Under the Gaslight/Act IV
ACT IV.
No carpet.
SCENE I.—Long Branch. Ground floor of an elegant residence—open windows from floor to ceiling at back—opening upon a balcony or promenade. Perspective of the shore and sea in distance. Doors R. and L. Sunset.
As the curtain rises to lively music, from R. enter Pearl, Mrs. Van Dam, Sue Earlie, and other ladies in summer costume, Demilt and Windel with them.
Pearl. And so the distinguished foreigner is in love with me? I thought he looked excessively solemn at the hop last night. Do you know, I can't imagine a more serious spectacle than a Frenchman or an Italian in love. One always imagines them to be sick. (To Mrs. V. D.) Do fasten my glove—there's a dear.
Mrs. D. Where's Ray?
Pearl. O, he's somewhere. I never saw such another. Isn't he cheerful? He never smiles, and seldom talks.
Mrs. V. D. But the foreigner does. What an ecstasy he was in over your singing; sing us a verse, won't you, while we're waiting for Ray?
All. It will be delightful—do.
Pearl. Well! [Song introduced.
(Air; When the War is Over, Mary.)
I.
Now the summer days are fading,
Autumn sends its dreary blast
Moaning through the silent forest
Where the leaves are falling fast.
Soon dread winter will enfold us—
Chilling in its arms of snow,
Flowers that the summer cherished,
Birds that sing, and streams that flow.
II.
Say, shall all things droop and wither,
That are born this Summer day?
Shall the happy love it brought us—
Like the flowers fade away?
No; be still thou flutt'ring bosom—
Seasons change and years glide by,
They may not harm what is immortal—
Darling,—love shall never die!
Pearl. Now, I've sung that to Ray a dozen times, and he never even said it was nice. He hasn't any soul for music; O, dear, what a creature!
Mrs. V. D. Yes, and what a victim you will be with a husband who has $60,000 per annum income.
Pearl. That's some comfort, isn't it?
Ray. (Enters L. H. bowing to others.) Going out, Pearl?
Pearl. Yes, we re off to Shrewsbury. Quite a party's going—four carriages—and we mean to stay and ride home by moonlight.
Ray. Couldn't you return a little earlier?
Mrs. V. D. Earlier! Pshaw! What's in you, Trafford. (The ladies and gents. go up.)
Ray. (Pearl, C.) You know that Laura will be quite alone, and she is still suffering.
Pearl. Well, she'll read and read, as she always did, and never miss me.
Ray. But, at least, she ought to have some little attention.
Pearl. Dear, dear, what an unreasonable fellow you are. Isn't she happy now—didn't you save her from drowning, and havn't I been as good to her as I can be—what more do you want?
Ray. I don't like to hear you talk so, Pearl, and remember what she and you were once. And you know that she was something else once—something that you are now to me. And yet how cheerful, how gentle she is. She has lost everything and does not complain.
Pearl. Well, what a sermon! There, I know you re hurt and I'm a fool. But I can't help it. People say she's good-looking, but she's got no heart! I'd give anything for one, but they aint to be bought.
Ray. Well, don't moan about it, I didn't mean to reprove you.
Pearl. But you do reprove me. I'm sure I havn't been the cause of Laura's troubles. I didn't tell the big, ugly man to come and take her away, although I was once glad he did.
Ray. Pearl!
Pearl. Because I thought I had gained you by it. (Ray turns away.) But now I've got you, I don't seem to make you happy. But I might as well complain that you don't make me happy—but I don't complain, I am satisfied, and I want you to be satisfied. There, are you satisfied?
Mrs. V. D. (Who with others has been promenading up and down the balcony.) Here are the carriages.
Pearl. I'm coming. Can't you get me my shawl, Ray. (Ray gets it from chair.)
Mrs. V. D. And here's your foreign admirer on horseback.
(Sue Earlie, Demilt and Windel, exit.)
Pearl. (Up stage C.) Bye, bye, Ray. (Exit.)
Mrs. V. D. Are you not coming, Trafford?
Ray. I? No!
Mrs. V. D. Do come on horseback, here's a horse ready for you.
Pearl. (Without.) Ray! Ray!
Mrs. V. D. Pearl's calling you. Be quick or Count Carom will be before you, and hand her in the carriage.
Ray. (Taking his hat slowly.) O, by all means, let the Count have some amusement.
