\iAfAfzm-v- 
 
 COPYRIGHTED BY 
 
 J. BUNFORD SAMUEL, 
 
 1891, 
 
" ."■"■*;■".■■>';:■ 
 
HA/v\]?e^eB. 
 
 A PLAY IN THREE ACTS. 
 
 ONE DANCE AND ONE TABLEAU. 
 
 AN ADAPTATION OP A NOVEL, WITH PERMISSION OP 
 
 Yh z eTlntij^ress. 
 
 / 
 J. BUNFORD SAMUEL, 
 
 PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 Copyright, 1891. 
 
 The Coast Star-Democrat print, Manasquan, N. J. 
 1892. 
 

 A PLAY IN THREE ACTS, 
 
 One Dance and One Tableau. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE PLAY. 
 
 Randall Mackay, 
 Jerome Lenox, 
 Mr. Grayson, 
 Adolphus Chiltern, 
 
 GENTLEMEN. 
 
 A poor young Sculptor. 
 Father of Jeanne, a prosperous Banker. 
 Father of Marianne, a poor Artist. 
 A young society man, a Lawyer. 
 
 Marianne, ) 
 
 Mrs. Fawcett, j 
 
 Jeanne Lenox, 
 
 Hildah Warren, 
 
 Mrs. Roper, 
 
 Florence, 
 
 Ladies and 
 
 SCENES— Partly 
 in Mrs. Roper's 
 
 Wife of Randall, daughter of Mr. Gray- 
 son. 
 j Daughter of J. Lenox, a fashionable so- 
 | ciety belle. 
 
 Aunt of Jeanne's, an old maiden Lady. 
 j Sister of Randall's, in the millinery bus- 
 ( iness. 
 
 French maid of Miss Lenox. 
 
 Gentlemen in the Dance and Tableau. 
 
 HALL BOY. 
 
 in Randall's Studio, in Mr. Lenox's House, 
 Lodgings, also at Mr. Grayson's Quarters. 
 
Aet I— Seene I. 
 
 A poor but artistically furnished lodging-room, divided at 
 either end by a Portiere, also a Portiere hung just inside the 
 entrance, making a little hall, the centre portion being the re- 
 ception room, one end a retiring room, the other the studio. 
 The walls of all hung with clever paintings, sketches and plas- 
 ter casts; here and there tubes of paints, brushes, etc. In 
 the studio an unfinished marble Statue, on a wooden pedestal 
 partially covered with cloth. 
 
 liandall Mackay seated at a table reading a letter. 
 
 Marianne, his wife, seated at an easel painting. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Ean. (rising) — " One tale is good till another is told, 
 One love is new till it groweth old, 
 One trick no game of cards can win, 
 One slow regret will heal no sin." 
 
 (Reading letter). "When the June meadows grow gay with 
 buttercups, daisies and sweet red clover ; when sky, earth and 
 water emerge from the thraldom of winter, pranked out in 
 blues and greens so exceedingly fresh and bright, tnat one 
 naturally fails to recognize them for the same old garments 
 nature has worn since the garden of Eden time, the average 
 man begins to draw disparaging comparisons between town 
 and country, and would gladly resolve himself into a brown or 
 yellow butterfly, with no more onerous duty to discharge than 
 an occasional flight from the crown of a clover head to the 
 golden cavern of a buttercup. 
 
 For present purposes I choose to classify you with the av- 
 erage man, slough the sculptor, and come up and turn butter- 
 fly for a few days metaphorically speaking Only, for I cannot 
 imagine you divested of your excessively long legs and broad 
 shoulders, nor yet conceive of any enjoyment for you in suck- 
 ing red clover tops, give me a good Havana always ; seriously, 
 Lidy and I want you — need you I might say without dropping 
 into exaggeration, we are tired of each other at a fearful rate ; 
 come and take your choice of entertainments; you can go with 
 me and fling a line for blackfish, sprawl at leisure under the 
 Laburnums (taking your chances of course of ants an d mala- 
 ria), or again, you can sit on the veranda and talk art with Lidy, 
 she considers herself no end of a critic since her return from 
 abroad, and imposes upon me most outrageously with her 
 
tones and semi-tones, and heaven knows what bosh besides ; 
 come up and protect us against each other; no excuse ac- 
 cepted. Yours, Foster." 
 
 That's kind of Foster; tremendous effort, too ; he's about the 
 laziest man I know ; they are people it won't do to slight, old 
 family, good position, no end of money, entertain extensively 
 I hear when they are in town — Well, shall I go? 
 
 Mrs. M.— Who is Lidy? 
 
 Kan. — Foster's wife, I imagine. I have never met her; 
 some of the fellows at the Academy told me he had a wife 
 studying at Berlin 
 
 Mrs. M.— Studying what? 
 
 Kan. — Oh, music and painting, and all the rest of it; the 
 story goes that she is young and handsome, but never had 
 much of a show before Foster married her. If I find she is 
 one of your sort, I'll ask her to come and see you — that is — 
 
 Mrs. M. — You are going, then? 
 
 Ran. — Well, yes, for a day or two; don't you think it best? 
 The Fosters are good people, best not slight their first invita- 
 tion. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Certainly not ; but you are not to speak of me to 
 the Fosters, Ran ; you know our understanding; I am to re- 
 main inconnue until I can take my proper place among your 
 fashionable Mends without putting you and myself both to 
 the blush, Use these rich stepping-stones to the best of your 
 ability, dear. 
 
 Ran. — I don't like leaving you, but think it is best for me to 
 go. I'll tell the hall boy that I will be out of town for a few 
 days. Good-bye. Nan -Nan. 
 
 Exit 
 
 Mrs. M. {soliloquizing) — I wonder what he means by one of 
 my sort? He works slowly, very slowly ; he will never finish 
 the Statue at this rate. Ah ! if he were only more industrious, 
 more systematic, if there was a hook on every inch of the 
 walls, Ran would leave something to pick up after him. 
 
 I shall take this opportunity of cleaning up a bit. If I 
 should shake these rugs in the studio I would cover every- 
 thing, including myself, with lint. I wonder how long I will 
 be a maid of all work, whilst Ran is enjoying himself. {Ad- 
 justing a veil partly over her head and face, and putting on an 
 apron) I will ask the hall boy to give these rugs a shake in the 
 court of the basement {gathering an armful of rugs and walking 
 to the door half opened it, and was just in the act of throwing the 
 rugs outside when she found herself face to face with a stylishly 
 dressed young lady, who breathlessly asked); 
 
 Enter Miss Lenox. 
 
Miss Len. — Is not this Mr. Mackay's studio? Mr. Mackay, 
 the sculptor. 
 
 Mrs. M. {letting nigs fall) — Yes, but he is out. 
 Miss Len. — I know that, out stared me in the face from the 
 card rack in the hall down stairs, and the hall boy said "lie's 
 out," that is w T hy I kept on up. 
 
 Mrs. M. — But Mr. Mackay is out for some days, perhaps he 
 will not be home until after a late dinner on Thursday. 
 Miss Len — Gone with the Murrays on their yacht? 
 Mrs. M. — No, not with the Murrays ; did you want to leave 
 an order? 
 
 Miss Len. — My good girl, see here, by the way are you the 
 person who has charge of Mr. Mackay's studio? 
 
 Mrs. M. — Yes, I am the person who carps for the studio. 
 Miss Len. — And see him often, of course? 
 Mrs, M. — Pretty often, he's out a good deal. I presume you 
 mean Mr. Mackay by him. 
 
 Miss Len. — Now see here, mj- girl, I hope you are discreet? 
 Mrs. M. — I try to be. 
 
 Miss Len. — That's right, and rest assured you shan't loose 
 anything by being so with me. I am dying to see something 
 in Mr. Mackay's studio, something he is at work on, but of 
 course he is not to know anything about my being here you 
 know. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Then he did not ask you to come? 
 Miss Len. — No ; oh, no ! this is a little lark of my own de- 
 vising. 
 
 Mrs. M.— And you are not afraid of his being angry? The 
 idea seems to amuse you. 
 
 Miss Len. — It does, we are such very good friends you know. 
 It must be there (pointing to the pedestal). 
 
 Mrs. M — Why not wait until Mr. Mackay is ready to exhibit 
 his work? 
 
 Miss Len. — That will be forever. He says I must wait until 
 it is put on exhibition at the Academy of Design, but that isn't 
 fair. 
 
 Mrs. M.— Not fair to whom? 
 Miss Len. — To me. 
 
 Mrs. M.— Why should you be favored beyond the general 
 public? 
 
 Miss Len. — Because — because I know all about it ; I am it— 
 you know ; I inspired it — you see. 
 Mrs. M.— Yes. 
 
 Miss Len. — Yes, and — and I know the lady whose features 
 he is reproducing in " Love's Young Dream" ; that is what he 
 is going to call it — the statue I mean. 
 Mrs. M.— You know the lady? 
 
 Miss Len. — Yes, very, very well indeed. Take this note, my 
 good girl (handing a bank note), just for one little peep ; he will 
 
never know it ; I should never acknowledge it ; he might think 
 it fast, you know. 
 
 Mrs. M.— What is the note for? 
 Miss Len. — For you. 
 Mrs. M. — Forme? 
 
 Miss Len.— Yes, for you, to pay you for just lifting a corner 
 of that cloth and letting me have one little look at the statue, 
 If I knew how, I'd do it myself, but I am afraid I might break 
 something. 
 
 Mrs. M. — So am I. 
 
 Miss Len. — But you have seen him do it, I am sure you 
 must have. 
 
 Mrs* M, — Yes, I have seen how it is doue, but I am afraid to 
 touch it. 
 
 Miss Len. — No harm shall come to you. 
 Mrs. M. — How do you know? 
 Miss Len. — I am positive. 
 
