Glass _nSi^3^ Bnnic ^?i \ ^ Copyright]^". COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. m 1- "^(^/o A WARRANT A PLAY IN FIVE ACTS BY F. THAUMAZO BROOKLYN, N. Y. 1909 Copyright, 1909, by FREDERICK LOEVIUS ©CID 17721 I A- DEDICATED MOST AFPECTIOiNATELY TO MY FRIEND DR. MAURICE TEN BRINK DRAMATIS PERSONAE. Irving' Combden. MiMred Comfcden, his wife. Mr. Wortihin-gt'on, her father. Mrs. Worthington, her mother. Gus, her brother. Kate Hennessey. James Worthington. Cutler ^ LitchfieM Virving's friends. Ruby Hart ) Dr. Martin. Dr. Pump-Nio'k'ell, nicknia>med ^'un'cle Hen'ri**. Mislhelle. Seven Prisoners. Two WO'm'en-Missionaries. Four Boys. A Keeper. A Detective. A Messenger boy. A Servant. Prisoners. Officers of the Police. Time: Begin of twentieth century. Place of action : Nicw York. I. ACT. A neatly, but not richly furnished roam representing Parlor and Library, one side-door leads to hall, the other to rooms; in rear of stage are windows to street. Mildred Combden and Dr. Martin sitting at table. Dr. Martin. As I said before, madam, I do not regret tihe fact that Mr. Com'bden has left the hospital. Mrs. Combden. Still, I remember how the directors praised him while he was superintending- it. Dr. Marti n. You are rig^ht. But that was a mistake of ooursie. Ainybody is liable to make a mistake, you know. There is more ease, though, since his absence. He was too nervous, you understand. He was all that you call a crank. We have learned to be 'more careful in selecting a new superinteindent. That person must be trustworthy : w (fspitielfu'llly). 0*h, I do! And I shall be prepared. Speak frankly. I will not abuse your corufidence. Dr. Martin. You cannot hold me responsible, Mrs. Combden. I did not say anything. Mrs. Combden. This is the way you men always treat us. We give our confidence and you return sus- picion. D r. M a r t i n. Well, Mrs. Combden. You must understand, Mrs. Combden, I am very sorry for you. Therefore, excuse my questions if they be bold. Was there anythino^ like moral force you brought to bear on Mr. Combden — Mrs. Comd'en. Go ahead, Doctor. (With sar- casm.) I see you are one of the initiated. Dr. Martin. Yes, he told me. You k-now, we were quite chums. But I now understand that you are suffering under very distressed circumstamces. I also know about his intentions. To be silent is to invite crime. My advice could avert a possible misfortune. I, therefore, urge you, madam, to aipply at the proper autho- rities. iM r s. C o m b d e n. I thank you very m'uch, Doctor. My own reflections have brought me to the same con- clusions. Rut I should have to wait till he abandoned me. 8 D r. Marti n. Not necessarily. If your husban J utters a threat, and you unders'tand, it is to your interest that he does — you can have him — well — say — Mrs. C o m b d e n. Arrested ? Is it >not ? Horrible ! Dr. Martin (rising). You will not be the first woman that served herself well by making the time suit- afble to thefrself. After all, this is your aiff'air. I have done my duty. 1 have warned you. (M r s. C o m b d e n. I am sorry that I am not able to detain you. But I fear, Irving might insult you if he met you here. I am quite used to suiclh sicenes. Dr. Martin (indignantly) . How vile ! Mrs. C o m b d e n. Why, he threatened to kill any- body wiho happens to visit me witho'ut his knowledge. D r. M a r t i n. Good 'by, Mrs. Combden. (Exit.) Gus. Worthing ton and Kate Hennessey appear as soon as Doctor Martin has left Mrs. Combden. Mrs. C o m b d e n. You knew who was here ? G u s. Why, I heard the most part of the conver- sation. Does he not corroborate my assertions? Mildred, I hope, he has not spoken in vam and you will act on his advice. Mrs. C Oi m b id en. But hoiw can I do it ? Gus. I and Irving are on very strained relations. I cannot arrange matters personally. Miss Hennessey. What did you intend to do? iM r s. Co m b den. Ask Mr. Combden, whether he really intended to leave me. Miss Hennessey. Rely on me, Mrs. Combden. My endeavors s'hall satisfy you. Gus. I knew that you are my sisters as well my friend. Miss Hennessey. And I am sure, my dear Gus, that I am worthy of both her friendship and 'Con- fidence. You will find, Mrs. Combden, that I am worthy of your brother's affection. Mrs. Com b d en. I never doubted it. G u s (rudely affectionate). Oh, Kate, what unneces- sary assurances ! 9 Mrs. C o m b d e n. Stay with us, Miss Hen^n^ssey. He seems always cheerful in your pT-esence. G u s. I am leaving you. We are exjpecting you at home to-night, Kate. MissHennessey. I accept the invitation glad- ly, Gus. G u s. So long ! (Exit.) Mrs. C o m b d e n. There must come an end to all that. Mind, he is getting jealous. Imagine his temper in such a state of insanity! One cannot receive anybody without 'hiding that fact from him. Sho-uld he, perohance,. becom-e aware of things taking place here he dislikes, he might be driven to commit some irresponsible deed. There must be made an end to all that. Miss Hennessey. That creature ! He has no property? M r s. C o m b d e ^n. He has nothing. But I am well advised. Miss Hennessey. He deserves all he can get. M r s. C o m b d e n. You remember how he used to repeat : Miss Worthington, you are a good girl. Miss Hennessey. And, certainly, you were good to him. Mrs. C o m b d e n (offended). But he paid the penalty. MissHennessey (dryly.) And how happy you are ! Mrs. C o m b d e n (suppressing her anger). I hold my fate in my hands. But while I will be free and happy he shall work in all the sweat of his misery and degra- dation — and for me. Ah, how he will like it! To be mar- ried and not have a wife, to support a woman and not get t(he comforts of wedlock. Miss He-nnessey. Serves him right, that bold thing. Thinks there be nothing good enough in our so- ciety. M r s. C o m b d e n. Tell him — I hear his steps — ^you had heard he wanted to depart. You are smart enough — I need not Instruct you. 10 Miss Hennessey. Leave it to me. Irving, entering, puts hat om deisk and shakes hands with Miss Hennessey. Irving (cordially). Quite a surprice, Miss Hennes- sey. Miss Hennessey. Why, Mr. Combden, since yo'U do not care to come to us, w^e must needs visit you. I r V i n g*. I, really, have no time left for (paying* visits. I have no time for recreation. I feel worn out. I sometimes think I ought to lie down and take a deep breath and get a rest. M i s s H e n n e s s e y. You ought to remember, Mr. Combden, that gossip is a busy chatter. You never are seen with Mrs. Combden, and the Worthingtons feel the slight. The world is full of rumors. Irving. Oh, again the old story. The world t What is it! Your gossiping friends, your deriding neigh- bors, your vain relatives who imagine that the napkin or the kitchen set they have surprised you with on your wedding day insures their rig'ht to interfere with your doings and sayings, with alii your affairs and opinions. You have to leave that world, to find yourself. M r s. C o m b d e n. But one cannot live all by one- self. Irving looks at her meditatingly, turns away. Miss Hennessey. Since when are you an enemy of the world? Irving, r am far from being an enemy of the world. But I object to the petty kindness of some people that like to go through the pockets of your clothes in search of a petty secret. It is the ignorant suspicion of petty souls that I object to. And, furthermore, (stand- ing in front of Miss Hennessey, with tremulous voice) to listen to the criticisms of a miserable lot of inquirers and false prophets, is more than my self-respect can stand. If one does not become mad in such a world, he, certainly, becomes miserabl}^ indifferent (walks up and down, agitated). 