Mrs. V. D. (Taking Ray's arm.) You're a perfect icicle.
[They exit.
[Noise of whips and laughter. Plaintive music as Laura enters. L. goes to C. and gazes out at them.]
Laura. Poor Pearl. It is a sad thing to want for happiness but it is a terrible thing to see another groping about blindly for it when it is almost within the grasp. And yet she can be very happy with him. Her sunny temper, and her joyous face will brighten any home. (Sits at table C., on which are books,) How happy I feel to be alone with these friends, who are ever ready to talk to me—with no longings for what I may not have—my existence hidden from all, save two in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy of that innocent child who will soon be his wife.
(Peachblossom appears at back looking in cautiously, grotesquely attired.
Peach. If you please.
Laura. (Aloud.) Who is there?
Peach. (Running in window F.) O, it's Miss Nina! O, I'm so glad; I've had such a hunt for you. Don't ask me nothing yet. I'm so happy. I've been looking for you so long, and I've had such hard luck. Lord what a tramp—miles on miles.
Laura. Did any one see you come here? How did you find me?
Peach. I asked 'em at the hotel where Mr. Trafford was, and they said at Courtlands, and I asked 'em where Courtlands was, and they said down the shore, and I walked down lookin' at every place till I came here.
Laura. Speak low, Blossom. My existence is a secret, and no one must hear you.
Peach. Well, Miss, I says to Snorkey—says I—
Laura. Is he with you?
Peach. No, Miss, but we are great friends. He wants me to keep house for him some day. I said to him—"I want to find out where Miss Nina's gone," and so he went to Mr. Trafford's and found he was come to Long Branch, but never a word could we hear of you.
Laura. And the others—those dreadful people?
Peach. Byke and old Judas? Clean gone! They hasn't been seen since they was took up for throwing you into the water, and let off because no one came to Court agin 'em. Bermudas says he's seen 'em in Barnum's wax-work show, but Bermudas is such a liar. He brought me up here.
Laura. Brought you up here.
Peach. Yes, he sells papers at Stetson's; he's got the exclusive trade here, and he has a little wagon and a horse, and goes down to the junction every night to catch the extras from the Express train what don't come here. He says he'll give me lots of nice rides if I'll stay here.
Laura. But you must not stay here. You must go back to New York this evening.
Peach. Back ! No, I won't.
Laura. Blossom!
Peach. I won't, I won't, I won't! I'll never let you away again. I did it once and you was took away and dragged about and chucked overboard and almost drowned. I won't be any trouble, indeed I won't. I'll hire out at the hotel, and run over when my work is done at night, when nobody can see me, to look up at your window. Don't send me away. You're the only one as ever was good to me.
Laura. (Aside.) It's too dangerous. She certainly would reveal me sooner or later. I must send her back.
Peach. Besides, I've got something to tell you. Dreadful! dread ful! about old Judas and Byke—a secret.
Laura. A secret! what in the world are you saying?
Peach. Is it wicked to listen at doors when people talk?
Laura. It is very wicked.
Peach. Well, I suppose that's why I did it, I used to listen to Byke and Judas when they used to talk about a rich lady whom they called Mrs. Courtland.
Laura. Ah!
Peach. Judas used to be a nurse at Mrs. Courtland's, and was turned off for stealing. And wasn't she and Byke going to make money off her! and Byke was to pretend to be some beautiful lady's father. Then, when they took you, Judas says to me: "Did you ever hear of children being changed in their cradles?"—and that you wasn't her child, but she was going to make money off the real one at the proper time.
Laura. What do you tell me?
Peach. Oh! I m not crazy. I know a heap, don't I? And I want you to think I m somebody, and not send me away.
Laura. (To herself.) She must speak the truth. And yet if I were to repeat her strange words here, I should be suspected of forging some tale to abuse the ear of society. No! better let it rest as it is. She must go—and I must go too.
Peach. You ain't mad with me?
Laura. No, no; but you must go away from here. Go back to the hotel to your friend—anywhere, and wait for me; I will come to you.
Peach. Is it a promise?
Laura. (Nervously.) Yes, go.
Peach. Then I'll go; for I know you always keep your word—you ain't angry, cause I came after you? I did it because I loved you because I wanted to see you put in the right place. Honor bright, you ain't sending me away now? Well, I'll go; good bye!
