — Oh, I didn't begin to write — Jane. — What! Beatrice. — I mean — Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Aunt Jane! I can't tell you how glad. Jane. — My dear! (Tears threaten.) Harold. — I'll — I'll go take my daily dozen on the tennis court. Pardon me. (Exits through French doors at back.) Winthrope. — Shall I follow? Beatrice. — No, father, let's all talk. (She removes her hat. Winthrope places the large chair L. nearer the settee and seats Jane, then sits upon settee. The stage darkens gradually, but the rays from the lowering sun bathe the conservatory with golden light. The birds sing. Beatrice, having placed her hat upon the desk at back goes to the French doors drinking in the birds' song and the sunlight.) Beatrice. — The East is beautiful — I love its varying greens. But our sunsets at home are grander. Winthrope.- — You haven't been quite content here, have you, dear? Beatrice. — Yes. only — Winthrope. — We havn't been able to entirely fill your life. Beatrice. — Of course, I couldn't forget.. I didn't want to. (She comes down and sits beside her father. The birds sing.) Aunty taught me such wonderful things. Father, do you think love is stronger than death — that it survives death? Winthrope. — What do you think? Beatrice. — I think it does. (There is a pause, then the girl goes on.) Father, do you think a girl brought up as I have been — very religiously, you know — could be happy married to a man who does not understand? Winthrope. — Do you love Harold, Beatrice? Beatrice. — I think I do, only — Winthrope. — And he? Beatrice. — I think he loves me. Winthrope. — My dear, love is the greatest gift life has to offer, yet you are not content? Beatrice. — No. If my mother — Winthrope. — Your mother's voice is silent. Jane. — (Rising.) Raymond, forgive me — I guess I am one of the fools in the proverb about angels, but — Winthrope. — Let us be frank. Jane. — Very well, I happened upon a book that was lying upon your desk. A verse was marked. (Gets book from desk. It opens automatically. She hands it to Winthrope.)

85* IMPROVEMENT ERA Winthrope. — (Without looking into the book.) "And I think in the lives of most women and men, There's a time when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven." I forgave her without her asking — without her knowing there was anything to forgive — but she has never come back. Beatrice. — What was there to forgive, father? Winthrope. — She never let me be to her what she was to me. Beatrice. — What do you mean? Winthrope. — I mean that she was my heaven and earth. She and my work were all I needed — they filled my life. I failed with her, for she was never entirely content. Beatrice. — She loved you? Winthrope. — Yes. (The three fall to thinking. Jane, still hold- ing the book, withdraws to fireplace. The birds sing and out of the music the girl's voice rises softly.) Beatrice. — She had a vision of the meaning of life — a glimpse of things bigger than this existence — of eternal progress — of final destiny. Winthrope. — My dear, your mother lives in you. She used to talk just that way. Beatrice. — Don't you see, father? Winthrope. — No. Love should be greater than religious law. Beatrice. — Love is religious law, isn't it, Aunt Jane? Out of love was the law written, and the law is bigger than earthly love. (She rises and crosses to the conservatory. Jane sits before the fire- place.) Oh, things are strange! Winthrope. — For instance — Beatrice: — For instance? What can I say? (She stands a mo- ment listening to the bird's song, then comes down C.) Father, who whispers the words that fall into our hearts with silent voices? Joan of Arc heard voices. Who tells me things which I could not know of myself? Sometimes I have thought my mother — (Winthrope rises and crosses to door R.) Father, you said a while ago. — Winthrope. — I said that she has never come back. Beatrice. — Perhaps she has tried to speak to you and you could not bear. Winthope. — Of course, I don't know about that. I am in the dark. Beatrice. — Do you mind if I talk a little — foolishly, Doctor Win- thrope? Winthrope. — (Crossing toward center.) I am all attention. Beatrice. — I must speak seriously, now, and then we can lay it by. I have felt as if some unseen friend, someone who cares for me — I have

THE UNEQUAL YOKE 855 thought it was she — has held a light before my eyes, and in spite of my love for Harold I am afraid of disobedience. You know so much. Can love alone bring happiness? Why does she wish to give me this message? Winthrope. — My dear — Jane. — (Rises.) My dear Raymond, have mercy on fools who rush in. Winthrope. — (Surprised into laugh.) My dear Jane, you may be an angel in disguise. Jane. — Let us hope so. I must speak. Tell this girl the truth. In spite of love, in spite of all you could give her, was my sister happy, married to you who did not — understand? Winthrope. — (After a pause.) No. (He rises and goes to conservatory doors. Beatrice goes R.) Jane. — (Left C.) Yet you would marry Beatrice to — Winthrope. — To the finest young man of my acquaintance. However, you presume a little when you take it for granted that my mind is made up. Jane. — Your letter implied that you did not object. Winthrope. — (Coming down C.) In the light of logic, bow can I? What is there to object to? Harold is the kind o* boy fathers are glad to give their daughters to, and girls are proud to win. Yet, for the sake of religion, which is only one factor in life — I must snatch her away and send her back to a cottage in a small town. She must turn her back upon culture, art, society, and position for what? To be numbered with those who "believe." Believe what? I believe in God, in Christ, in morality, integrity, humanity. How am I dif- ferent from you? Are my manhood, my achievements nothing? Yet because I could not see what your sister called "eternal truth" she shut me out from her holy of holies. She called our marriage an unequal yoke. And now you come and want to take away my little girl. I say to you, by the God we both respect, the inequality does not fall upon your house alone. Beatrice. — (Crossing to him.) Father! My dear father, I love you. I'll not leave you. (She slips into his arms.) It's only this: we girls like to have our fathers for ever and ever. I have felt that mother is sad — somewhere — because we are not hers for ever and ever. Winthrope. — I shall be yours for ever and you shall be mine; through my love I will claim you. Beatrice. — Love is not enough. All things must be governed by law. Don't you see? (He is silent.) Can't you see? Winthrope. — Not what you refer to, my dear. However, I see something else quite clearly. Beatrice. — Something else? (Jane crosses L. and replaces the book on Winthrope's desk as Harold, carrying tennis racquet, enters through the conservatory.)