11 Mrs. C o m b d e n. Come and look at our baby, Miss Hennessey. Mrs. Combden and Miss H'ennessey leave. Irving alone. On a new mission of espionage. Contemptible lot! See the baby ! — Poor, poor child ! Surely, he had no bath to-day. (Goes into next room, returns soo^n). Out all day, dragging the babe along. And whither goes she? Comiplains here, tears there ! O'h, I am a regular monster. No house of servants, no equipage, no box in the opera. (Bitterly laughing). Ha, ha, what a monster I am. — But, patience. One more year and we shall live in more luxurious surroundings. O-ne more year of hard labor. One long, dreary year, no peace within your own four Avails, no glimpse of cheerful calmness. Perhaps she'd take pride in my name. My work will attract attention, I shall work every night. (Sits down at the desk, reads and makes notes). ''Happiness to gain iby liberating the soul from all sensual cupidity and imagination !" Ah, Plato, to what amounts the sO'ul in a married man. We are all dum'mies, and who'Cver is none will be unhappy, ridiculed, and shoved aside. Miss Hennessey returns. M i s s H e n n e s s e y. What a wonderful baby ! Irving (in thoughts). Yes. MissHennessey. Yet — rather delicate. Irving (as above, nodding). Miss Hennessey. I supipose, like all fathers you have great illusions about it. Irving (turning around). I leave them to the happier sex. MissHennessey. I am sure, you are happy. Irving (trying to smile). Oh, how happy ! Miss Hennessey. You have reasons for it. Such a good wife, such worthy relations, such a darling child ! Yet you look as though you had grave thoughts about the future. 12 Irving. H\a, ha, you are an excellent critic. (Aside.) ril put pepper into that dish of suspicion. Miss Hennessey. What a flatterer you are. But we know each ofher too W'eill. Irving. I know you well, Miss Hennessey. I can read your thoughts. 'Miss Hennessey (resolutely). Then guess my present thought. Irving (pacing up and down, agitated, standing before her). I guess it. You are thinking this very moiment, that I a'm aibout to lea^ve the baby to his mother and the mother to her fate, and that I will save my life from the damnation of her circle by removing to a dist- ance yet unknown to you. Ha, ha, you see how well I am informed about wihat is going on around me. iMiss Hennessey. No, Mr. Combden, it is im- possible. You can not do it. Think of the unhappy lot — ! Irving (with affected indifference). Nonsense, I never stop to consider the lot of others. I busy myself about my own affairs. Miss Hennessey. But how can you ever be happy when your conscience will bear such crime. Irving. Crime has no conscience. Fellows like me laugh at what you fear. Miss Hennessey (in tears). I know, you do not mean it. Irving. Why, my dear Miss Hennessey, I mean what I say. Miss Hennessey. And will you tell your wife of your intentions? Irving. Now, do not take me for a fool. I might tell her. You know, I am frank and can not have se- crets. But I will tell her only at the moment I am pre- pared to go. Mrs. Combden enters. Mrs. Combden. Why in tears, Miss Hennessey? Miss Hennessey. Mr. Combden told me such a dreadful story. M r s. C o m b d e n. I never heard him tell any. What was it about? 13 Irving (ironically). In proper time comes every fruit. Have patience. Miss Hennessey. It is getting very late. I m*ust go. Good by. Mrs. Com'bden and Miss Hennessey leave, Irving opens slowly door to inner room, enters it and soon returns with ba'by in arms. How sweet you sleep, darling. And to think that a mother of such a treasure could have tho-ughts entirely inimical to its safety. Innocent, little creature ! I never, never leave you. My smiling boy ! Happy not know your father's misery and not to feel those pangs of love that finds no echo in a loved one's heart. Oh, 'how good nursing should invigorate you. Poor, poor thing! (liste- ning.) She comes (kisses baby). Sleep, honey! (Enters next room, returns alone.) While Irving was out, Mildred has coime in. Right after Irving returns, and, ignoring her, goes to his desk. M r s. C o m b d e n. You want anything? Irving (at his desk). No. Mrs. Comb'den. You had no supper. Irving. I had enough. Mrs. C o m b d e n. Good night ! She leaves, Irving looks meditatingly at door through which she disappeared. After walking up and down a few minutes, he sits down at desk. Irving (writing). And that is my wife! So cold, so strangely indifferent. M r s, C o m Jb d e n apipears in nightgown, pretends to busy herself, approaches him. Irving (looking up). I thought you went to bed. M r s. C o m b d e n. I cannot sleep. Irving. Hm. Mrs. C o m b d e n. Irving. Irving. Yes, dear. 14 M r s. C o m b d e n. I wanted to speak to you. Irving. But no tears ! M r s. C cm lb d en. I wainted t)o ask you (agitated) — Irving. I thought you wanted to speak to me. Mrs. Combden (crying). Irving, what are you going to do? Irving (mildly). Please stop crving and let us talk. Mrs. Combden (as above) . Think of our child ! Irving (agitated). No scene, please. Mrs. Combden (as above). See, how unhappy you have made me ! Irving (rising and taking his hat). You fairly drive me out. Mrs. Combden (calm). Go, I know I can not hold you. Irving (sits down again). You could save your- self and me all this unnecessary exjcitement if you would banish that sneaking suspicion. It invites worry and up- sets your mind. Mrs. C o m b d e n. That is yo-ur suspicion. You never listen. Irving. No, no, your are my good girl Mildr-ed. They want to kill our happiness. Do not listen to them. Mrs. Combden (with subdued sobs). If I were sure of yo'ur love, I would close my door to the rest of the world. Oh, Irving, how they hunt me ! Irving (taking her on his lap). Poor, poor Mil- dred. I admit I have wronged you. I have been cold to you. B\ut you torment me with your tears. Does it never occur to you that suspicious inquiries coiuld hurt my senti- ments of honor? No, my girl, you need not close your door to the rest of the world. But you assure your visitors that they will be treated hospitably here if they bring an open face, an open 'heart with them. Bell rings. Mrs. Combden retires. James Worthing ton and G u s enter. Worthington. Rather late. Irving. You are right. But welcome ! 15 W o r t h i n g t o n. Well, thought I, Irving is cert- ainly a most happy man. Thinking of nobody but his little beloved wife. What wonder! Since it is the best girl I ever knew, yo-u carried off. Irving. But would you not like to take your coat off? W o r t h i n g t o n. It is late. I suppose you are soon to retire? Irving. Do not mind it. I was just going to read a little. W o r t h i n g t o n. If you insist (takes coat off). I r v i n g. And now Til prqpare a cup of tea. It is the ibest I can offer on this cool spring evening. W o r t h i n g t o n. Not for me. I shall not drink anything. Irving. It is soon done. Worthington. You are too kind. Sit down and let us have a litte chat. Irving. Allright. Let us have a little chat. I have not seen you for some time. Worthington. That's just why I came around. And since you know w^hat interest I take in my brother's child, you will find it pardonable wlhen I wanted to bathe my old heart in this garden of contentment. They sit down. Irving (aside). What diplomacy ! (aloud) Rather a dry bath and quite a miracle. Worthington. Though I know that the work- ing of a miracle is not a part of your admiration, I want to remind you of the words of one great statesman well versed in all modern sciences and literature I T V i n g. I do not think that a statesman whose deepest belief i's in the credulity of ^the masses knows of another miracle than the vote. As to science and litera- ture — ^these subjects are inimical to his interests. Worthington. There is a good deal of truth in 3^our words. And they fill my heart with real joy. For a man who speaks thus most certainly acts likewise, and 16 weighs with never ceasing intelligence and accuracy the steps he is about to take. Irving. I tcould not walk far if I did it. I should have to take the feet in my hands in order to weigh my steps. Worthington. You are modest. And, there- fore, your value grows in my eyes. Irving. Please, do not view me through a micros- cope. G u s. You seem to be amused. Irving. So I am. But do not participate in the conversation. You (cut it short. Now, then! What is your object. Let us not dance round the fire. Your little nephew is sleepy. He nearly caught fire. Gus meets a wink from Mr. Worthington and leans back in chair. Worthington. Object? If you call my inquiry as to your happiness and welfare an object, — Irving. You were sure of it when you entered. What makes yo'u doubt it now? Worthington. I do not exactly doubt it. But I should have expected to find your wife with you. Irving. She is in bed, and I was studying. Worthington. Glad to hear it. That means you are