[Exit C.
Laura. (Animated.) I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk there. It is dangerous enough to to concealed here, with a hundred Argus-eyed women about me every day, but with this girl, detection would be certain. I must go—secretly if I can—openly if I must.
Ray. (Outside.) No, I shall not ride again. Put him up. (Entering.) Laura, I knew I should find you here.
Laura. (Sitting and pretending composure.) I thought you had gone with Pearl?
Ray. I did go part of the way, but I left the party a mile down the road?
Laura. You and Pearl had no disagreement?
Ray. No—yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers always stand at "cloudy" and "overcast."
Laura. (Rising.) And whose fault is that?
Ray. (Pettishly.) Not mine. I know I do all I can—I say all I can—but she— (Crossing.)
Laura. But she is to be your wife. Ray—my friend—courtship is the text from which the whole solemn sermon of married life takes its theme. Do not let yours be discontented and unhappy.
Ray. To be my wife; yes. In a moment of foolishness, dazzled by her airs, and teased by her coquettishness, I asked her to be my wife.
Laura. And you repent already?
Ray (Taking her hand.) I lost you, and I was at the mercy of any flirt that chose to give me an inviting look. It was your fault—you know it was! Why did you leave me?
Laura. (After conflict with her feelings.) Ray, the greatest happiness I have ever felt, has been the thought that all your affections were forever bestowed upon a virtuous lady, your equal in family, fortune and accomplishments. What a revelation do you make to me now! What is it makes you continually war with your happiness?
Ray. I don't know what it is. I was wrong to accuse you. Forgive me ! I have only my own cowardice to blame for my misery. But Pearl———
Laura. You must not accuse her.
Ray. When you were gone, she seemed to have no thought—no wish—but for my happiness. She constantly invited me to her house, and when I tried to avoid her, met me at every turn. Was she altogether blameless?
Laura. Yes, it was her happiness she sought, and she had a right to seek it.
Ray. Oh! men are the veriest fools on earth; a little attention, a little sympathy, and they are caught caught by a thing without soul or brains, while some noble woman is forsaken and forgotten.
Laura. (Ray throws himself into a seat.) Ray, will you hear me?
Ray. (Looking at her hopefully.) Yes, speak to me as you used to speak. Be to me as you used to be.
Laura. (Smiling sadly.) I cannot be that to you; but I can speak as the spirit of the Laura who is dead to you forever.
Ray. Be it as you will.
Laura. (Standing beside him.) Let the woman you look upon be wise or vain, beautiful or homely, richer poor, she has but one thing she can really give or refuse—her heart! Her beauty, her wit, her accomplishments, she may sell to you—but her love is the treasure without money and without price.
Ray. How well I have learned that.
Laura. She only asks in return, that when you look upon her, your eyes shall speak a mute devotion; that when you address her, your voice shall be gentle, loving and kind. That you shall not despise her because she cannot understand, all at once, your vigorous thoughts and ambitious designs: for when misfortune and evil have defeated your greatest purposes—her love remains to console you. You look to the trees for strength and grandeur—do not despise the flowers, because their fragrance is all they have to give. Remember,—love is all a woman has to give; but it is the only earthly thing which God permits us to carry beyond the grave.
Ray. (Rising.) You are right. You are always right. I asked Pearl to be my wife, knowing what she was, and I will be just to her. I will do my duty though it break my heart.
Laura. Spoken like a hero.
Ray. But it is to you I owe the new light that guides me; and I will tell her—
Laura. Tell her nothing—never speak of me. And when you see her, say to her it is she, and she alone, whom you consult and to whom you listen.
Ray. And you—
Laura. You will see me no more.
Ray. You will leave me?
Laura. Something of me will always be with you—my parting words my prayers for your happiness. (Distant music heard.)
Ray. (Falling on his knees.) O, Laura, you leave me to despair.
Laura, (C.) No; to the happiness which follows duty well performed. Such happiness as I feel in doing mine.
Picture.
Scene closes in. During last of this scene the sun has set, and night come on. Stage dark.
SCENE II.—Woods near Shrewsbury Station.
(Enter Byke shabbily dressed, L. 1 E.)
Byke. It's getting darker and darker, and I'm like to lose my way. Where the devil isJudas? It must be nine o'clock, and she was to be at the bend with the wagon half an hour ago. (Rumble of wheels heard.) Humph—at last.