856 IMPROVEMENT ERA Harold. — Tears dried? Winthrope. — They are only just begun. Harold. — (Coming down.) Oh, I say — (Beatrice crosses to Jane. ) Winthrope. — I want to talk to you, my boy, while the ladies dress for dinner. Beatrice. — We will not be long. (Beatrice and Jane exit through the door left. Winthrope crosses to fireplace. Harold remains C.) Winthrope. — I have just decided to allow Miss Kingston to take Beatrice West again. There the girl can make her own decision about remaining or returning here. In fairness to you, I wish to make an explanation. Harold. — What is it, Sir? Winthrope. — As far as you are able to judge, you sincerely love my daughter? Harold. — I do. Winthrope. — And you desire — ? Harold. — My great desire is to make her my wife. Have I done something to merit your displeasure? Winthrope. — Not at all. I am merely trying to be fair to both you and Beatrice. Sit down. (Harold sits upon settee. Winthrope goes C) When I was your age I married Bea's mother. I think no two young people ever loved more truly. But we were not happy — not united. Harold. — What divided you? Winthrope. — Religion. Harold. — But Beatrice and I — Winthrope. — Oh, I know. One thinks at twenty, that love can surmount anything. At forty one is humble. You think possession of the woman you love will bring happiness; I know, through pain, that to a lover happiness comes only through possession of all a woman has to give — her heart, her hopes, her thoughts, her belief. My wife and I were divided over the most sacred thing a man and woman can bring into the home — their God. Harold. — But Beatrice — Winthrope. — Beatrice is just like her mother — tender, yielding, exquisite, but where her religion is concerned, she is like Gibraltar. Harold. — (Rising.) I honor her for that. Winthrope. — So do I. I wish I could see, but I can't. It's a queer philosophy my daughter's people have, that only some can see. Perhaps they are right; I don't know. At least, I haven't their vision. But I don't want Beatrice" and you to suffer what we suffered. I shall send my daughter back West with Miss Kingston. Visit them. Open your heart to the message they think they have to give. If you can accept, Beatrice is yours, and my blessing and possessions go with her. If you cannot, I stoutly withhold my consent. I am not concerned with your im-

THE UNEQUAL YOKE 85 7 mortal soul, my boy, but I am determined to avert a catastrophe. You need not expect Beatrice to retract. She has within her heart a love which even I think is stronger than death, and yet — it's getting late; you had better change for dinner. {He drops down to settee. The stage has darkened. Harold crosses L., then goes to Winthcope.) Harold. — You have — sort of bowled me over, doctor. But at least I wish to express my thanks for your concern. Winthcope. — Advice is what old people are good for. Harold. — Advice is cold. A little while ago the sun was shin- ing, and now — Winthcope. — {Going to Hacold.) My boy, a little unembittered sorrow is nothing compared to a life-time of regret. Hacold. — But perhaps I can't see. You are rather hard. Winthcope. — I am a surgeon. As a last resort I amputate to save life. For both your sakes, if you cannot see, you must forget. That is final. Hacold. — I believe you understand that I shall do my best — to see, as you term it. Winthcope. — I do. Good luck. {He shakes Hacold' s hand, who exits hucciedly L. Winthcope dcops thoughtfully upon the settee, now, bathed in a sunset glow fcom the doocs R.) "And I think in the lives of most women and men There's a time when all would be smooth and even. If only the dead could find out when To come back and . {He expresses, silently, soccow at his failuce in attempting to communicate with the woman he loves. Suddenly his face lights with thought.) Winthcope. — I wonder if she would have come back, if the yoke had been equal? Cuctain Bits Of Philosophy It is better to be clean than to be clever. Wisdom is just horse sense, right on the job. Purity of heart is the only fountain of eternal youth. A book that a flapper or vamp champ can understand is hardly worth understanding. You are a real Saint if you feel just a little ashamed of your fine clothes, when you see your neighbors in rags. The worst thing you know about yourself is the best thing to remember about yourself; it will save on your hat bill. Virtue is the pure disposition to use one's bodily strength for the perpetuity and ennoblement of human life, for the glory of God. Nephi Jensen.