making plenty of money. While Mildred stayed with her parents during the holidays, she told us about it. Gus. And why, if this be the case, do you not provide her with more comfort? I T v i n g. I never refuse her anything that I can afford to supply her with. Gus. What a joke ! Irving. You are a very foolish fellow. Gus. Because I do not live like that fellow in the barrel? (iShbwing at poiclkiet.) I am uip to diat)e ! Irving. Oh, your brain is in your pocket. I know it. Your skull can not coin anything but money. But now I sh'all ta'lik busim'ess. (StennJy.) I pteirceive now that my wife has utilized the holidays in the house of her parents for an explanation of her various grievances, has implored your wise action and has painted me devilishly 17 black. You have come to-night with an object. Now, Mr. Worthington, sit still, please. Let me tell you that I shall not listen to any propositions from you or any- body else. I am resolved to treat all such interference with the contempt that imprudence and cant deserve. She has her own tongue to speak with, and her own will to act upon. You are cruel. Worthington. Excuse me. But you speak of cruelty. Do you not treat your wife 'cruelly? But since 1 know that your real sentiments are noible, and t'hat tlhis connection has only made you so miserably lunhappy, that you are hardly aware of the injustice you are treating her with, I (cam-e to offer you my advice and, if necessary, my money — to escape from this dilemma. You earn a good salary, you could make a finer living. Let us say, unhappy circumstances prevent it. The best intentions have been tried and have failed. You know it as well as I, and you ask yourself: What is the next step? Irving. You are wrong. My position is very clear to me. But you are laboring under delusions. G'U s. You do not intend keeping her in this prison all her life? Irving (scoinfully). If this be a prison to her — she may go. W o r t h i n g t o n. Go ! This is a matter which must be legally settled. Irving (indignant). Enough, I say. If she has tired of me, she may go. I shall never claim her, never interfere with her. If she so demands it — I shall go. W o r t h i n g t o n. Remember, she is young. She does not intend burying her hopes. A mere word Irving rises suddenly. Irving (as above). A mere w^ord is nothing to you ! It is all to me. The legal settlement would be but the introiduction to a drama for w/liidh the uncle is kind enougli to act as manager. (Resolved.) I have been a fool, but now I am prepared to meet you on equal grounds. I have treated you politely ; you deserve contempt. I demand that you leave me. (Pointing at door.) 18 W o r t h i n g t o n. I am, as yet, in the house of my niece. Irving. I command you to go, to go this very minute. W o r t h i n g t o n. Let us agree upon a settlement. Worthington and Giis leave their seats. Irving. Settlement? (In rage.) I am not fright- ened by the dignity of your bombastic phrases. And every tie of unison is torn; your interference has torn it. Mind, torn every tie. That unscrupulous woman abides by your counsel. By your counsel ! Oh, mischief and lie are your w^eapons. It has an end. (Closing desk.) And if you have not gone within two minutes, (taking his hat) you will force me to leave — ^never to return. Mrs. C o m b d e n, half fainting, sits down. Mrs. Combden. Dear Irving! Irving. Ah. that makes the worthy set complete. Worthington. Your actions convince me that you are a companion unfit to associate any longer with my niece. Irving. Make haste ! W o r t ih i n g t o n (at door) . You'll regret it ! Worthington and Giis leave. Irving locks door, sinks exhausted into chair and covers his face with hand. Mrs. Combden bends down before him. Irving (suddenly jumps up). Viper! (Points to door) . Mrs. Combden slowly walks away, sobbnig. Irving falls into chair. 19 11. ACT. A doctor's office luxuriously furnished. A case with instru- ments, another with various small bottles containing medicines, Books. One side door leads to inner rooms, one to vestibule; .middle door to waiting room. Cutler and Dr. Pump-Nickel. Cutler. He very seldom visits you? D r. P u m p - N i c k e 1. If he visits anybody, Irving visits me, his friend. He knows well his friend. Why, after his discharge from the hospital, he sat daily with me here and had supper with me. If he wants an advice, this is the place he looks for, and if he has a secret, this is the ear he confides it to. Cutler. Into what miserable a pith he has fallen. And, I understand, you had a hand in it. D r. P u m p - N i c k e 1. He is not very happy. But his own conscience led him to that course. It was. though, not all done lege artis. There was an abundance of her vol'umen (describing circumference) contra his errors and, as he felt in honor bound to restore the balance and, yet, was unable to reduce her volumen, he was convinced of the necessity of throwing his whole value in the coun- terpois. Cutler. He never yielded to my advice. I warned him. And yet, indirectly, I am to blame for all his troubles. D r. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Come on. You know what interest I take in Irving. And, also, what kind of a man I am. I told you how it happened, that they got married. Treat me with the same confidence and tell me of the part you took in the affair. Discretion, of course, is a matter of honor. Cutler. There is no secret about it, uncle Henri. I might as well recall the incident. We were having a jolly good time. It was a beautiful, dry, starry winters 20 night. We had had quite a friendly chat in the company of a juicy steak and a sparkling bottle of wine. We were too animated to depart from each other and return home. Dr. Pump-Nickel. Wine is good, a steak more to my taste, and a girl Cutler. And a soft-lipped and cheerful woman is best. Jubilant in the glory of our intimacy and good nature, we talked friendly of everybody and amused our- selves with everything. Irving, suddenly, full of an enthusiasm that sometimes carries him off into exalted illusions, felt a burning desire to finish this nighfs joy with a piece of out-of-the-ordinary romantic adventure. "You need not look far," said I, ''were I in your boots, Fd whistle my serenade at the window of a certain girl, and the next minute should find me in her arms." "Quite easy,*' said he, "and be sure, I have the co'urage of a Marat and should not hesitate to storm a bastille to ac- complish this final triumph. What is her name, and where is the place?" Thereupon I and the other comrades made merry, for we could not realize that he did nto know whom we meant. Finally I mentioned Miss Mildred Worthington's nam^e. Holy child of sterility ! How trans- formed was he instantly. He cast a glance at each of us, a glance that I never shall forget — ^^so full of horrified significance. "I see, you are in an irresponsible con- dition," said he. And he hurried away. Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. And since then you never met? Cutler. Very seldom. And, try as I may, to ap- proach him in the old confidential style of comrades — he coolly satisfied himself with saluting me and ipassing by. Dr. Pump- Nickel. Always the same. S e r va n t (opening door to waiting room). Doctor, there is a lady here that's very nervous. Dr. Pump-Nickel. Nervous, eh? A morphine or co'cainefiend, I suppose. Will be right back. (Exit.) Cutler. (Alone.) I have been wrongly informed. He is innocent. Ruby Hart enters with Dr. Pump-Nickel. 21 Dr. Pump -Nickel. Mr. Cutler is no stranger to you. What a glorious day ! Cutler (shaking her hand and leading her to chair). Indeed, a promising day. We have not met for some time. Ruby Hart. Who wants to be bothered with the company of an old spinster? (Refuses the seat.) Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. He, he, a nice species of a spinster. RubyHart. I prefer to be a spinster. The per- fect maturity promises more intellect than a half deve- loped freshness. But it is not compliments I have come to exchange. Strange as it may seem to you, I carry the salvation of a friend on my tongue, and I want to engage your help. I can speak frankly to you, for you both are friends of Mr. Combden. Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. They consider me his best friend. Cutler. I bear no grudge against him, but he dis- likes me. RubyH art. Forgive him, if he ever insulted you. I know him well, (turning away ; passionately). And I for forgave him, for he needs friends. Cutler (taking her hands). Ah, Miss Ruby Hart, how could he turn away from you ! Ruby Hart. And why not? Is he not his own master? I honor him still. Because his is a heart filled with the tenderest sentiments; his is an ideal glorying in all the magnificence of bright confidence and hope for mankind; his is a judgment, the sword of which cuts his own souil deeper than that of the 'abusers'. But his is a temperament that belies his very nature: and his diaboli- cally fiery nerve bends itself to destroy his gifted life. And what I have feared is going to happen. His wife, not capable of explaining his w^ays, has decided to part from him, but to secure his public humiliation first. Oh. Mr. Combden can not stand it. Cutler. Speak out. Miss Hart. He has every- thing I own and am at his disposal. Miss Hart. I knew it. But let us go on. My father is one of the directors of the hospital of which 22 Irving, till recently, was the superintendent. From an- other director he heard what is going to befall our friend, and, suspecting me of malice, he related it to me. His wife has taken out a warrant against Irving and he has no property, no security. — Cutler (indignant). A warrant? Just like them. Market people. Onions and garlic. Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Dr. Martin is planning re- venge for the exposure. Irving has acted imprudently. Cutler. He has acted manly. D r. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Reputation is the first prin- ciple of a business. And prudence the first maxim of a citizen. Cutler. Do you fear for your reputation? Then leave this matter to us. Prudence ought to forbid you to associate yourself with us in a beginning which could Sipoil your reputation wat'h the Wortihingtons and that sort. Ruby Hart. You wilil not betray us, Doctor? Dr. Pump-Nickel. Rest assured, Miss Hart, Irving is my friend. R u b y H a r t. Will you act ? Dr. Pump-Nickel. Instantly. What can I do ? Ruby Hart. Go and tell him of the warrant. (Reflecting.) Tell me, where I can find him. I want to be sure of the accomplishment of an act that suffers no delay. Cutler. He is a bookkeeper in some scorpions office. D r. P u m p - N i c k e 1. I can not find his card. Rely on me. Fll find him. Ruby Hart. Pray, Doctoir, never reflect twice before you extend a helping hand. Dr. P u m p - N i'C k e 1. I can not remember the number of the office. Cutler. Is it not in the Hermion Building? Dr. Pump-Nickel. Yes, yes. RubyHart. I shall go through the building and find him. 23 Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1 (taking card from table). Here it is. R u b y H a r t. Good by ! (Exit.) Cutler (fixing the doctor). What have you to do with it? Are you simply a miserable business man or a wilful gamester? Since when date your illfeelings against Irving? Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Man, you are disgusting me. What can I have against him? Take a dose of mor- phine and get quiet, or a tablet of strychnine. That girl upsets your nerves. Go on, have a smoke and puff your suspicions awa}'. Bell rings. Dr. Pump-Nickel oipens door to vestibule. Soon after Mrs. Comb den and Gus appear. The newcomers show uneasiness at sight of Cutler who faces them calmly. M r s. C o m b d e n. I was quite free in visiting you out of office hours. D r. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Just make yourself at home. I am really delighted at your show of friendship. M r s. C o m b d e n. I know you are a gentleman, :and thus I am encouraged to treat you with familiarity. Dr. Pump- N i c 'k e 1. Sit down, please. (Intro- •du'cing.) 'Mrs. Combden, Mr. Worthington, Mr. Cutler. Gus. No need of any introduction. We know Mr. Cutler too well. Cutler. But not well enough, it seems, to under- stand yoiur positio'U in his presence. Gus. My position? I 'have never blotted the fair name of anybody like somebody else. Cutler. Like Mr. Cutler, for instance. Now, my good man, if ever I have abused anybody's name in ;^busive terms — it was not the owner's of a fair one. Gus. Are you alluding to my sister, sir? 'C u tier (ca-lmly). I am alluding to anybody. M r s. C o m b d 'C n. Let it be enough. Gus. You will be called to vindicate yourself. Cutler. At your service. Will be exceedingly Tiappy for the opportunity. Good by! (Exit.) 24 Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Do not mind him. He is a ruffian. Mrs. Combden. Now, Doctor, let m>e explain our coming here. My brother, having some matters of trans- action with my husband's employer, was quite astonished at not finding Irving there. Upon his solicitation he was told Irving had felt too ill and was permitted to take a day off. You can imagine my grief, after listening to such news, to not find him at home and in the proper care of his wife. In my plight I did not know what doing. I hope nothing has befallen him. And so, remem- bering the warm sympathy of our mutual friend, I be- thought myself of the possibility of finding him here, in your care. Dr. P u m ;p - N i c 'k e 1. He was not here. But while I deeply deplore the cause of your anxiety, more so, since you meet here with disappointment, I heartily rejoice in your approval of my sympathy. I am your friend, madame, as you well know, and I shall serve you, as such, with pleasure. If there be anything you wish me to do M r s. C o m b d e n. There is nothing. Doctor, that I wished you to do. I hoped to find him here and take him home. Or learn from you of his wihere'abouts. Dr. P u m p - N i ic k e 1. I assure you again, ma- dame, he was not here. Mrs. Combden. I know you will not hide it from me. If you knew how unhappy I am, but, in spite of all misfortune, am bent on bringing about a through happi- ness in our dual life, that should be one, if it occurs to you, that the future of a baby is a sacred duty to not only father and mother, but to every right thinking man and woman, oh ! you could not, then, look on with indifference while a rolling avalan'che threatens to bury the very existence of a family under its crushing weight. D r. P u m p - N i € ik e 1. Is it as bad as all that ? 'Mrs. Combden (nodding). It is. Gus. Can you tell where Irving is. Dr. Pump-Nickel. I have not seen him for some time, sir. 26 Mrs. C o m b d e n (wiping tears). Perhaps, you can aid me. Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Well, I really do not — quite see. M r s. C m b d e n. You belonged to his friends who persuaded him to marry me, and made me believe he lov- ed me. I appeal to your honesty, Doctor. I have been deceived. Dr. P u m p - N i € k e 1. I am sure, he loves you still. Mrs. C o m b d e n. But he is cruel — Yet, Irving is a good-hearted fellow. It is the company of such degene- rates, as Mr. Cutler, that spoils him. But is one a man who throws his family aside for the sake of some friend? Dr. P u m p - N i c k e I (reflecting). Hm — indeed — you are on the right track. M r s. C o m b d e n. I could forgive him. I do not care to cause him such sorrow, as relatio-ns are desirous of troubling him with. If I'll see him to-day, I shall be calm, nay, I shall be gentle as never before, and I know he wiH forget the past. Dr. Pump- Nickel. There— are — circumstances. Do you remember Miss Ruby Hart? Gus. Ah! Mrs. Co m b d e n (agitated, yet calm). And ? Mrs. Combden is listening attentively to noise from side door, whither she had gone as though in search of something. Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Miss Ruby Hart was here to-day and spoke of Irving. M r s. C o m b d e n (agitated, suddenly returns to the other side where Gus and Doctor are). How foolish I am! Did I not want to forgive and forget? As for that woman — ^she is too co'mmon a thing to take up any O'f our time, and (quickly turning to middle entrance) if it be for her sake, that he neglects his matrimonial duties, I can rest assured that his will not be the happier lot. I 26 bid you goodby, Doctor, silence. Guard our confidence ' with Doctor, Gus, and Mrs. Combden leave through middle door. Irving and Litchfield enter through side door. Irving. There cannot be anything more stupid than the blind belief in an authority. Never trust a word. Always doubt it. Never take a truth for granted unless your mind has totally conceived it, and then be ready to defend it. It really pains m^e to listen to a student. One could rather suffer the acrobatic hallucinations of an il- literate who flies in a jiffy from earths painful misery to heavens golden promises. Litchfield. You are a skeptic. Irving. It is not worth while wreaking cnes brain to find it out. I am simply a sentimental fool. For fellows like mie tihe task of -sinking into positive re- searches is very hard. We are amidst a yawling crowd and cannot collect our thoughts ; we yell like the rest. Our mind is like the wind that whizzes through the trem- bling trees over a meadow; it is like the breeze that blows the sand up over the housetops of the village road; like a whining storm that sweeps over hill and bush and forest, — first meekly crying its agony, tlhen whistling despair and misery from a thousand tired and dried gigan- tic lungs, and finally throwing its fury and rage over the habitations of mankind, tearing and smashing and rolling away its resources, and stunning the wondering world into stupidity. Calmly and slowly and carefully do we weigh our convictions and answers, while no pain has smitten our passions. We stagger in stagnation as a sud- den adversi't> props up to threaten our progress. We take a deep breath of indignation and courage to throw down all resolute opposition, and once fixed with the pas- sion of rage, do not philosophize as to the harm we har- vest or to the injustice we incur. To be ever calm and dispassionate is to be ever reminded by the alertness of an undisturbed tranquility of the soul, means to be ever unmolested by any sentiments of love and hatred. And do not praise me that soul ! 27 Litchfield. Shades of Plato and Aristotle ! Your wisest counsels are ignored by pour best pupils. Oh, the sentiments of love and hatred were not known to you! Irving. Why confuse ideal godliness with pain- ridden humankind ! We do all not to suffer and not to fear, said other wise men of Greece. And just so, my friend. And in order to live without suffering and fear, let us in time of need and obstruction conquer the enemy that creates them. Let us be human and enjoy our human weaknesses, if they be pleasureable, moderately and wisely, but let us never forget to build upon our human imagnitude and let us not permit our bestial masters to prescribe for us. Litchfield. And yet, one could continually doubt ; and find the foregoing premises wrong. And you can never reach the goal of absolute truth. Irving. You are a philosopher, and as such doubt ; doubt is a factor you cannot do without. Doubt is but so long permissible as knowledge will uphold it. But beyond that — doubt is the mother of suspicion, and suspicion is a field bedecked with lightning bugs. You may stand on the road and gaze at the glimmering lights yonder. You may delight in the dreamy probability of a wondrous city waiting there, filled with brilliiant spectacles. But as you proceed to approach it, you will sink into the poi- sonous mud of a pestiferous meadow. Litchfield. And still — with all your armor of knowledge, you are not happy. Doubt has not satisfied you. Irving. If carefully weighed, it has saved me from a great many disappointments. But the thoughtful mind has too much to deplore within the sphere of conventio- nality and force ; it has too often to withdraw from plea- sure. Acquaintances, friends, love, and lore are not for him who knows them best, for their thoroughness is lacking. The thoughtful man seems to possess strange moods, to walk strange ways. And the world is strange to the man of strange ways and mood. The thoughtless are the happy people, and are well received. 28 Litchfield. You have not always spn^k^en thus. You are overworked, and I advise you to abstain from your nightly studies. Irving. Just a little nervous. The scene of last night will not leave my mind. Litchfield. Come, Irving, divert your mind. And tlhe-n go home and speak calmly to her, and make up. Irving. Oh, if I could! But that cold eye, that affected mannerism, that reticent answer, that calculated behavior of Mildred freeze my tongue. (After a pause, resolute.) Still, I will go. She will love me the more for this frankness. Doubt shall not point to danger and disappointment, doubt shall not sneer my happiness away. Dr. Pump- Nickel returns. Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. What criminal negligence ! Irving. W;hat excitement ! And no good-morning! Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Why, your wife just kft me. Irving. Mildred here ? D r. P u m p - N i c k e 1. You talked so loud that she recognized your voice. living. But she did not listen to our conver- sation? D r. P u m p - N i c k e 1. I wish you had less courage and more forethought. Satisfied to know you in the house, she hurried off. Irving. What was the nature of her visit? Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. She heard you were sick and was careworn. Irving. Ah, I must run home ! (Going to door.) Dr. Pump-Nickel. I thought you w^ere to leave the city. Irving. I — leave the city? Nonsense. D r. P u mp -Nickel. I advise you to do it. Irving (returning). And why? D r. P u m p - N i c k e 1. To give her time. She ought to be left alone for a while. She might, then, recognise * her mistake. 29 Irving. Riddles and nothing but riddles. As a matter of fact, if anyone of us has made a mistake, it was I. Dr. Pump-Nickel. Yet, I advise you to leave. You know, I am your friend. Litchfield. If it be impossible to adjust matters otherwise, the only conclusive step to take, would be a suit for divorce. Irving. Never! Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Litchfield's advice is good. And tihe Worthingtons wild .eadily name and pay for a correspondent. Irving. Dirty, too dirty. Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Did you not receive at the office the visit of somie of your friends to-day? Irving. No, I did not. But why? D r. P u m p - N i € k e 1. I merely ask. Mrs. Comb- den meant some lady friend might wish to interfere. Irving (restless). There must be something in all that. Mildred here, advice to leave, a lady friend. A warning, suspicion, jealously. The Worthingtons are ca- pable of doing anything for revenge. But she is my wife. She is a mother; the mother of my child. She cannot array herself against me, against her husband, against the father of her child, — because the uncle demands it. — No, no, uncle Henri, you see ghosts. I do. not doubt your friendship. But you see ghosts. You cannot feel the li'eartache of a father, mor his joy, 'his hope, his strength. You have never appeased a pitifully shrieking baby in your arms. The winning smile from tiny lips has never thanked you. Servant (announcing). A gentleman wishes to see Mr. Combden. Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Send him in ! (Servant opens door, exit.) A Detective enters. Detective (approaching Irving). Is your name Irving Gombden? Irving. Yes, sir. 30 Detective. I have here a w^arrant for you arrest. L i t € -h f i e 1 d (seizing arm of Irving) . Impos- sible ! Irving (determined) . Well ! Detective. Issued on the request of 'Mrs. Mildred Combden. Irving (ipained). And why? D e t e c t i ve. Can I speak to yo-u alone? Dr. Pirrri'p-Nickel meets the eye of Irving Combden and turns away a^bashed. Irving (aside with Detective). What can I do? Detective. The accusations are of the meanest nature. But I am sorry for you, because you are a gentle- man. If you have a lawyer — ^spare no money. If you have none, Til give you one. Prepare yourself for the worst, for the judge has made up his mind,yand it will be darnd hard to say a word to yo'ur benefit. But money goes far, and my lawyer is influential. Mr. Worthingt'On and Mrs. Combden enter. 'M r. W o r t h i n g t o n (shaking Dr. Pump-Nickers hand). Doctor, you are a gentleman. Irving. Is that your wish, Mildred, or your uncle's revenge? Mrs. Combden. For the ohild^s sake ! Irving (agitated). Let us go, officer! 