Judas. (Entering L.) Is that you Byke?
Byke. Who did you suppose it was? I've been tramping about the wet grass for an hour.
Judas. It was a hard job to get the horse and wagon.
Byke. Give me a match. (Lights pipe and leans against a tree.) Did you get the bearings of the crib?
Judas. Yes, it is on the shore, well away from the other cottages and hotels.
Byke. That's good. Nothing like peace and quietness. Who's in the house?
Judas. Only the two girls and the servants.
Byke. How many of them?
Judas. Four.
Byke. It'll be mere child's play to go through that house. Have you spied about the swag?
Judas. They have all their diamonds and jewels there; Pearl wears them constantly; they're the talk of the whole place.
Byke. We'll live in luxury off that girl all our lives. She'll settle a handsome thing on us, won't she? when she knows what we know, and pays us to keep dark;—if t'other one don't spoil the game.
Judas. Curse her! I could cut her throat.
Byke. O, I'll iake care of that!
Judas. You always do things for the best, dear old Byke!
Byke. Of course I do. What time is it?
Judas. Not ten yet.
Byke. An hour to wait.
Judas. But, Byke, you won't peach on me before my little pet is married, will you?
Byke. What's the fool about now?
Judas. I can't help trembling; nothing is safe while Laura is there.
Byke. I've provided for that. I ve "had the same idea as you—while she's in the way, and Trafford unmarried, our plans are all smoke, and we might as well be sitting on the hob with a keg of powder in the coals.
Judas. That we might. But what have you thought to do?
Byke. Why, I ve thought what an unfortunate creature Laura is,—robbed of her mother, her home, and her lover; nothing to live for; it would be a mercy to put her out of the way.
Judas. That's it; but how—how—how—
Byke. It's plain she wasn't born to be drowned, or the materials are very handy down here. What made you talk about cutting her throat? It was very wrong! When 'a thing gets into my head, it sticks there.
Judas. You oughtn't to mind me.
Byke. Make your mind easy on that score.
Judas. (Alarmed.) Byke, I heard some one in the bushes just there. (Points off R.)
Byke. (Nervously and quickly.) Who? Where? (Going R.)
Judas. Where the hedge is broken. I could swear I saw the shadow of a man.
Byke. Stop here. I'll see. [Off R.
Judas. (Solus.) I begin to shiver. But it must be done or we starve. Why should I tremble? it's the safest job we ever planned. If they discover us, our secret will save us;—we know too much to be sent to jail.
(Re-enter Byke, slowly.)
Byke. Ther are traces, but I can see no one. (Looking off R.)
Judas. Suppose we should have been overheard!
Byke. (Glaring at her.) Overheard? Bah! no one could understand.
Judas. Come, let us go to the wagon and be off.
Byke. (Always looking off R.) Go you, I will follow. Bring it round by the station, and wait for me in the shadows of the trees. I will follow. (Judas goes off L. Byke, after a moment,—still looking R., buttons up his coat and hides behind wood, R. H.) Heigho! I must be off.
(Enter Snorkey, slowly, R.)
Snorkey. Tracked 'em again! We re the latest fashionable arrivals at Long-Branch. "Mr. Byke and Lady, and Brigadier-General Snorkey, of New York;"—there's and item for the papers! With a horse and wagon, they'll be at the seaside in two hours; but in the train I think I'll beat em. Then to find Cap'n Trafford, and give him the wink, and be ready to receive the distinguished visitors with all the honors. Robbery; Burglary; Murder; that's Byke's catechism:—"What's to be done when you're hard up ? Steal! What's to be done if you're caught at it? Kill!" It's short and easy, and he lives up to it like a good many Christians don't live up to their laws. (Looking off L.) They're out of sight. Phew! it's midsummer, but I'm chilled to the bone; something like a piece of ice has been stuck between my shoulders all day, and something like a black mist is always before me. (Byke is behind tree.) Just like old Nettly told me he felt, the night before Fredericksburg;—and next day he was past all feeling,—hit with a shell, and knocked into so many pieces, I didn't know which to call my old friend. Well, (slapping his chest,) we've all got to go; and if I can save them, I'll have some little capital to start the next world on. The next world? perhaps I shan't be the maimed beggar there that I am in this. (Takes out pistol, examines cap; goes off L., Byke gliding after him.)