 Mrs. M. — I am afraid that I shall have to ask you to go 
 away now. I am not at liberty to show any of Mr. Mackay's 
 work to strangers, and I must take this chance to give his 
 studio a good overhauling ; he does not often admit strangers 
 to this room, even when he is at home. 
 
 Miss Len. — But I tell you I am not a stranger; I am his 
 very, very best friend, and he'll never, ne\er know I ve been 
 here, not from me. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Nor from me ; please go now, I could not tell Mr. 
 Mackay if I wanted to, I don't know who you are. 
 Miss Len. — You are horrid, I will make it Ten. 
 Mrs. M.— Make what Ten? 
 
 Miss Len. — I will pay you Ten Dollars and insure you' 
 against the wrath to come, 
 
 Mrs. M. — That I am sure you could not do ; I am sorry to 
 seem unaccommodating to so generous a young lady, but as 
 long as Mr. Mackay's studio is in my charge things must not 
 be touched without his permission. Won't you be so good as 
 to go away now? 
 Miss Len. — You are simply abominable. 
 Mrs. M. — Yes. 
 
 Miss Len. — I did not know he painted too (looking up at the 
 sketches on the wall). These are divine. 
 
 Mrs. M. — I think Mr. Mackay does not lay much stress on 
 these little things, they ar ■> mere stop- gaps. 
 
 Miss Len. — Stop-gaps. Oh, yes, what the artists call pot 
 boilers, poor, dear old fellow. Well, I must thank your ob- 
 stinacy for preventing me from seeing the statue. Good af- 
 ternoon. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Mrs. M. {going to the window to see the lady get into her coupe) — 
 
And to think that I do not even know who she is. She must 
 have been here some time, for it is getting dark. {Lights the 
 lamp on the table.) 
 
 Enter Mr. Mackay (noiselessly in the hall). 
 
 Ran. (soliloquizing)- — Poor little woman. It has been a long, 
 stupid time to her, I guess; better let her sleep " It " oft* (en- 
 tering room and seeing her seated by the table). You beautiful 
 vyitch. what do you mean by sitting here posing for a statue of 
 Reverie at this hour (seizing a soft plait of shining hair in his 
 hand he bent over to kiss her, she involuntarily shrank back). As 
 you please, my lady fair, you know I am not much of a beggar 
 in that line ; the next kiss, I imagine, will be a free will offer- 
 ing on your side. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Shall I get you something to eat, Kan? 
 
 Stan.- — Thanks, no. I am not always thinking of the inner 
 man. Been lonely, Nan-Nan — any letters, papers, visitors, 
 anything happened at all since I left? Confound that red 
 shade, it makes you look ghastly? 
 
 Mrs. M. — Red does not usually have that effect. 
 
 Ran. — You look ghastlier than ever. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Do I? then you had better put back the shade. 
 Yes, something has happened to answer one of your ques- 
 tions. 
 
 Ran.— Well, what? 
 
 Mrs. M. — I have given the studio a splendid overhauling ; 
 you know I told you I was going to devote the time to it. 
 
 Ran. — And have simply overworked yourself. If women 
 would only recognize the fact that it is as much their duty to 
 look beautiful for their husbands, as it is to attend to their 
 creature comforts, it would be a good thing all around. 
 
 Mrs. M. — And I have made a discovery. 
 
 Ran.— Well? 
 
 Mrs. M. — I have discovered that your masterpiece is not 
 getting on very fast. I expended half of one of my long hours 
 in criticising «« Love's Young Dream " this morning. 
 
 Ran. — Yes, of course you found no end of fault with it. 
 
 Mrs. M — As a work of art, no. 
 
 Ran. — I did not know it was open to criticism on any other 
 score, as a likeness, perhaps. If you go on losing flesh at the 
 rate you have done lately, we'll both find it hard to see the 
 likeness of the model in it. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Why don't you work harder on it, Randall — harder 
 and faster? Why do you let days and days go by without ever 
 even looking at the work which you say is to bring you fame and 
 fortune? How can you be satisfied to see it standing there 
 shrouded day after day, weeks and months rolling by, and it 
 no nearer completion? Yes, Ran, why don't you work at your 
 
statue steadily, finish it and put it on exhibition? You must 
 do it, Kandall. 
 
 Ran. — If that isn't just like a woman, nag at a man to send 
 him in one direction, and then fly at him like a fury because 
 he doesn't go just exactly in the opposite direction. It's mad- 
 dening. Who was it that urged me to accept that invitation 
 to the Fosters? 
 
 Mrs. M.— I did. 
 
 Ran. — Who is it that is always saying, "You must become 
 personally known, and that among the wealthy classes if you 
 ever hope to make a support out of your chisel for yourself 
 and me." 
 
 Mrs M. — I said it. 
 
 Ran, — Also who says, " You must go out where you can see 
 beautiful things, go where works of art are to be examined, 
 mingle with people who know art, love art, exalt art, are rich 
 enough to patronize art." 
 
 Mrs. M. — I plead guilty to every indictment. 
 
 Ran. — Well, then, what is a fellow to do? 
 
 Mrs. M. — I did not mean to anger you. Randall, but I feel I 
 have a right to urge you to devote a little more time to a 
 piece of work which promises so much, you know. 
 
 Ran. — Oh ! I know everything. I know that because I 
 chanced to leave you alone for a day, you grew cross and 
 morbid, and have been bottling up your spite to pour it out on 
 my head as a sort of counter irritant. It might have marred 
 all my chances of successful drudgery in the futuietohave 
 had an entirely pleasant visit among cultivated and amiable 
 people, and then come home to an amiable wife to finish out 
 the evening in quiet talk. You know when I opened that door 
 and thought I would surprise you with my quick return, and 
 saw you sitting there so serene and pretty, my heart gave a 
 great leap for very tenderness and I said to myself : She's the 
 very pearl of wives, waiting up to finish off the evening so 
 nicely. I saw, however, that you were sulking about some- 
 thing the moment I spoke to you ; it puzzled me at first ; I see 
 now you're thinking that when the statue is done, should I 
 ever acknowledge that my wife furnished the model, people 
 would laugh at the idea. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Then you will have to transfer the honor to some 
 other woman. 
 
 Ran. — That's an easy thing to do, but so long as I am 
 " Hampered" as I am it's not likely it ever will be finished. 
 
 Mrs M. — Hampered, Randall? 
 
 Ran. — Yes, Hampered. (Rising and going into the studio.) 
 
 Mrs. M. (rising also) — Well I certainly have made a mistake 
 awaiting up. I wonder what to-morrow will bring forth? 
 
 Exit. 
 
ACT 1— SCENE 2. 
 
 Mrs. Mackay's dressing-room scantily furnished. Easel and 
 painting reclining on it in one corner. Mrs. Mackay seated at 
 work on picture. 
 
 Enter Randall. 
 
 Kan — Good morning, Nan, I say when the masterpiece is 
 done I shall insist upon your giving up this job-work, these 
 pretty little trifles of yours are catchpenny affairs which ap- 
 peal to the uneducated herd, but you can scarcely take much 
 pleasure in them yourself. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Not a great deal, but they serve as stop-gaps you 
 know, and we are not independent of them yet. 
 
 Kan. — No, not yet, and if they serve to amuse you, well — as 
 for me I don't care to degrade genius at such a ruinous price ; 
 for instance, what do you expect for that trifle? a sketchy, nice 
 little thing; upon my word you have talent, Nan, undoubted 
 talent. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Fifteen dollars. 
 
 Kan. — You are coming to take coffee with me. 
 
 Mrs M. — No, it is already to your hand. I must finish this 
 to-day, it goes with the other three, the man will be here for 
 them at eleven. 
 
 Kan. — You had better have worked on them in my absence, 
 you would have been better employed than moping yourself 
 into such a bad fit of the sulks. I suppose I must take my 
 drink by myself. You know they say " solitary drinking " is 
 bad, Nan. (Going for the coffee.) 
 
 Mrs. M. — How queer men are. I do not suppose Kan has 
 troubled himself regarding last night's conversation, except in 
 the light that he thinks I am in the sulks. " Hampered " has 
 appeared to me in burning letters all night long. Does he 
 mean it, or was it said like many other things he gives utter- 
 ance to, — but here he comes. I will ask him. 
 
 Kan. — After coffee a good cigar, nothing like it, and then for 
 a good day's work on "Love's Young Dream." I will show 
 you, Nan, what a good boy I can be when I want to be 
 
 Mrs. M. {laying down palette and brushes) — Kan, I think 
 Love's Young Dream, must be pretty well over between man 
 and wife when such passages as last night's are possible, don't 
 you? I don't care to have you say you did not mean a word 
 that you said last night, Kan, for no one ever does mean half 
 they say in temper, but you made use of one word, Kan, yes, 
 and you repeated it, which you must take back before things 
 can be as they were with us. 
 
 Ran. — Must take back? You take lofty grounds, Mrs. 
 Mackay. 
 
IO 
 
 Mrs. M. — I take just grounds, Kandall. You don't know 
 how bard it is for me to bring up tbat hateful discussion 
 again, if you did you would understand my underlying purpose 
 better. 
 
 Kan. — I take it tbat nothing is easier for some women than 
 to nurse a grievance, your underlying purpose I imagine is to 
 extract from me an abject admission of remorse for my recent 
 pleasuring. You would delight in hearing me call myself all 
 sorts of ugly names. 
 
 Mrs. M. — You know better than that, Kandall ; you are talk- 
 ing sheer nonsense now. 
 
 Kan. — What in the mischief has come over you in the last 
 twenty-four hours? I fail to recognize you in your new role of 
 shrew. 
 
 Mrs. M. — My old role was that of a patient minister to a 
 splendid egotist. Kandall, I have nourished your selfishness 
 and arrogance by my absolute acceptance of you just as you 
 were. I'm not going to analyze your weaknesses or your fail- 
 ures even now. You said last night that you were "Hamper- 
 ed " in your life's work — hampered so that you could accom- 
 plish nothing, at least that is the substance of what you said, 
 wasn't it, Kandall? 
 
