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Updated: June 12, 2025
Chicago, unfortunately, marks the limit of my wanderings; so I shall return to England without having seen anything of the United States, except for a sort of Pisgah-glimpse from the tower of the Auditorium. I was anxious to see Mr. James A. Herne's famous play, Shore Acres, and learned from Mr. Herne that it would be played by a travelling company at Buffalo on a certain date.
The process of stripping Boston to build up Manhattan had begun. My brother who was still one of Herne's company of players in Shore Acres, had no home to break up, but he said, "I'm going to get some sort of headquarters in New York. If you'll come on we'll hire a little apartment up town and 'bach' it. I'm sick of theatrical boarding houses."
I tell you what, brother, I always thought you were a better hand at the gloves than the naked fist; and, to tell you the truth, besides taking satisfaction for Mrs. Herne's death, I wish to see what you can do with your mawleys; so now is your time, brother, and this is your place, grass and shade, no ruts or holes; come on, brother, or I shall think you what I should not like to call you.
On that same night, and just as the castle clock was on the stroke of twelve, the Earl of Surrey and the Duke of Richmond issued from the upper gate, and took their way towards Herne's Oak. The moon was shining brightly, and its beams silvered the foliage of the noble trees with which the park was studded.
"I have a feeling that if I quite understood what you meant, I shouldn't regard that as a compliment." "Very likely not." Herne's dark face brooded over the distant water. He did not so much as glance at the girl beside him, though her eyes were studying him quite frankly. "Why are you so painfully discreet?" she said suddenly. "Don't you know that I want you to give me advice?"
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