SCENE III.—Railroad Station at Shrewsbury Bend. Up R. the Station shed R. H. Platform around it, and door at side, window in front. At L. L. E. clump of shrubs and tree. The Railroad track runs from L. 4 E. to R. 4. E. View of Shrewsbury River in perspective. Night. Moonlight. The switch, with, a red lantern and Signal man's coat hanging on it L. C. The Signal lamp and post beside it.
As the scene opens, several packages are lying about the Stage, among them a bundle of axes. The Signal man is wheeling in a small barrel from L. whistling at his work. Enter Laura in walking dress, coming feebly from L. U. E.
Laura. It is impossible for me to go further. A second time I've fled from home and friends, but now they will never find me. The trains must all have passed, and there are no conveyances till to-morrow. (She situ at clump L. U. E.)
Signal. Beg pardon, ma'am, looking for anybody?
Laura. Thank you, no. Are you the man in charge of this station?
Signal. Yes, ma'am.
Laura. When is there another train for New York?
Signal. New York? Not till morning. We've only one more train to-night; that's the down one; it'll be here in about twenty minutes—"Express Train."
Laura. What place is that?
Signal. That? That's the signal station shed. It serves for store-room, depot, baggage-room, and everything.
Laura. Can I stay there to-night?
Signal. There? Well it's an odd place, and I should think you would hardly like it. Why don't you go to the hotel?
Laura. 1 have my reasons—urgent ones. It is not because I want money. You shall have this (producing portmonnaie) if you let me remain here.
Signal. Well, I've locked up a good many things in there over night, but I never had a young lady for freight before. Besides, ma'm, I don't know anything about you. You know it's odd that you won't go to a decent hotel, and plenty of money in your pocket.
Laura. You refuse me—well—I shall only have to sit here all night.
Signal. Here, in the open air? Why, it would kill you.
Laura. So much the better.
Signal. Excuse me for questions, Miss, but you re a running away from some one, ain't you?
Laura. Yes.
Signal. Well, I'd like to help you. I'm a plain man you know, and I'd like to help you, but there's one thing would go agin' me to assist in. (Laura interested.) I'm on to fifty years of ago, and I've many children, some on 'em daughters grown. There's a many temptations for young gals, and sometimes the old man has to put on the brakes a bit, for some young men are wicked enough to persuade the gals to steal out of their father's house in the dead of night, and go to shame and misery. So tell me this—it ain't the old man, and the old man's home you've left, young lady?
Laura. No; you good, honest fellow—no—I have no father.
Signal. Then, by Jerusalem! I'll do for you what I can. Anything but run away from them that have not their interest but yours at heart. Come, you may stay there, but I'll have to lock you in.
Laura. I desire that you should.
Signal. It's for your safety as much as mine. I've got a patent lock on that door that would give a skeleton key the rheumatism to fool with it. You don't mind the baggage. I'll have to put it in with you, hoes, shovels, mowing machines, and what is this—axes. Yes, a bundle of axes. If the Superintendent finds me out, I ll ask him if he was afraid you'd run off with these. (Laughs.) So, if you please, I'll first tumble 'em in. (Puts goods in house, Laura sitting on platform R. H. looking at him. When all in, he comes towards her, taking up cheese-box to put it in Station.) I say, Miss, I ain't curious—but, of course, it's a young man you're a going to?
Laura. So far from that, it's a young man I'm running away from.
Signal. (Dropping box.) Running away from a young man! Let me shake hands with you. (Shakes her hand.) Lord, it does my heart good! At your age, too! (Seriously.) I wish you'd come and live down in my neighborhood a while, among my gals. (Shaking his head.) You'd do a power of good. (Putting box in station.)
Laura. I've met an excellent friend. And here at least I can be concealed until to-morrow—then for New York. My heart feels lighter already—it's a good omen.
Signal. Now, Miss, bless your heart, here's your hotel ready.
(Goes to switch and takes coat off, putting it on.)
Laura. Thanks, my good friend; but not a word to any one—till to-morrow; not even—not even to your girls.
Signal. Not a word, I promise you. If I told my girls, it would be over the whole village before morning. (She goes in. He locks door. Laura appears at window facing audience.)
Laura. Lock me in safely.