 Kan. — Well, yes, I believe I did use words to that effect. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Did you mean them, Kandall? 
 
 Kan. — An artist is always hampered to a certain degree by 
 marrying early in life, did you ever hear that sentiment be- 
 fore? 
 
 Mrs. M. — Yes, that is exactly what father said to you when 
 you told him you and I wanted to get married. Father had 
 great confidence in your ability, and thought we were very 
 foolish to think of matrimony. 
 
 Kan. — The old gentleman is a man of considerable penetra- 
 tion ; I think better of his judgment now than I did then. 
 
 Mrs M. — You mean that for me, Kan? 
 
 Kan. — You're bent on driving me out of the house, aren't 
 you? You've spoiled my cigar now, and you've spoiled a good 
 morning's work ; what are you driving at, out with it. 
 
 Mrs. M. — I am driving at this : You must say that you did 
 or did not mean that you are " Hampered " in your work by 
 me, this is not simply a contest of words, Kandall. I know 
 as well as father does that you are a man of genius, and it is 
 in you to do a great and good work if — 
 
 Ran.— If what? 
 
 Mrs. M. — If you are not " Hampered." 
 
 Kan. — Don't be silly, Marianne. I suppose the majority of 
 men do make their flights on clipped wings, but it is not on 
 record I believe that any feathered soarer ever sat down to 
 contemplate its mutilated quills. I suppose I will do as well 
 as any other clip-winged thing. If there is anything in me, 
 
II 
 
 poverty will spur it out of me I imagine. Our prospects are 
 not the most brilliant in the world. 
 
 Mrs. M. — If you were not married you would be a great pet 
 among the wealthy and fashionable patrons of art, I suppose, 
 Kan. You have just that distinguished sort of good looks 
 which captivate women at first sight. 
 
 Kan. — You overpower me with your remarkable transitions 
 from grave to gay — from lively to severe, my dear. 
 
 Mrs. M. — And you would make influential friends among 
 them. 
 
 Kan. — Not unlikely. I've met some very nice people since 
 my Psyche was put on exhibition. Art should be nourished 
 on dainties or it languishes. I am afraid there is not the 
 making of a garret genius in me, but what nonsense we both 
 are talking. 
 
 Mrs. M. — You would be happier that way, Kan. 
 
 Kan. — Happier which way? 
 
 Mrs. M. — Unhampered, free to wander in Bohemia with your 
 brother artists, with no haunting thoughts of a wife waiting 
 for you at home. Free to accept pleasant invitations to grand 
 houses where beautiful women in silks and jewels will exalt 
 you in your own estimation, by swinging the censor of adula- 
 tion before you until you are intoxicated and ready for still 
 higher flights. Free from the harsh necessity of coming back 
 to a poor little make- shift of a home where stupid calculations 
 about expenses must be endured occasionally. I am the skel- 
 eton at your feasts, now, Kan. if it were not for me you could 
 go to your daily tasks warmed and soothed and inspired by all 
 the nice flatterie§ that have dropped from nice flattering lips. 
 
 Kan. — I am afraid I am just cad enough to hanker after the 
 soft side of life as you picture it ; it is awfully unnatural we'll 
 admit for argument's sake, but I confess I would rather be 
 flattered than scolded any day in the year. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Then you won't take it back, Kan? 
 
 Kan. — Take what back? 
 
 Mrs M. — That word "Hampered." 
 
 Kan. — You have selected a queer mode of making me do it 
 (taking his hat and walking towards the door slamming it after 
 him). 
 
 Mrs. M. — He does mean it, then. I will leave this note for 
 him (placing note on table). I do not doubt now that he will 
 enjoy my absence. The die is cast; I will go. (Putting on her 
 bonnet and placing a few articles in a small bag she leisurely walks 
 to the door, casts a hurried glance into the room, turns and leaves.) 
 
 Enter Randall. 
 
 Kan. — If I'd known how things were going to turn out I'd 
 have refused Foster's invitation to dinner. I suppose there 
 will be the mischief to pay when she finds I'm off again for 
 
12 
 
 this evening. (Looking around.) Evidently Marianne is gone 
 out to walk off her sulks, I suppose. (On the table were two 
 notes, picking them up he read the Jirst.) " Miss Jeanne Lenox 
 would call for him in the carriage that evening to take him to 
 the dinner at the Eockwoods, as it looked so much like rain " 
 A very imprudent proceeding. I do wish that girl ha<! some 
 sensible womankind to look after her. (Opening second note 
 three ten dollar bills fell to the floor, he read) : 
 
 " My Dear Kan. : I have tried very hard to think that it 
 did not matter much whether or not you took back that terri- 
 ble word 'Hampered,' but it does. I never was much of a 
 hand to enlarge on my own emotions and it does not matter 
 much what or how I feel while writing this but I cannot make 
 up my mind to stay where I stand in the way of your fullest 
 development as an artist. No one need know that any change 
 has taken place in your private life, indeed no one in your new 
 circle knows that you have a wife I imagine. I am not blam- 
 ing you for this, for I have not forgotten that we agreed that 
 until you should have gained your foothold, and I was able to 
 make a proper appearance in public, I would remain unknown. 
 As long as we were sure of each other, what did it matter to 
 us whether the public who patronized your art, and petted 
 you for its sake, knew anything of the background to your 
 life? A poor struggling sculptor with a shabby economical 
 wife behind the scenes would have found no favor in the circle 
 upon which art is dependent for its sustenance. I think when 
 one has made a false step it is best and bravest to retrace it 
 before it is too late. I don't believe it is too late in your case, 
 we have been married such a little while ; only two years and 
 a half. I leave you half of what the man paid for my trifles 
 this morning. I am afraid your exchequer is rather empty. I 
 want you to do yourself full justice, Kandall. I shall hear 
 of you should you ever become the great artist which you 
 should be, now that you are no longer ' Hampered ' by 
 
 Marianne." 
 
 Who would have believed she had such a temper, she is pos- 
 itively vicious (tearing the letter into fragments). I suppose she 
 has gone to the old man with some lively statement. She can 
 sulk it out on that line, pouting is a game two can play at. 
 (Putting on his wraps.) I think I will take a little stroll in the 
 cool air and collect my thoughts in order to be in shape when 
 that giddy girl calls for me. 
 
 Exit. 
 
i3 
 
 ACT 1— SCENE S. 
 
 Miss Lenox's boudoir, handsomely furnished and adorne i 
 with modern bric-a-brac. Miss Lenox seated in arm chair 
 looking at some dainty ribbons. Florence, her French maid, 
 standing a little way from her. 
 
 Miss Len. — Come and make me beautiful fer to-night, Flor- 
 ence (giving the last syllable of her maid's name the full benefit of a 
 French accent). 
 
 F. — Miss expects to meet her lover, then? 
 
 Miss Len. — Not exactly lover, Florence, but, dear me, can I 
 possibly have been so stupid as to forget the Pozzoni? You 
 told me to get the Pozzoni powder, didn't you? No, not lover, 
 Florence — admirer, friend. Oh! Florence, he is just splendid, 
 everybody adores him. 
 
 F. — Where did Miss get this? (Holding a vial to the light.) 
 
 Miss Len. — Don't you like it, Florence? They told me at the 
 bazaar that it would make a hideous old woman of sixty look 
 like a beautiful girl of sixteen. 
 
 F. — Miss Lenox is neither sixty or sixteen. (Smelling the 
 vial.) The genuine article, the one only Cosmetilline ; I did 
 not know one could get it here ; the same my dear Lady Eun- 
 ice used. 
 
 Miss Len. — Tell me about your Lady Eunice, Florence. 
 
 F. — There is not much to tell. My Lady Eunice made a 
 a great mistake in life and it made her look old before her 
 time, hence the use of the cosmetic ; sorrow is not good for 
 the complexion. 
 
 Miss Len. (laughing) — What shall I do with the cosmetic, 
 give it to Aunt Hildah or stop it tightly and wait for grief? 
 
 F. (adjusting Miss L.'s hair) — If Miss has a lover grief will 
 come soon enough, Ciel ! I hope it will not come to you as it 
 came to my Lady Eunice. 
 
 Miss Len. — Florence, you are horrid, you actually give me 
 the shivers. 
 
 F. — Miss has asked for information concerning Lady Eunice? 
 
 Miss Len. — Yes, but how did grief come to your Lady Eun- 
 ice? What did she do that made Cosmetilline necessary? 
 
 F. — My Lady Eunice fell in love with another woman's hus- 
 band. 
 
 Miss Len. — That was very naughty of your Lady, she de- 
 served to come to grief and to Cosmetilline prematurely. 
 
 F. — Not at all, Miss Jeanne, my Lady had nothing whatever 
 to do with it. 
 
 Miss Len. — Nothing to do with it? Nothing to do with fall- 
 ing in love with a married man? 
 
 F. — No, Miss. It was the work of destiny ; destiny threw 
 my Lady into the way of that other woman's husband, they 
 
discovered their affinity for each other and the consequences 
 were inevitable. 
 
 Miss Len. — What were the consequences? 
 
 F. — When my Lady Eunice heard that her husband's first 
 wife had died in an asylum for the insane she became melan- 
 cholly, and melancholly always makes the complexion yellow, 
 it was then we began to use C osmetilline. Poor Lady Eunice, a 
 less tender nature than her's would have preserved its beauty 
 in spite of all. 
 
 Miss Len.— Her husband's first wife, then she married the 
 man? 
 
 F. — What did you suspect, Miss Lenox? of course she mar- 
 ried him. 
 
 Miss Len. — Florence, do you believe in affinities, soul's 
 mates and all that sort of thing? 
 
 F. — Without doubt, do not you? 
 
 Miss Len. — I don't know yet, but I hope fate will never play 
 me the malicious trick she played on your Lady Eunice and 
 marry my affinity off before we find each other. 
 