31 III. ACT. I. SCENE. Jail. In the rear a long and broad bench, on which some prison- ers lie of sit. Side door to hall, partly visible. Soime prisoners walk up and down in despair. Some converse freely. PRISONERS. First Prison. Ha, ha, ba ! I tell ye boys we'll have sport. I seen a feller \viian oif about your age in a place just li'ke this. He was just as careless about his future and that of his soul — just like you. Fourth Prison. Just stop j'ust. (Men laiugh.) Fifth Prison (delirious) . The Christians have stolen from Golgotha And hung 'round us the cross. First Woman. I spoke to him a few words — F o 11 r t 'h P r i s o n. Just like now. F i r s t W o m a n. Yes, just as I speak to you now, I asked hiim to open his heart to the omnipotent mercy o-f our Lord — • Second Woman. Blessed be His Name ! 35 'First Woini'ain. Anid penmit the entrance of the gneatest fneed'oim oif giood wiH to altlimamkindan^d of friend- slhip with tihe wofM a'nid God, tihiat he miay acquire self- reliance to sustain him in all trials and temptations — Boys. It is quite many a year ago, * A tramp like you and me, Stood likewise in a prisoner's woe And died that we be free. F i r s t W o m a n. He was moved 'by my words and converted and returned to the lo^ving serine of O'ur Lord. Second Woman. Blessed be His Name ! First Woman. And o wonder of our Lord ! Second Woman. Blessed be His Namie ! 'F i r s t W o m a n. The next time I saw him . Fourth Prison. He 'had an employment office and sold any young girl that cam'e 'long to any of your paymasters that co-uld put up for it. Laughter, whistling, grunts. Organ plays again. Second W o m a n. My heart breaks, when I see these boys already in the clutches of the devil. First Boy. You're an old dope. We aint done notlhin'. S e c o n d Woman. I say to you : Return, while there is time. Confess your sins trustfully and God will forgive yom. Have nO' mercy with yourself and the Lord will have mercy with you. Kneel down ^before your Maker and He will raise you up. Pray to him and He wild give you the strength to repair your daimages. Boys. They used to tell a tale of love. Of brotherhood and truth, TheyVe burned the tale of freedom and Love And have buried the blood of the youth. The women leave. It is getting dark. Keeper is seen lighting hall. 36 First Prison. Here, Keeper ! Keeper. What's that? Lie down there now an* shut up ! Fourth Prison. Keeper, Keeper ! Ke'eper (at diotor). Well? ChorusofPrison. You're a watchdog. Men lie down. Irving sits in front of stage. Irving (leaving seat). Has a common lot thrown us together to a common fate? Has the dear trust of the world, its esteem and friendship — fled from me as well as from them? Will suspicion view me quickly and reject me \Vhen good intentions and brave deeds are wanted? What have you done, Mildred ! And yet, I am to blame. I played carelessly when I should have acted wisely. I gave her cold looks when she longed for warm caresses. Keeper. Shut up there and lie down, damn fool ! Irving (sits down). S'eventh Prison (sits down next to him) . Ex- cuse me, if I interrupt yO'U. B'ut, I see, you do not belong here. Have you no friends to take your away? Irving. I refused to leave this place, for reasons I cannot explain to you. S e V e n t h P r i s o n. Man, you go to your ruin. I am a living example. So'me twenty years ago I was a pro'S- perous broker. My only crime was jealousy. And while in such fits I used to drink. My wife did not care for me, and, yet, I was madly infatuated with her. One day, while at home in a somewhat intoxicated stage, an officer enters and takes me to the station ho-use. The next day I was iconfronted with her in the Court, and, yet stupefied and unprepared, was convicted to six months in the Workhouse. I was not given time to speak. The Magis- trate had precluded tihat I was a brute, and that my wife was maltreated. Stubbornly I now rejected all help from my friends and resolved to make my six months. When I came out I left the city. Three years later I returned, filled with a desire to see my children, and found my wife living under the same roof with a man whom I had al- ways suspected of being the disturber of our 'happiness. 37 I tho'Ught my beautiful girl and 'bright boy disgraced, and, per'haps, unhappy, and in need of their father. But I was overcome with indignatio-n. The Courts, I knew, could not rectify matters, and I took the sword of justice in my own hands. One evening I saw the couple sitting on the veranda. I rushed up to him, grabbed him by the throat, fully prepared to choke him to death. Her screams attracted the attention of the n'eigihbonhooid, I was soon again in the hands of the police. I was s-ent to prison for a couiple years. — I have resolved to forget all about my past. Biut my worry over the s'hame of it and over the lo^ss of my children drives me tO' drink. And so, whenever I have no money to pay my fine, I -aim sent to jail. I judge that your's is a similar case. You are young. Discard all thoughts of revenge, accept the help of your friends. Learn from my ex-ample and save yourself. Do not worry! Forget your wife, since she does not care for you. She wants you out of 'her way. Will you do her the favor by playing the martyr? Return to the world, but with the am'bition to not load the wheel of your fortune with re- grets and revenge. Irving. To be honest, I must admit that my con- duct was not proper. Still, I can forgive my wife, know- ing that I have wronged her. Seventh P r i s o n. But yo-u have never held up your wife for public humiliation ! Keeper. Shut up, there. No chattin' there ! Prisoner and Irving lie down. Irving (aside). Mildred is not as bad as the other woman he spoke of. — ^But I can not remain here. He is right. I must return to her and clear up the my- stery. Or should I never return to her, never see her? (he falls asleep.) m n 38 FIRST VISION: A rocky shore. It is Midday. Ruby Hart comes flying down from top and falls into arms of Irving who stands near waters €dge. SECOND VISION: Irving boards a car in country. Between trees of the road the sun is seen setting. Ruby waves handkerchief. When car is out of sight, she throws herself down upon the grass, and cri^s: Irving, come back! THIRD VISION: A dingy room. Judge points at Irving who stands with Mrs. Combden holding baby in arm before him. Irving (madly crying). Baby ! My poor baby ! Voices. Shut up! Boys (in subdued tone). Oh, show me the way to Golgotha ! They hiuintg 'rouinid us the crois's, The Christians have stolen from Golgotha: Take away my life and my loss ! Irving awakens, jumps up, looks wildly round and falls to floor. II. SCENE. The Same as in First Act. iM r s. C o m b d e n. Now that he is in prison, I fear him. The letter breathes some resolution. The freedom I hoped to gain horn the Courts, mig-'ht turn out to be- come his freedom and my torture. (Reading.) "Dear Mildred!" Why, dear? Is he trying to trap me? Are we changing arms? ''A terrible mistake is made. You made the mistake; but I forgive you." How s'ly ! ''Save me if 39 you can, and you can if you want it/' Did I not know the price for 'his courtesy ! *'I refused the help of my friends. Only my wife, who has placed me in this shame- ful condition, shall lift me from its dangers. As I see my future and yours'' don't worry, poor boy! ''and baby's, I cannot imagine but that a great calamity must follow such a thoughtless tstep. Save yourself and baby while saving me." Just the reverse, hubby ! ''If yo-u do not wish to do it, then take care to never mention to baby his father's name, who was a convict, never to sadden an innocent heart of confidence with the glocm of prison at its cradle." What a grand apotheosis ! "Ycurs in old love Lving." Old love? Old? Rotten! How could he suspect me of such stupidity as one should necessarily be pos- sessed of in order to release ones captive without any reward ! A knock at door. Mrs. Comibden opens and Dr. P u m p - Nickel enters. Dr. P u m p - N i c k € 1. Mrs. Combden, I come in regard to your husband. He is not to be approached by logic any more. M T ,s. C o m b d e n (offering boith hands) . Dear Doc- tor, try all you can. You have always prided yourself with being his friend, show me your willingness to help »him. Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. But, madam, there is a dif- ficulty. Where business starts, friendship ends. Your husband, not giving consent to the release, will not con- sider himself bound to the conditions of the bonds. I ex- pect 'him to leave the city after his release from jail. You understand, madam, that, what might not be considered a big balm on affections, is a painful loss if spent on friendship. Mrs. Combden. You consider my affections or his friendship? D r. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Only your affections. 'M r s. Co'm'bd e-n. You are very liberal. And you say that Irving wo'uld leave the city? 40 Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. No doubt. I know him. 'Mrs. C o m b d e n. But I must first be entirely liberated from him. Dr. Pump Nickel. Let that be my care. .1 sha^l be worthy of your affections. Mrs. Comb'den (ironically). Irving was of your friendship. Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1 (warmly). Where were my eyes so many years ! My fortune cannot balance your affections. Madam, do not look with contempt at me. While my figure is not stately, my age not youthful, my lips not eloiquent, my services as a friend are weighty. And my purse shall throw its contents to your feet the moment you have decided to shower your affections upon it^ owner, who not only admires the grace of your statue but worships the godly lustre of your mind. Mrs. C o m lb d e n. Enough, Doctor. Remem'ber, I am a married woman. D r. P u m p - N i ck e 1. A married woman! Many a married woman has chosen a wrong lot. So have you. B'Ut it is not written in the stars, that a sad predestination has 'become her steady suitor and adviser. You are too smart as to believe in the rigmarole of such fairy tales. You are too much in lo;ve with the sparkling pleasure of life as to tie your fate to the wheels of a rusty wagon that might break down any moment and stop your joyful itinerancy. We are all born to enjoy llrfe ; all born to pluck the roses of happiness as we meet them. And a married woman is no exception to the rule. There is no sense in the moral, and no ethic in its observation. Love is the child of the impulse. Passion is its father and sympathy its mother. And do not try to stifle the child's nature. Mrs. C o m b d e n. Doctor, pray, let us talk of something else. D r. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Anything to please you. Let us talk of something else. Mrs. C o m b d e n. Let us talk of Irving. Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Rather — not, Mrs. Comb- den, We might return to you. 41 Mrs. C o m b d e n. Will yon not do anything for him? Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Impossible. He does not assent to tbe conditions. M r s. C o m b d e n. He will not deceive you. Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1. Ycu cannot tiell. This ex- periertce 'has certainly changed him radically. And it was for that reason that I wanted him to leave the city. iM r s. C o m b d e.n. Then it wo'uld be best to leave him in jail. — But no, no. That would be the worst thing of all. Di. Pump-Nickel. Sure enough. He has al- ready, necessarily and logically, become your bitterest enemy. Ah, he will not lovingly return into your arms ; 'his face will not glory in smiling ho'pe. His mind can be moved with but o^ne thought, and that is: Revenge! You have plunged the man who generously had saved you M r s. C o m 'b d e n. Doctor ! Dr. P'U m p - N i c k e 1. Pardon, madam. We are not strangers and you might permit me to talk freely. I need not express my sympathy in vain words ; you have proofs of my friendship. With my assistance, you real- ized your ambition, and he married you. With my silence — you reached your next zeal and he was humi- liated. I ask you, wlhether a friendship, like mine, be not worthy of greater gratitude than you show. And I ask you, whether a friends'hip, like -mine, deserves such prudery as you think proper to re'ceive me with. You are his wife, and you profess to love him. Perhaps you do love 'him ; I think not. But your are his wife. Yod have a great deal to fear, for you are his enemy. Go and for- give him. Mrs. C o m b d e n. No, no, never ! Dr. Pu m p - N i c k e 1. If not, then it is desirable that you never meet. For — ^and I am going to tell you all I know — ^he has threatened to kill you. Mrs. C o m b d e n. Mercy ! 42 D r. P u on p - N i € k e ll (pressing her hands warmly) . Dear Mrs. Combden, how I pity you. B^ut rely on me ! I will help you. iM r s. C o m b d e n. How I thank you. D r. P u ;pi iP - N i c k e .1 (slowly laying arm round her waist). Dear Mrs. Combden, love needs no contract and freedom needs no seal. Mrs. C o m b d e ,n. Oh, I am in such straits ! Dr. P u m p - N i c k e 1 (kissing her hand, drawing her upon lounge). Be quiet, madam'. You are young and beautiful. You have a natural right to enjoy life. Foir nature has provided you witlh all powers of fascinat- ing and enjoying. Mrs. C o m b d e n. But, Do'ctor, be silent. Dr. P u m 'p - N i c k e 1. Silent as reason paralyzed with passion (emhrassing her /iolenitly). Silent as a wor- shipper miute from devotion (kneeling). 43 IV. ACT. Garden in Country. Cottage nearby. Irving and Mrs. C o m >b d e n sitting at table. Irving. Forget the past. A new life will bring mdescribable happiness. iM rs. C o m b d e n. Oh, how I wish it! Irving. Never 'have my intentions been so earnest as they are now. Don't hesitate. I never knew, how deepily I loved you but in t'he hour of my misery. (M r s. C o m b d e n. If your iove were half as true as mine, Irving! Irving (kying down and grasping her hand). Give me that hand that has punished me. Oh, let me hope it will take me back ! Let me hope, it will deliver into my keeping all the sacred privileges of love and 'happiness, and hold me dear a^s in the days of our first meetings. How cruelly cold have I 'been to you, when I was ready to throw my passions into your arms, and cry out in bitter tears of disappointed love. Mrs. C o m b d e n. Yes, you embittered every hour of my life. Irving. Forgive me. Let us return to our home and let me adore you day and night. Let me not go away from here alone and in despair. My heart is filled with remorse and my soul is beaten by my conscience. I feel strength and my heart is soft w^hen I am with you and you smile and speak to me. But — when I am alone- thoughts of revenge trem'ble within me. Have mercy, Mildred! Mrs. C o m b d e n. Love knows neither mercy nor law. And my hope and desire is to be reunited with you in happiness, and forever. Irving. In happines's and forever ! (Sits down and embraces her.) Forever! Oh, Mildred, when I was alone and the night had come with all its quietude, and 44 I was wide awake and dreamt of our future ! How happy was I in my resolutions. I spoke to you and laughed wit^h you and caressed you as thoug'h you were near me. And what sweet and metodious words you spoke to me ! And then yO'U cried bitter'ly over your mistake and 'my sufferings. You were all sympathy. And I joked an^d kis- sed those teans away. Mrs. C o m lb d e n (releasing herself from the em- biace, leaving seat). Oh, Irving, if you but spoke the truth ! Irving. Don't doubt, my dear. My heart is yours and my life belongs to you. (Leaving seat.) But if it be decided between you and your people that you can- not love me, have the courage to speak. Tell me you can- not think of a reunion, you cannot forget miy cruelty, you cannot believe my words, my oaths, my tears ; tell me that we must part forever, — tell me it and oe a free woman. Mrs. C o m b d e n. We are so poor ! Irving. If love cares for no law, as you said -be- fore, it cares less for riches. M r s. C o m b d e n. B(Ut you were n'ever moved by my tears. Irving. Your tears burned my heart. Your sobs drove me mad. I longed for friendly words, for sympa- thetic laug^hter. Mr. and Mrs. Worthington come out of House. At seeing Ir\nmg (they show un^aisiness. M r. W o r t h i n g t o n. I did — not — expect — Irving. I could not stay away. I came to ask Mildred to forgive and forget. Mr. Wort'hington. To forgive and forget ! Let me tell yo;u that I consider — ^to speak with my heart o^n my tongue — that I consider all such talk ridiculous. You have brutally treated our daiughter, and after getting a dose of