Signal. Ah! be sure I will. There! (Tries door.) Safe as a jail. (Pulls out watch, and then looking at track with lantern.) Ten minutes and down she comes. It's all safe this way, my noisy beauty, and you may come as soon as you like. Good night, Miss!
Laura. (At window.) Good night.
Signal. Running away from young man, Ha! ha! ha!
(He goes to track, then looks down R.—lights his pipe and is trudging off R., when enter Snorkey from L. U. E.
Snorkey. Ten minutes before the train comes. I'll wait here for it. (To Signal man who re-enters.) Hollo, I say, the train won't stop here too long will it.
Signal. Too long? It won't stop here at all.
Snorkey. I must reach the shore to-night. There'll be murder done, unless I can prevent it!
Signal. Murder, or no murder, the train can't be stopped.
Snorkey. It's a lie. By waving the red signal for danger, the engineer must stop, I tell you!
Signal. Do you think I'm a fool! What! disobey orders and lose my place; then what's to become of my family? (Exit R. U. E.
Snorkey. I won't be foiled. I will confiscate some farmer's horse about here, and get there before them somehow. (Byke enters at back with loose coil of rope in his hand.) Then when Byke arrives in his donkey cart he'll be ready to sit for a picture of surprise. (Byke enters L. U. E. suddenly throwing the coil over Snorkey.)
Byke. Will he?
Snorkey. Byke!
Byke. Yes, Byke. Where's that pistol of yours? (Tightening rope round his arm.)
Snorkey. In my breast pocket.
Byke. (Taking it.) Just what I wanted.
Snorkey. You ain't a going to shoot me?
Byke. No!
Snorkey. Well, I'm obliged to you for that.
Byke. (Leading him to platform.) Just sit down a minute, will you.
Snorkey. What for? (Laura appears horror struck at window.)
Byke. You'll see.
Snorkey. Well, I don't mind if I do take a seat. (Sits down. Byke coils the rope round his legs.) Hollo! what's this?
Byke. You'll see. (Picks the helpless Snorkey up.)
Snorkey. Byke, what are you going to do!
Byke. Put you to bed. (Lays him across the R. R. track.)
Snorkey. Byke, you don't mean to— My God, you are a villain!
Byke. (Fastening him to rails.) I'm going to put you to bed. You won't toss much. In less than ten minutes you'll be sound asleep. There, how do you like it? You'll get down to the Branch before me, will you? You dog me and play the eavesdropper, eh! Now do it if you can. When you hear the thunder under your head and see the lights dancing in your eyes, and feel the iron wheels a foot from your neck, remember Byke! (Exit L. H. E.
Laura. O, Heavens! he will be murdered before my eyes! How can I aid him?
Snorkey. Who's that?
Laura. It is I. Do you not know my voice?
Snorkey. That I do; but I almost thought I was dead, and it was an angel's. Where are you?
Laura. In the station.
Snorkey. I can't see you, but I can hear you. Listen to me, Miss, for I've got only a few minutes to live.
Laura. (Shaking door.) God help me? and I cannot aid you.
Snorkey. Never mind me, Miss. I might as well die now, and here, as at any other time. I'm not afraid. I've seen death in almost every shape, and none of them scare me; but, for the sake of those you love, I would live. Do you hear me?
Laura. Yes! yes!
Snorkey. They are on the way to your cottage—Byke and Judas—to rob and murder.
Laura. (In agony.) O, I must get out! (Shakes window bars.) What shall I do?
Snorkey. Can't you burst the door?
Laura. It is locked fast.
Snorkey. Is there nothing in there?—no hammer ?—no crowbar?
Laura. Nothing! (Faint steam whistle heard in the distance.) O, Heavens! The train! (Paralysed for an instant.) The axe!!!
Snorkey. Cut the woodwork! Don't mind the lock—cut round it! How my neck tingles! (A blow at door is heard.) Courage! (Another.) Courage! (The steam whistle heard again—nearer, and rumble of train on track. Another blow.) That's a true woman! Courage! (Noise of locomotive heard—with whistle. A last blow; the door swings open, mutilated—the lock hanging—and Laura appears, axe in hand.)
Snorkey. Here—quick ! (She runs and unfastens him. The locomotive lights glare on scene.) Victory! Saved! Hooray! (Laura leans exhausted against switch.) And these are the women who ain't to have a vote!
(As Laura takes his head from the track, the train of cars rushes fast with roar and whistle from L. to R. H.