 F. — I hope so, too, Miss Lenox, from my heart. But if she 
 should? 
 
 Miss Len.- — If she should, Florence; we will fall back on 
 Cosmetilline. I am glad to know of such a panacea for grief 
 (laughing). You had better call Aunt Hildah, Florence, you 
 know she will never omit the ceremony of inspection. 
 
 F. — I hope you will not allow Miss Warren to make any al- 
 terations. You are perfect to-night, Miss. I am sure your 
 lover — 
 
 Miss Len. — Not lover, Florence. 
 
 F. — Admirer, friend, affinity, then, will like you best just as 
 you are. Is he rich, Miss Jeanne? 
 
 Miss Len. — No, a struggling genius, Florence. 
 
 F. — Ah, well, that is a pity, but then Miss will have enough 
 for two (exit muttering). As well fetch in the cat that sits by 
 the kitchen range to criticise. 
 
 Miss Len. (soliloquizing) — Will he like me best just as I am. 
 Oh ! I hope so. I want to be beautiful for him — him only of 
 all the world. (Enter Miss Hildah Warren.) How do I look, 
 Auntie? 
 
 Miss W. — You are altogether too young and too handsome 
 to be allowed such large liberty. No one at all to — Oh ! my 
 dear child. 
 
 Miss Len. — No one at all to do what? I have you and Flor- 
 ence. 
 
 Miss W. — Florence knows how to dress you, but I — Oh, 
 Jeanne, I have been young and admired myself in my time. I 
 know what the temptations of this gay world are. 
 
 Miss Len. — Don't moralize, Aunt Hildah. I'm not dressed 
 for a lecture, I'm going to enjoy myself thoroughly to-night. 
 
i5 
 
 It is only a quiet little dinner at Mrs. Kockwood's. Florence 
 has been saying all sorts of nice things to me, so don't spoil 
 it all. 
 
 Enter Florence. 
 
 F. — Miss is perfect ce soir. 
 
 Miss W. — Of course Florence is going with you? If it were 
 hot that ray lameness made me so conspicuous in company. 
 
 F. (hurriedly) — Of course I go with Miss Jeanne. 
 
 Miss W. — Tbat makes it all right, and Jeanne do take notice 
 of Mrs. Verplank's dress, her wardrobe was gotten up by Felix 
 of Paris. Find out where Mrs. Rockwood is going this sum- 
 mer. We must get out -of town. 
 
 F. — Miss Lenox will be late. 
 
 Miss Len. — I will find out everything, Auntie. Good night. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT 1— SCENE 4. 
 
 Handsome modern dining-room of Mr. Lenox, the banker. 
 Mr. Lenox at the table about breakfasting. 
 
 Enter Miss Lenox . 
 
 Miss Len — I got up two hours earlier on purpose to break- 
 fast with you, you very dear, handsome, big, old Papa. Ex- 
 press your gratitude fittingly. 
 
 Mr. L. — That means no surplus in the treasury. It isn't ev- 
 ery woman that can dare the morning's glare as well as you 
 can, Jeanne. Is it that white frock? 
 
 Miss Len. — I retired last night like a good girl, my roses are 
 the reward of a filial desire to breakfast with you, but I have 
 not heard you say you will be glad to have me pour out your 
 cocoa yet ; and I don't think It is at all nice of you, Papa, to 
 suppose I want money every time I come near you. 
 
 Mr. L. — No. Why I thought that was being just as nice as 
 possible. 
 
 Miss Len. — Money is not everything. 
 - Mr. L. — No, not eve^thing. 
 
 Miss Len. — Papa, do you love art? 
 
 Mr. L. — Bl< ss my soul, a new departure, the aesthetic this 
 time, did my Jeanne curtail her morning nap exclusively to 
 discuss art with her Wall Street Bear? 
 
 Miss Len. — I only call you that when you are ugly and cross, 
 you look amiable this morning and I adore you. 
 
 Mr. L. — Thanks. It is no small matter to have a handsome 
 woman of brains and perspicuity tell one he is adorable, espe- 
 
i6 
 
 dally when one's mouth is full of buttered toast. Jeanne. I 
 am afraid you are reduced to actual penury, let me see your 
 check book. 
 
 Miss Len. — Now, Father, don't tease; I have a favor to ask 
 of you, and you must promise beforehand to grant it. 
 
 Mr. L. — Reasonable, as usual, but as it is entirely immate- 
 rial whether I promise beforehand or simply do your royal 
 highnes.-fs bidding with my customary unquestioning docility. 
 Heave ahea I, my daughter. 
 
 Miss Len. — Don't be slangy, dear, slang doesn't become your 
 style of beauty. You look like a Roman senator, you know, 
 minus the toga. Now, Papa, you do love art, don't deny it 
 (placing her hands on her Father's head). 
 
 Mr. L. — 1 haven't the slightest intention of doing so, but, 
 Jeanne, would you mind combing my hair with just one or two 
 fingers instead of all ten at once? I am afraid I won't have 
 time to revisit my dressing-room before going down town. 
 
 Miss Len. — I have heard you say plenty of times "that you 
 thought our wealthy men had better spend more money en- 
 couraging native talent, rather than in purchasing old world 
 pictures at such reckless prices." Don't deny it, Papa. 
 
 Mr. L. — Well, and I stick to it, that's sound common sense 
 whether it is art logic or not. 
 
 Miss Len. — It is both. 
 
 Mr. L. — Both? And that from you, why you've always 
 fought like a little Tigress for the old Masters and the Renais- 
 sance, and the dear knows what art bosh besides. 
 
 Miss Len. — I have changed my mind. 
 
 Mr. L. — Given up foreigners? 
 
 Miss Len. — Yes, and am going to devote myself to the en- 
 couragement of native talent. 
 
 Mr. L.— Well, dear? 
 
 Miss Len. — Well, Father, I want very, very much to have 
 you prove how much of all you have said about native talent 
 mean't anythiug. 
 
 Mr. L. — Endowment for League? Art Class? Something of 
 that sort? 
 
 Miss Len. — No, Papa, nothing on so grand a scale. I am 
 modest, you see, I want you to be good to, and help along 
 one solitary deserving struggler. 
 
 Mr. L. — Woman? 
 
 Miss Len. — No, a man, a young man that I met last night at 
 Mrs. Rockwood's. 
 
 Mr. L.— For the first time? 
 
 Miss Len. — Oh, dear, no, everybody that is anybody has in- 
 vited Mr. Mackay about this Winter and Spring; one meets 
 him everywhere, Mrs. Rockwood raves over him. He was at 
 the Fosters' a day or two ago. 
 
 Mr. L. — That doesn't look like starvation. The Fosters 
 don't take kindly to meritorious mendicants. 
 
17 
 
 Miss Len. — No, oh no, neither do I. I have no faith in out- 
 at elbows talent. Mr. Mackay is not out at elbows, nor does 
 he eat his dinner as if he got one a month ; he dresses nicely 
 and looks at home everywhere. No one is ashamed to have 
 Mr. Mackay visit them, he is the coming man this Winter. 
 
 Mr. L. — A sort of woman's pet. 
 
 Miss Len. — Indeed nothing of the sort, Father; of course if 
 he expects to get on here he must make himself personally 
 known, and the women are the only mediums open to him at 
 present ; he can't advertise himself like a quack medicine or a 
 patent shoe polish, Papa. 
 
 Mr. L. — Now, well, but what is he about and what do you 
 want me to do about him. 
 
 Miss Len. — L will tel you. He is from away up somewhere 
 in Vermont. Mrs. Rockwood, you know, can always find out 
 more than anybody else can ; she says he has painted portraits 
 and all sorts of pictures to support himself while at work upon 
 his real life-work sculpture. He tells her that he has a piece 
 of sculpture in an unfinished condition which he is confident 
 will meet with the plaudits of discriminating art critics all 
 over the world when put on exhibition. He has been a long 
 time at it, and Mrs. Rockwood further says '■* that although of 
 course he don't tell her so, she imagines he is poor and has to 
 stop work on his masterpiece in order to make enough money 
 by other means to pay his room rent and feed himself. " Hor- 
 rible, isn't it, Papa. 
 
 Mr. L. — What, Jeanne, the masterpiece or the man? 
 
 Miss Len. — That such a genius should have to think about 
 room rent, and bakers' bills, and, and — things. 
 
 Mr. L.— Inconvenient but not exactly horrible, and you 
 want me to — 
 
 Miss Len. — Satisfy yourself that this young sculptor is 
 really deserving, and then — 
 
 Mr. L.— Well, then- 
 Miss Len.— Do for him, Father, what you would like some 
 other man to do for Len — our Len — who is wandering no one 
 knows where. 
 
 Mr L.— {abruptly rising) Where does your beggar student 
 hold forth, Jeanne? 
 
 Miss Len. — He is neither a beggar nor a student. 
 
 Mr. L. — Your prodigy, then. 
 
 Miss Len. — Nor that. 
 
 Mr. L — The estimable young gentleman, whom to pleasure 
 her royal highness, I suppose I must look up? {Jeanne, glanc- 
 ing towards him a look of gratitude, came forward and whispered 
 to him the sculptore's address, then left the room, kissing her hand 
 to her Father.) {Meditatively) Jeanne is a good hearted little 
 thing. What other girl of her set with countless calls upon her 
 time and thoughts would even have remembered Mrs Rock. 
 
wood's needy protege? (Looking at his watch) By Jove, a nice 
 time for me to start about business. I will assist the young 
 man for my daughter's sake. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Acrt II— §een"e I. 
 
 Mr. Mackay's studio. Mr. Mackay clad in a blouse at work 
 on his statute. 
 
 Enter Mr. Lenox. 
 
 Mr. L.— (Pushing the portiere to one side at the entrance of the 
 studio) Excuse me for the interruption. My name is Lenox, 
 sir, Jerome Lenox; happy to make your acquaintance. 
 