your own medicine you are trying to play some foul trick. Mrs. Worthington. Exactly. Irving. That is hard. 45 Mr. Wo r t h i n g t o n. It is. But to treat you with any leniency is unnecessary. Mrs. W o r t h i n g t o n. Unnecessary. Irving. I confess — I have sinned. But my in- tentions are good, and I want a chance to show them. Mr. Worthington. I don't believe you, and my daughter has loist all faitih in you. Mrs. Worthington. Indeed. Irving. Mildred, did you lose all faith in me? Mrs. C o m b d e n (evaisively). I really cannot ans- wer n/ow. Irving. Mrs. Worthington, yotu are a mother. Yo'U iknow the respoinsiMliti'es of .a panent — M r s. W o r t h i n g t o n. At present there can be no tallk of a reico-niciliation. iMy pioor MiiMred is in too delicate a condition to return to the city and to resume tihe duties oif a slavish hiousamard. Yoiu are not lalbl'e do sur- round her with sudh -comfort as tihe reistoratiom of her health requires. Let us begin to talk about it a few months later. Irving. A few months! How easily it is said. A few monil^hs. Wiiill not a weeik 'be siufifiioient to drive me mad? Why keep me in s^uspense? And a few months ! And all the sleepless nights ! No, no, have the courage to say the truth. You are standing between m'e and my child. I ask you, Mildred, can you not forgive, will you not re- turn with me and forget? Mrs. C o m b d e n. Let us abide by mother's wish. Irving. Then I say good-by to you. (Going to- wards door.) Mr. W o r t h i n g t o n. One moment, Irving. Irving (returning). But one moment. Mr. Worthington. I cannot understand this sudden change of yo^ur mind and behavior. But I want to be fairer with you than you have been with me. Go, look for a decent position, and after you have found it, live with us. If you really lov'e Mildred, show your con- fidence in her by turning over your earnings to her safe- keeping. Irving. Is that all you want? 46 iM r. W o r t h i n g t o n. That is all. And if you are in earnest you will not object. I want to see for a few months, whether your behavior is worthy of any con- I'idence from our family. In the same time I give you an opportunity to regain the respect and love of our daugh- ter. But it must be understood that the legal proceed- ings have not been in vain, and that the bonds remain intact. Irving. Stop ! 'M r. W o r t h i n g t o n. Very well. You can choose. I r V i ng. This is not a matter upon which you have to decide. Mr. W OT't h i in'g|toi,n. Yieur paths ; no longer would such a diabolical falsehood wear its head so high. Gus (in threatening attitude). Miss Hennessey! Miss Hennessey (approaching) . Strike, cow- ard. Here I stand, Mr. Worthington. Try your strength on a woman and you shall find a superior, Gus rushes by and goes into house. Miss Hennessey stands triumphantly for a moment, then leaves the garden. Mrs. C o m b d e n and Mr. M i s h e 1 1 e appear and seat themselves with back to entrance of garden. (M i s h le 1 ! e. Indeed, quite an idea ! To work in the ■city and come out here in the afternoon to spend the rest of the day. Mrs. Combden. My brother does it. And he does luot suffer any inconvenience. M i s h 'e 1 1 e. The summer in the city is unbearable. M r s. C o m b d e n. You ought to imitate my brother. Mishelle. Would you permit me to call here daily? Mrs. Combden. Good company comforts the most dreary place. M i s 'h e 1 1 e. You may be right. But what is your conception, — of good company? Mrs. Combden. I loO(k for the cheerful, the bright. M i s h e 1 1 e. We own a wonderful assimilation of sentiments. I admire the well bred and witty. Irving enters garden. At seeing Jxie couple at table he slowly walks up near them and sits down behind tree. M r s. C o m b d e n. And I may as well confess, Mr. Mishelle, your company is very promising. My father 'hais learned to respect you, and the friendship of my brother for you is unbounded. 50 Mis he lie (delighted). Your father's respect — ah, I have done everything with the view to gaining it. Your words are very encouraging. Mrs. C o m b d 'e n. But, then — you care as well for my opinion of you. iM i s h e 1 1 'C. I have your invitation to call as often as I wish. Mrs. C o m b d e n. Don't fear to come too often. M i s h e 1 1 e. My intention is settled. If there be a suitable -hotel in the neighborhood, you shall find in me your most ardent admirer and companion. We shall row, ride, and swim togelher, and — ■ Mrs. Com b d e n. But in the face of the world, Mr. Mishelle, I miust ask you to restrain the display of your sentiments. Misiheille (taking her hand). My sentiments^ — Mrs. C o m b d e n. In the face of the world I appear as Mrs. Combden. M i s h e 1 1 e. You ought to bear a worthier name than that. The man who makes a woman unhappy is a wilful criminal. But his record — Mrs. C o m b d e n. Now, his record is clear. At least, nobody can say he has committed an unlawful act. And by that one is to be judged. M li s 'h e 1 1 ic. Quite right, Mirs. Combden. But you are not the first woman he betrayed. Among his friends a story circulates — about a girl he left in very precarious circumstances. Mrs. C o m b d e n. I never heard the full truth about it. M i s h e 1 1 e. And I will not be cruel enough to relate it to you. But the circumstances that resuiled in his discharge from the hospital — M r s. C o m b d e n. Gus told me that he was dis- honorably discharged, but I can't believe it. Mishell'e. One of the directors told me it per- sonally — M r s. C o m b d e n. Dr. Martin ? 51 M i s h e 1 1 e. No, no, that -miust remain a secret. I have given my w^ord of honor. Mrs. C o m b d e n. Oh, what a life, what a past ! M i s h e 1 1 e. t^'orget it ! M r s. C o m b d e n. No, I must not forget it. They say: experience is no teacher; the more one experiences the more ready is one for other failures. It shall not be siQ if I can help it. And I slha'll not forget. M i s h e 1 1 e. Then abandon all pleasures that in- vigorate and animate body and soul. Mrs. C o m b d en. Abandon pleasures? No, no. I will seek them, and embrace every opportunity for joy and happiness. M i s h e 1 1 e. I knew it. Mrs. Comb den. But I shall not tie myself to a^ny promises. iM i s h e 1 1 e. Still you may find one worthy of your affections. M r s. C o m b d e n. I don't doubt. M i s h e 1 1 e. So you will leave a space in your heart — open for Cupid's arrows? M r s. C o m b d e n. Oh, Mr. Mishelle, a woman like me — with a child and withoiut a fortune — half bound yet to a man — to a hus — Mishelle (leaning over to her). Well directed efforts overcome all obstacles. Mrs. C o m b d e n (rising) . I fear, they might suspect something if we stayed 'here too late. Please, go in. ril soon follow. Mishelle. So abruptly ! B'ut you shall always find me to be obedient. (Goes into house.) Mrs. Combden walks into rear of garden and, as it has become dark, takes a lantern down to light it, whereupon she turns around and sees Irving. The lantern falls to the ground and Mrs. Combden utters a cry as if in fright. Irving (stepiping quickly toward her). Calm down, Mrs. Combden. I am not here to arouse your sen- timents. 52 'Mrs. C o m b d e n. I — did — not — 'expect — ^you. Irving. Certainly not, my dear. But I came. What a fool, what a knave a.m I? And my visit (ironi- cally), the visit of that man, that husband, to whom you are half bound, shall be a blessing to you. Just grant me a few minutes conversation. M r s. C o m b d e n. Come in the house. Irving. Why leave the beautiful stillness, the holy kindness of nature for the sake of the profane merri- ment of the parlor? Are the eyes of the stars not truer than the looks of your friends, the mumblings of the leaves not softer than the braggings of simpletons? But I don't want to ikeep you too long from your new acqui- sition. M r s. Co nt b 'd e n. My new acquisition ? Irving. Please, my love, sit down. I want every- thing that may lead to an unpleasant scene — excluded. Sit down. M r s. C o m b den. I prefer to stand. Irving (imperative). Sit down! (Taking her by the arm and leading her to chair previously occupied by her.) Sit down on this chair with its hopeful recollect- ions. (He presses her mildly down on chair.) And now listen. Are we still man and w^ife? M r IS. C o m b d