 Kan. — I have often heard of you, of course, sir; who has 
 not? and I am truly grateful for this call ; won't you be seated? 
 Do you know, sir. people judge so by appearances that merely 
 this call from you is enough to send me several rounds 
 up the social ladder. 
 
 Mr. L. — (scanning the statue) It must be a joy to see a piece 
 of work like this growing under your hand ; it's fine enough to 
 make a fellow repeat Pygmalion's experience. I'm not going 
 to make an ass of myself by attempting art criticism, I'm sim- 
 ply an ignorant worshiper at the shrine of the beautiful and 
 I'm proud to think it is the work of native genius, sir. I'm an 
 American to the backbone — first, last and always an American 
 — and I believe in spending American money on American art- 
 ists, providing their work, like yours, merits it. Why should 
 we fill our parlors, our galleries, our museums with big can- 
 vasses simply because some foreigner- with an outlandish 
 name painted them? 
 
 Ran. — Because it is fashionable 
 
 Mr. L. — But I'm not fashionable ; no, sir, I never was, and 
 when Mrs. Lenox, my wife, lived she was not fashionable. 
 Miss Lenox — you know my daughter? 
 
 Ran. — Yes (blushing slightly). 
 
 Mr. L — You are too modest by half, sir ; you must get over 
 that trick of blushing. I was about to say my Jeanne, she's 
 all I got left, of course she's spoiled a little, she plays at fash- 
 ionable life at a tremendous pace, but Jeanne is sound to the 
 core ; she never runs after a celebrity because he is a celeb- 
 rity, he's got to show his grit. Now you know some of our 
 women just naturally make fools of themselves over you fel- 
 
*9 
 
 lows — no offence ; I mean women in the upper strata who 
 ought to have more sense. 
 
 Kan. My acquaintance in the upper strata is limited. 
 
 Mr. L. — Yes, of course you're a new comer. The first year 
 here I believe, Jeanne told me, but you've made some head- 
 way with nice people. Jeanne tells me she met you at the 
 Rockwoods, and heard of you at the Fosters ; the Fosters are 
 rather offish as a rule. 
 
 Ran. — I have had considerable kindness shown me since the 
 exhibition of my statue Psyche at the Academy. 
 
 Mr. L — Yes, yes, but that is going to be a grander work 
 when it is finished (pointing to the statue). 
 
 Ran. — Yes, when it is finished. 
 
 Mr. L, — You must have had a superb model for it. I'd like 
 to see something half that fine in flesh and blcod. Jeanne 
 would stand a good chance for a stepmother. You've really 
 given me a delightful surprise. I feel as if I had learned 
 something from you, I do, and we must see more of each other. 
 By the way, have you an engagement for to-morrow night? 
 You have? Well, say Thursday? 
 
 Ran — I have no engagement for Thursday. 
 
 Mr. L. — Well, then, put us down for a quiet family dinner on 
 Thursday at six, sharp. I should like you to overhaul my pic- 
 tures. Jeanne declares they make her blush. You see Jeanne 
 goes about a good deal and picks up no end of amateur twad- 
 dle that passes for art gospel with her. We both need an in- 
 telligent interpreter You'll be doing a good work by taking 
 the pictures in hand. (Taking his hat and preparing for de- 
 parture) We will look for you now positively. Good day. 
 
 Ran. — I shall certainly do myself the honor of both calling 
 and dining with you at the appointed day. Good afternoon, 
 sir. 
 
 Exit Mr Lenox. 
 Enter Mr. Grayson (father of Mr, Mackay's wife). 
 
 Mr. G.— Well. Ran 
 
 Ran. — How're you, Mr. Grayson? I certainly didn't expect 
 to see you over during this very hot spell. 
 
 Mr. G. — It is a hot day, but if I remember right you gener- 
 ally manage to keep pretty cool up here 
 
 Ran. — Yes, there is always a breeze up here; we're so high 
 up, you see. Sit down there, Mr. Grayson (leading him to a 
 cushioned chair), and let me have your hat. 
 
 Mr G. — How is the statue getting on? 
 
 Ran,— Slowly ; I've been a lazy hound this Summer. It's 
 the air 1 think, but I'm goinar to do better; I've been hard at 
 work all day. What do you think of it? Come, now, give us 
 an old-time criticism. 1 think I should be the better for a reg- 
 it lai quiz. 
 
Mr. G. — There ! do you suppose I braved this heat just for 
 the pleasure of snubbing your new-fangled methods, sir. 
 
 Ran. — You will stay to dinner? 
 
 Mr. G. — Yes, if Nan Nan will give me some. 
 
 Ran. — Marianne? 
 
 Mr. G.— She isn't ill? 
 
 Ran. — She is not here. 
 
 Mr. G.— Not here? 
 
 Ran. -I thought she was with you. 
 
 Mr. G.— With me? Why should she be with me? 
 
 Ran. — She left me in unreasonable pique and her own good 
 sense will show her who is to blame. She is amply able to 
 care for herself for a few days ; of course she will come back to 
 me, but why she did not go to you I can't fathom. 
 
 Mr. G. — Because she would not have been the Marianne I 
 know if she had come home whimpering with a tale against 
 her husband (rising and taking his hat to leave). 
 
 Ran. — (intercepting him) You are not going without a bite of 
 something. Where are you going. ? What are you going to 
 do? 
 
 Mr. G. — I am going to look for my daughter. I never knew 
 her to do an unconsidered thing in all her life, unless, indeed, 
 it was marrying you. 
 
 Exit 
 
 Ran. — Where is Marianne if not at her father's lodging? 
 How long is she likely to keep this nonsense up? If I'd only 
 waited two little years longer I would have had a father-in law 
 one could have used. I will go and see the picture dealer to 
 whom Marianne sold her sketches ; perhaps he will be able to 
 to throw some light on her whereabouts. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 ACT 2— SCENE 2. 
 
 Mr. Grayson's room in environs of the city. His daughter, 
 Mrs. Mackay, seated at a table busy mending the old gentle- 
 man's odds and ends. 
 
 Enter Mr. Grayson. 
 
 Mr. G — God bless my soul, there is Marianne ! 
 
 Mrs. M.— You naughty Papa, here I've been spending the 
 entire day waiting and waiting to see you, and now you've got 
 to shelter me for the night. 
 
 Mr. G. — I went over to see you this morning, my daughter. 
 
 Mrs. M. — So I suppose you saw Randall, of course. 
 
21 
 
 Mr. G. — Yes, I saw him. He thought you were with me all 
 this time, why did you give me such a fright Nan-Nan. and 
 what have you raised such a row about? 
 
 Mrs. M. — I never meant to give you a fright Father, I would 
 not have done such a thing, it was just a chance, an odd one 
 too, that took you to town this morning. I only left the — my 
 husband two days ago. 
 
 Mr. G. — But you are going back to him? 
 
 Mrs. M.— No. 
 
 Mr. G. — I don't mean immediately stay here until you get 
 over your huff, you are always welcome dear. 
 
 Mrs. M. — I am not in any huff Father, Eandall and I made a 
 mistake, you know you said we were about to do it before the 
 ceremony of marriage was performed. 
 
 Mr. G. — Yes, yes, but that's all past and done with 3 t ou 
 blundered, you can't unblunder. 
 
 Mrs. M.— Father don't you think Mr. Mackay has very de- 
 cided talent? 
 
 Mr. G — Marked, marked, there's nothing that fellow could'nt 
 do if he onhy would apply himself. Ran. is a luxurious dog, 
 he's always at his best when he's had a good big bit of flattery 
 judiciously administered. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Precisely, flattery is the breath of his nostrils, 
 luxury the prime necessity of his existence. I have been a 
 great injury to Randall. I have "Hampered" him 
 
 Mr. G.— Who says so? 
 
 Mrs. M. — I say so, you say so, results say so. 
 
 Mr. G.— I say so. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Yes, you were the very first one who said so, your's 
 was a warning. I did not heed that, I have had another warn- 
 ing Father, I do not mean to neglect this one. 
 
 Mrs. G. — What do you mean Nan-Nan? 
 
 Mrs. M. — I mean just this, you are not to interrupt me 
 Father and you are not to try to turn me from my purpose, it 
 would be absolutely useless, it was' because I did not want to 
 come to you in the first heat of my excitement, nor in fact until 
 I had fully developed my plans, that you owe this anxious day, 
 it never occurred to me that you might hear it all from Randall 
 first. 
 
 Mr. G.- — He said nothing harsh about you Marianne, be care- 
 ful. I intend to be very impartial in this matter 
 
 Mrs. M. — I wish you to be. I am in Mr. Mackay's way 
 Father. I "Hamper" him. I cannot administer flattery in 
 judicious doses, I would rather not have discussed this matter 
 with you at all, but I did not care to write about it, and I did 
 not want you to be wearing yourself out anxiously conjecturing 
 about me. 
 
 Mr. G. — Conjecturing about you? Haven't you come home 
 to me, to stay with me? 
 
Mrs. M. — Most assuredly not, fortunately in the days when 
 you anticipated leaving me to my own resources, you gave me 
 something that will stand me in good stead now Father, my 
 knowledge of painting I mean. I can make a very good sup- 
 port out of it. I came here to-day just to tell you good bye, 
 Father, and to say I don't want you to let this make any differ- 
 ence between you and Mr. Mackay. He depends very much on 
 your advice and criticism, it is useful to him, he needs it, he 
 must have some one to lean on, some kind person who will not 
 administer flattery, some ore friend to tell him the truth. 
 
 Mr. G. — You are bent on this mad step, this wicked step? 
 
 Mrs. M.— I am. 
 
 Mr. G. — And for no adequate reasons other than you have 
 mentioned? 
 
 Mrs. M. — I "Hamper" Him, I am going to leave him "Un- 
 hampered. I want to put matters to the test. 
 
 Mr. G — (Agitatedly) Marianne, when I left Mackay's studio 
 this morning, it was with my heart full of wrath against 
 him. I had nothing but condemnation in it for him, and lov- 
 ing pity for you, but bless me since I've found you here look- 
 ing so unconcerned, and heard you discuss the matter so cold- 
 bloodedly, bless me if I don't begin to pity Mackay, and think 
 it more than half your own fault. 
 
 Mrs. M. — It's all my fault, but right or wroiig the step is ta- 
 ken, it cannot be retraced, I had meant to say good bye to you 
 to-night Father, and to have asked you not to worry about me, 
 but you sta\ed so late that I have undone the Sofa bed in the 
 studio for myself, I believe we had better both try to get some 
 
 Mr. G.— Where are you going Daughter? 
 
 Mrs. M. — In yonder. (Nodding her head towards the drawn 
 curtains of the studio. 
 
 Mr. G. — I don't mean to-night, I mean ultimately, at least 
 until your fit of the sulks has worn itself out? 
 
 Mrs. M. — That is not for you to know, I do not want it to be 
 in any one's power to say that you are harboring a truant wife 
 Father, but then (Laughing bitterly) not one of Kandall's fash- 
 ionable friends know that he has a wife ; good night Father. 
 (Retires to the studio.) 
 
 Mr. G. — (Soliloquizing) She will be all right in the morning. 
 It never would have done to have sided with her, they have 
 made a big mistake, but they must work out their own salva- 
 tion. I shall give her a real scolding to-morrow, she looked 
 too white and tired to-night. 
 
 Exit Mr. Grayson. 
 
23 
 
 ACT 2— SCENE 3. 
 
 Dining-room at Mr. Lenox's house. Mr. Lenox and Mr- 
 Mackay seated near the table smoking. 
 
 Mr. L. — You see, Mackay, I am a trifle "hampered" when it 
 comes to entertaining my friends decently at home {offering 
 some more cigars and a glass of liquor) This is a little beady, 
 but you haven't taken enough to hurt a baby yet Yes, as I 
 was saying, I'm a trifle "hampered." I generally have my own 
 friends up to the League for dinner. By the way, put me down 
 for next Thursday at the club. I want to introduce you to 
 some fellows who've got more money than brains. This is 
 Miss Lenox's domain. My little girl is too young to be put at 
 the head of a table full of men ; her position, too, is a little 
 peculiar — no mother — my dear wife left us for a better woild 
 two years ago : there is no one here in the womankind but 
 Hildah, my wife's sister. Hildah is a good woman, none bet- 
 ter, but, well, Hildah is Hildah. 
 
 Ban. — I assure you that nothing could have been more de- 
 lightful tban the family dinner, just over. It was so kind to 
 admit me to your home circle. 
 
 Mr. L. — Yes, but I take it you're not one of the domestic sort, 
 you artists are generally Bohemians. However, you must stay 
 and finish the evening with Jeanne and Hildah. This is 
 Jeanne's at-home ; later on there will be a dance. Jeanne is 
 too young for her mother's old set ; they are inclined to patron- 
 ize her, and the little monkey has ruled me with a rod of iron 
 so long that she don't accept patronage very meekly from any- 
 body 
 
 Enter Miss Lenox. 
 
 Miss Len. — Papa, if you are going to ask any advice from 
 Mr. Mackay about your pictorial Noah's Ark, I wish you would 
 do it now Aunt Hildah and I will want him to help us pres- 
 ently. 
 
 Mr L.— All right, my tyrant ; come, Mackay. I keep the 
 Ark, but she entertains the animals. Jeanne gets a regular 
 menagerie together every Thursday. 
 
 Miss Len. — At-homes are dreadful, don't you think so? 
 
 Ban. — I regret my limited opportunities of judging. 
 
 Miss Len. — Ah, you are a stranger here yet awhile. Wait 
 until this Winter and you will be bored out of your existence. 
 You see, Aunt Hildah and Papa make my at-homes so difficult. 
 Papa runs away entirely as a usual thing, and Aunt Hildah, 
 poor dear, patient Aunt Hildah, sits behind the tea things and 
 dispenses tea as if she were at a church fair, for so much a cup, 
 and was afraid to get the change wrong if she permitted con- 
 versation. 
 
2 4 
 
 Mr. L. — Hildah was born a saint and has not become con- 
 taminated even by living in the house of a Wall Street Bear. 
 
 Miss Len. — You shan't make fun of Aunt Hildah; shej.s as 
 true as gold, but you will stay. Mr. Mackay, and help me en- 
 tertain, besides I propose having a little dance later on, and I 
 should like you to assist me in leading at least one figure in 
 the German, won't you? 
 
 Mr. L. — Of course he will ; I'll fetch him myself, presently. 
 
 Miss Len. (looking at a dainty little watch) — Papa, I will give 
 you just one-half an hour for the pictures; after that Mr. 
 Mackay belongs to me. 
 
 Exit Miss Lenox. 
 
 Mr. L. — You know, Mackay, as a rule, we city men make 
 egregious asses of ourselves when we undertake to buy pic- 
 tures. There's a lot of bare spaces here to be filled, and I have 
 just got sense enough to know that I don't know anything 
 about this sort of thing; that is, I think I know a fine portrait 
 when I see it, but these picture dealers have such a gift of the 
 gab that they can talk an easy-going fellow into buying a pic- 
 ture, whether he likes it or not. 
 
 Ban. — I admit there are some unscrupulous ones. 
 
 Mr. L. — So I need an expert. I want you to fill that space 
 forme. Take your own time, make your own selections; in 
 the meantime draw on me for commissions as soon as you 
 please. Now then, my dear fellow, I'm under bonds to hand 
 you over to the women ; after all they are the ones to float a 
 fellow. I've got to meet some man at the club at half-past 
 nine; you will excuse me. Don't forget Thursday evening 
 next. Come this way (conducting Mr. Mackay to the ballroom). 
 
 Enter two Lackeys to clear away tables, etc. 
 Exeunt. 
 
 Ball room at Mr. Lenox's mansion, Miss Lenox receiving her 
 guests near the entrance. 
 
 Enter Mr. Mackay. 
 
 Miss Len. (smilingly approaching) — You won't find this, Mr. 
 Mackay, like Mrs. Bockwood's at-home; Mrs. Bockwood's are 
 perfect, don't you think so? 
 
 Ban.— I never attended but one, and then you were there ; 
 of course it was perfect. 
 
 Miss Len.— Aunt Hildah was afraid that Papa would fill your 
 mind with business this evening. You are mine now; stop 
 
25 
 
 thinking about blank spaces, and please take your place oppo- 
 site to me and we will lead the dance. 
 
 (All the company present join in the dance.) 
 
 Ran. (at the close of the dance) — Are you not tired, Miss Lenox, 
 after so much exercise? Might I suggest going into some quiet 
 corner for a few moments (leading her to a recess of a bow-win- 
 dow). I know what I am going to say is impolite, but let me 
 bid you adi-ux here. There is some work crying out in my 
 studio for my presence, and whilst under the inspiration I 
 should attend to it. I have had a charming evening. 
 
 Miss Len. — You have had nothing of the sort, and if you go 
 now I shall think — 
 
 Ran —Think what? 
 
 Miss Len. — That — you — do — not — like — me. 
 
 Ran. — Jeanne, do you love me? 
 
 Miss Len. — Yes, you know I do. 
 
 Ran. — God help you, little one ! {leaving Miss Lenox abruptly, 
 and quickly leaving the room.\ 
 
 Exit Mr Mackay. 
 
 Miss Len. (plunged in bewilderment at her admirer's sudden de- 
 parture) — Poor fellow, he is afraid of Papa, that is all. He 
 thinks rich men are all ogres and he is about to be devoured by 
 one. Me is a tempest. I adore him ! 
 
 Curtain falls. 
 
 ACT 2— SCENE 4. 
 
 Mr. Mackay's studio. Mr. Mackay at work on his statue. 
 
 Ran. — Confound this thing ! If I stay shut up with it here 
 much longer alone it will give me the horrors; better make a 
 finish of it and get it out of sight. (A knock at the door. Enter 
 Mr. Chiltern.) Chiltern ! Why, I thought you had been out of 
 town this month past. Hold on, let me see if I can find ac- 
 commodation for you and that gorgeous bunch of roses. My 
 room is not always in this wretched condition. 
 
 Mr. C — You will have to accommodate the roses also — they 
 are for you, and I'm glad enough to get rid of them. With 
 your permission, I will take possession of this jolly window 
 seat. 
 
 Ran. — For me, those roses? 
 
 Mr, C. — Yes, for you ; it's a great thing to be the coming 
 man, rising luminary, etc. There's where you art fellows get 
 the better of us poor limbs of the law, especially when you 
 supplement the artistic temperament with a Byronic head and 
 
26 
 
 a G-aribal Uan mustache. Who would ever think of sending me 
 a floral tribute? 
 
 Ran. — That is a fact; you are a lawyer. 
 
 Mr C. — You look rather seedy, old fellow ; working too hard, 
 I guess. Mother sent you those roses, and told me to say that 
 she is going to have a lot of nice girls out at our place next 
 week and she wants you to come and help entertain them. 
 
 Ean. — Thanks for the roses and the invitation. 
 
 Mr. C — Oh, as for the roses, they take the earth out yonder 
 in June, and as for the invitation, the thanks, if you accept, 
 will come from us I'd like to live this way (sucking the head 
 of his cane, and looking around him meditatively) . 
 
 Ean. — Then you must be a naturally depraved wretch. I 
 call this living like a dog — everything is upside down. 
 
 Mr. C. — If it is, I live like one of those pop-e\ T ed, bow-legged 
 pugs, sleek and well fed, but some woman or other has always 
 got hold of the other end of the chain, and I've got to go just 
 the way they pull 
 
 Ean. — How many they's are these? 
 
 Mr. C. — Five — one mother, two aunts and two sisters. What 
 chance has a fellow among such a lot of petticoats? 
 
 Ean. — Chance for what? 
 
 Mr. C. — Chance to make a man of himself. 
 
 Ean. — It depends on what sort of a man you want to make 
 of yourself. 
 
 Mr. C. — Oh, well, I don't want to make a beast of myself, I 
 hate nasty things, and I don't think I'd want to lie, gamble cr 
 drink, even if I were left to my own devices, but then, oh, 
 well, hang it, a fellow don't like to have to give an account of 
 himself five times over, you know? 
 
 Ean. (rising and placing his hand on Mr. Chiltern's shoulder) — 
 Dolly, there are all sorts of chains in this world, and all sorts 
 of dogs tugging at them, but I think if I had to take my 
 chances over again, I'd like to feel that my chain was firmly 
 in the grasp of somebody stronger and better than my own 
 weak self. 
 
 Mr. C — Say that over again, I want to remember it ver- 
 batim. 
 
 Ran.— Why? 
 
 Mr. C. — Well, you see mother's the best woman in the world, 
 there's no question about that, but she is strait-laced, and I 
 don't mind telling you that she was a little afraid of you, you 
 know. 
 
 Ean. — Afraid of me? 
 
 Mr. C. — Yes, this way — I guess I have talked a lot of stuff 
 about you, and she was afraid I was getting fond of one of 
 those Bohemians, but that idea of yours will fetch her, you 
 understand? 
 
 Ean. — Yes, I understand. 
 
27 
 
 Mr. C. — You will come to help me through, Mother never 
 has but the nicest girls out; you know she and the aunts em- 
 panel a committee and sit on them. They are going to marry 
 me off some day in spite of myself, to the wrong girl, of 
 course. 
 
 Ran. — Who, for instance, are some of the nice girls that will 
 be with you week after next? 
 
 Mr. C. — Oh, I don't know, about a dozen ; that's mother's 
 idea of making home happy for me. Miss Jeanne Lenox for 
 one; ever seen her? She's real nice, a regular high-stepper, 
 and as jolly as you please. She makes fun for the whole house 
 when she comes. 
 
 Ran. — Then perhaps after all the chain will be pulled in the 
 right direction this time. 
 
 Mr. C. — That chain is in Miss Lenox's hand, and she won't 
 be pulled about by anybody, but, "pon honor, I never meant to 
 have consumed but five minutes of your valuable time. 
 
 Ran. — Mj r time is not very valuable this morning. I've been 
 fighting a headache. By the way Chiltern didn't I understand 
 from somebody that you had passed your examination very 
 creditably, and was prepared to practice law this coming 
 winter. 
 
 Mr. C. — I don't know about the creditable examination, but 
 j am a so-called lawyer, have taken desk room with old Judge 
 Hallam Foote, you know I must be under somebody's wing. 
 
 Ran. — Then may be you can give me the law in a certain 
 imaginary case, I don't know that I ought to call it imaginary 
 either. I will be very frank with you Dolly, of course trusting 
 to your honor for secresy. 
 
 Mr. C. — That of course without saying. 
 
 Ran. — I have a Mead in Vermont who has come to grief in 
 a domestic way recently, he had married from pure love a 
 woman who afterwards turned out something of a shrew, she 
 left him on very slight provocation, and my friend writes to 
 me for advice as to what steps to take in the matter. 
 
 Mr. C. — Does he want her back? 
 
 Ran. — That I am not quite sure about. 
 
 Mr. C. — Well it all depends on that, if he wants her back, I 
 suppose all he's got to do is metarphorically to go on his knees 
 to her. 
 
 Ran. — My friend is not much given to genuflexion, more- 
 over he does not know where she is. 
 
 Mr. C. — Desertion ! A clear case of desertion, in that case 
 all he has to do is to summon her to return a certain number 
 of times, and in case of refusal, after five years, the law pre- 
 sumes her dead, and he is a free man, free to marry again. 
 
 Ran. — Ah, well, I don't know why I have bothered you with 
 this temptest in a tea-pot, but I was going to write to this 
 friend of mine this morning, and as the poor fellow had asked 
 
28 
 
 for my advice, I wanted to be able to give it to him intelligent- 
 ly, thanks to you, I can do so now. 
 
 Mr. C. — Glad to be of any service to a friend of yours. I 
 can tell Mother you will come. 
 
 Ran. — Don't promise for me Chiltern. thank her, and tell 
 her if I can get away from my studio, I will be only too happy. 
 
 Mr. C. — You do look done up. I think you will find a tonic 
 i n our country air, to say nothing of the girls. 
 Exit Mr. Chiltern. 
 
 Ean. — Chiltern is a good fellow, I don't think he had any 
 suspicion of the Vermont friend being myself. Five years is 
 a long time to wait, but Jeanne is young. I will call there to- 
 morrow and make a rendezvous in the Park. 
 
 Curtain falls 
 
 ACT 2— SCENE 5. 
 
 A Woodland Scene. 
 
 Enter Mr. Mackay and Miss Lenox. 
 
 Ran. — Miss Lenox, I came here to say something which had 
 better be said in as few words as possible. 
 
 Miss Len. — Yes. 
 
 Ran. — Yes, I had no right to ask you to grant me this ren- 
 dezvous ; but I wanted to tell you something, must tell you 
 something in fact. 
 
 Miss Len. — Yes. 
 
 Ran. — I am an unmitigated scamp Jeanne, Miss Lenox, 
 and deserve to be ordered from your presence as you would 
 order an insolent Lackay who had put an affront upon you. 
 
 Miss Len. — I do not understand you. 
 
 Ran. — Of course you don't, how can you, I don't understand 
 myself. 
 
 Miss Len — You are afraid of Papa. 
 
 Ran. — He, he, does not know anything? 
 
 Miss Len. — No — I — there was nothing for me to tell him, — 
 you— 
 
 Ran. — True, true, you could hardly have told him, that 
 he had entertained a villian at dinner, and that you nad been 
 insulted by that villian afterwards. 
 
 Miss Len. — I insulted? 
 
 Ran. — Yes insulted, is it not an insult for a man in my po- 
 sition, a poor unknown obscure modeller in clay, and chipper 
 of marble to raise longing eyes to Jerome Lenox's daughter, 
 is it not an insult for a man absolutely debarred from even the 
 possibility of asking a woman to be his wife, to permit his 
 
passion for that woman to over-ride his prudence? Is it not 
 an insult for a man to pour meaningless words of love into a 
 girl's ear and to extort from her avowels that can lead to 
 nolhing, as I extorted them from you last evening, my poor 
 little Jeanne. 
 
 Miss Len. — Meaningless words, lead to nothing? 
 
 Ban.— Yes, meaningless words, that can lead to nothing. 
 
 Miss Len. — Why? (Drawing her hand across her face.) 
 
 Kan. — Because I never can. I never intend to repeat one 
 word of all the stuff I poured into your innocent ears last 
 night, until I am in a position to face your Father, and say 
 to him, Jerome Lenox by the help of my own strong right arm", 
 I have carved out a position that you cannot look doAvn upon, 
 it may be a long time before I can do it Jeanne, two years, 
 perhaps three, perhaps longer, perhaps never, until then. 
 
 Miss Len. — Until then? 
 
 Ran. — Until then, good bye, I must not stand in the way of 
 some more fortunate man. I will not 'Hamper" you. 
 
 Miss Len — Until then— I will wait— there will be no other 
 fortunate man. What are two years, three, four. You will be 
 great, and I shall be proud of you. Father likes you now. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT 2.— SCENE 6. 
 
 Boom in Mrs. Boper's lodging house. Marianne Maekaj T 
 now called Mrs Fawcett seated working at her easel. 
 
 Mrs. F — (Meditatively) Yes, if I stood in his way, I should 
 have stepped aside and left him "Unhampered." A year will 
 tell whether or not be needs me, I know Father misses me, it 
 was a cold morning when I crossed the ferry. It would be a 
 comfort to me to see Father's dear face again he looked so 
 suffering the night I saw him last, I — (Knock at the door) Come 
 in. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Roper. 
 
 Mrs B.— I'm so glad to find you in Mrs. Fawcett, you wont 
 mind my sitting down, I'm all out of breath, and all out of 
 temper too, how perfectly lovely your room does look. 
 
 Mrs. F. — (Laying down her brushes) Can I do anything for you 
 Mrs. Koper? 
 
 Mrs. B.- — You can, I'm in a peck of trouble, read that (Lay- 
 ing a telegram before her) "Mrs Boper must hold herself in 
 readiness to prepare a fancy costume at two days notice for a 
 garden party, at which the wearer is to represent Mountain 
 Laurel. Jeanne Lenox." 
 
 Mrs. F .^(After reading the telegram) Well? 
 
30 
 
 Mrs R — (Twisting the telegram viciously) As if I know any- 
 thiug on earth about Laurei Mountain. 
 
 Mrs. F. — Mountain Laurei you mean. 
 
 Mrs. R. — And my designer off on a vacation ! 
 
 Mrs. F.— Why don't you telegraph bacx you can't do it. 
 
 Mrs. Ii. — Can't do it. did you see the signature? 
 
 Mrs. F. — Yes, I saw tue telegram signed "Jeanne Lenox." 
 
 Mrs. R. — And that stands for several thousand dollars every 
 year to me, I must do it. If she wab to come here to-morrow 
 and liud I hadn't even made an effort at it, do you know wnat 
 she would do? 
 
 xVIrs. F. — I haven't the remotest idea, 
 
 Mrs. R. — Why, she would simply walk over to Greauleaf's 
 and I should be ruined, she is a nice young lady when every- 
 thing goes to suit her but my she is pugnacious when it don't, 
 she's spoilt you see, only child, Father no end of money, 
 French maid all claws ana eyes for trainer. 
 
 Mrs. F. — Poor child, I am sorry for her, I expect — 
 
 Mrs. R. — You will be sorry for me tliis time tomorrow if 
 the Laurel Mountain dress isu t designed. What do I know 
 about Laurel and Mountains, me that never slept a night out 
 of the City, except when I was on the other side Duying goods 
 in Paris. Dear Mrs Fawoett ! You do paint beautifully, such 
 lovely fruit and ilower pieces, I do declare your Lemons put 
 my teeth on edge, and I always feel like biting your water- 
 melons, and you must have seen the Laurel nonsense some- 
 time in your life — wouldn't you, oh wouldn't you my dear Mrs. 
 Fawcett. I know it is a step down, artistically speaking, but 
 if you would only design Miss Lenox's costume for me? 
 
 Mrs. F. — But the young lady might not like my design, it is 
 is sure not to be conventional. 
 
 Mrs. R. — Precisely! exactly, you couldn't have said a better 
 thing. Oh I will pay you anything you ask, that is, provided 
 of course, anything in reason. 
 
 Mrs. F. — I do not wish payment, this is not my line of work. 
 You have been very kind to me, and if I can save a valuable 
 customer to you, I shall be glad to do it. 
 
 Mrs R. — You are an angel. I always knew you were. 
 Valuable, I should say she was. Miss Lenox's custom is 
 worth a round sum a year to me, ana I will never, never, allow 
 my designer to leave my side again, no, not unless it is to at- 
 tend to her own funeral. Good bye, God bless you 
 Exit Mrs. Roper. 
 Mrs. F.— I wonder what Randall would say to my becoming 
 a Dressmaker's designer, he seemed to object to my sketches 
 as degrading art— but they brought me in money all the same, 
 (Adjusting her bonnet) I will step out, and buy a slip of Laurel 
 juat to get an idea. Curtain falls. 
 
3i 
 
 A<>1 III.— §Q£IHL 1. 
 
 Mr. Mackay's studio. Mr. Mackay at work on his Statue. 
 
 Kan. — Well no more invitations to nice country houses. No 
 word from Marianne; it must be that Statue that forced her 
 so prominently into my min 1, here dust, poverty, silence, at 
 Chil ouhurst, light, air luxury. (Turning down ihi lamp near 
 statue and lighting one on the table) No letters, no nothing all 
 day long, every one out of to *vn. I suppose I shall have to 
 take my choice between work and suicide. Which shall it be. 
 Enter Mr. Grayson 
 
 Mr. G. — Why Ran you here? I've been making trips across 
 the river most every day this week to see you, this time I was 
 goiug to leave a note for you 
 
 Ran. — I returned to the stu lio last evening (Placing a chair 
 for Mr. Grayson) and am feeling bored with myself already. 
 Glad to see you. 
 
 Mr. G. — Got home from where Ran? 
 
 Ran. — From Chiltenhurst. 
 
 Mr. G.— Jhiluenhurst, where is that? I cannot place it on 
 the map. 
 
 Ran. — It isn't on any map. It is the name of Mrs. Ghiltern's 
 country place on the Hudson up about Tarrytowu, I've been 
 there on a visit. 
 
 Mr. G. — Oh ! I thought maybe it was some place where Nan- 
 Nan might have wandered to, and you had gone to coax her 
 back home. 
 
 Ran. — I shall never do that, she left me of her own free will 
 Mr. Grayson. 
 
 Mr. G. — I know it, I know it, she told me so herself. 
 
 Ran. — Then she did go to you? 
 
 Mr G. — I found her at my lodgings, when I went back from 
 here, she stayed that night with me. 
 
 Ran. — Where is she now? 
 
 Mr. G —I do not know, I think I was a little hard on Nan- 
 Nan that night, I scolded her, I thought you know, she would 
 expect me to see only her side, 
 
 Ran. — And didn't she. 
 
 Mr. G —This don't look much like it, she left this behind 
 her, and I was going to leave it here for you, I thought if you 
 were still thinking hard thoughts of your wife, this would 
 crush them all out, it ought to Randall (Tearing open an envel- 
 ope and handing Mr. Mackay the contents) This is what Nan-Nan 
 
32 
 
 left behind her Kandall. 
 
 Ran- {Reading aloud contents of note) "Don't worry about 
 me Father, I shall do very well. Don't change toward Ran- 
 dall ; it was all my fault, you shall hear from me if I am ill. 
 Marianne." And you have heard from her. 
 
 Mr G.— Heard from her? No, I thought Ran especially as I 
 came again and aerain and found you out, that you would have 
 some news of her for me. 
 
 Ran. — Then she is not ill, or you would have heard, she al- 
 ways kept her promises. 
 
 Mr. G. — Yes, Nan-Nan always kept her promises. 
 
 Ran. — This note is generous, May I— I suppose you prefer 
 keeping it though? 
 
 Mr. G. — (Holding outhis hand) Yes, I want it back Ran. It 
 may be you know that I will never hear of her again. 
 
 Ran.— Nonsense, rubbish. 
 
 Mr G. — I am an old man, a very old man. 
 
 Ran. She should have stayed with you, she need not have 
 deserted us both, I should not have forced her to return to me. 
 
 Mr. G.— I will tell you what she said about that Ran. "I 
 do not want it to be in any one's power Father to say that you 
 are harboring a truant wife," and more than once that evening 
 she said she thought I might be of use to you Randall, and she 
 did not want to stand between us She knew that I had pre- 
 dicted great things of you. 
 
 Ran. — 'J hat was unself sh of her 
 
 Mr G.— I never knew Nan-Nan to do a selfish thing, I was 
 hard on her that night Ran, I was angry with her, and— and I 
 refused to kiss her good night. I wish I had that night to go 
 over again Ran 
 
 Ran.— But what can I do, she has entirely effaced herself? 
 
 Mr G.— Have you tried to do anything Randall? 
 
 Ran. — I have made enqubies and advertised. 
 
 Mr. G.— I suppose there is nothing moie you can do Fan, 
 and there is nothing I can do but wait, and may I e I wont be 
 left here long enough 1o see her come back to you loving and 
 repentant. 
 
 Ran.— You will be across the River 
 
 Mr. G.— No not there either Ran lam an old man you 
 know, but if I am not here Ran, tell her that I missed her, and 
 that I was sorry I did not kiss her good night that night she 
 wanted me to, she asked me twice but I refused her, you see. 
 Ran, I didn't want 1o seem to be siding with her against you. 
 
 Pan. — I see, I with I could make it easier for you Mr. Gray- 
 son. It is hard lines that I can't, when you have been doing 
 me good turns, ever since I was a beggarly little dauber. 
 
 Mr. G. — Don't you miss her too Ran? Don't you too feel as 
 if S( rr< thing had gone out of the world, since Nan-Nan took 
 this wild Mhim into her head? (Abruptly rising) Good day Ran, 
 
33 
 
 if anything should turn up about my daughter's whereabouts, 
 don't fail to let me know. 
 
 Exit Mr. Grayson. 
 Ran. — (Turning toward the statue) If you could but open your 
 lips and tell me where you were to-nigbt I believe, yes I be- 
 lieve I would go to you Nan-Nan. Oh ! \\ hat an incompre- 
 hensible fool I am, I wish some one would belp me understand 
 myself. . 
 
 Curtain falls. 
 
 Exeunt. 
 
 ACT 3.— SCENE 2. 
 
 Mrs. Eoper's millinery shop. Mrs. Eoper behind the counter- 
 Enter Mrs. Fawcett. 
 
 Mrs. E. — I am so glad to see you, I have just received a 
 note from Miss Lenox, saying " she don't like the pattern of 
 dress " " says she can't see any sense in it. " I mean your 
 conception of the Laurel Mountain. 
 
 Mrs. F — Don't see any sense in it? 
 
 Mrs. E.— No, " says she can't make head or tail of it, " she's 
 coming here shortly to talk about it. 
 
 Mrs. F.— Then it is because she has no head of her own. 
 
 Mrs. E. — That is what I told her, no nut exactly, I do 
 declare tbat I'm that upset tbat I believe I have lost my own 
 head, I told her if she would have it described to her by my 
 designer, dear Mrs Fawcett we people in business have to 
 tell lies some times, who was an accomplished artist, that was 
 no lie, I was quite sure she would see that the design was 
 both unique and lovely. 
 
 Mrs. F — Why don't you describe it to her. 
 
 Mi s. E. — I have to the best of my ability over and over 
 again, butyonsee I can only execute, I always make Henriette 
 do the talking, and Henriette is off on that dreadful vacation. 
 
 Mrs. F. — I will wait a little while, and perhaps Miss Lenox 
 will come in. I am sure unless the young lady is very unrea- 
 sonable, or entirely lacking in taste, we can make her like that 
 design. 
 
 Mrs. E. — There — they are coming now. 
 
 Enter Miss Lenox and other ladies in the store. 
 
 Mrs. E — Good day Miss Lenox here is the designer of your 
 dress pattern, I received your note this morning. 
 
 Mrs. F . — Mrs Eoper tells me that you are not quite satisfied 
 with the design of your costume. 
 
 Miss Len — Quite satisfied, not at all satisfied my dear 
 creature, it is positively mystifying, not to say absurd, can 
 
34 
 
 anybody find Mountain Laurel in that heap. 
 
 Mrs. F. — (Silently adjusting the pattern to its proper shape) 
 Now my lady do you see it? 
 
 Miss Lvn. — See it, it is divine, O'.i you angel, you are an 
 Artist — -You are — (Running to the door and bringing in some of 
 her friends who were awaiting her) Look at that girls, and tell 
 me what you think of it? 
 
 Chorus of Voices— Divine, lovely, exquisite, just perfect, 
 but wbat is it for? 
 
 Miss Len. — For a garden party at Mrs. Chiltern's — I'm out 
 there for two weeks, then we are going to the Sea-shore, Papa 
 does talk a little about Europe, but I think it will end in the 
 talk. By the way what is the material to be? 
 
 Mrs. F. — Pink crepe; it has the desired crimp. 
 
 Mrs. R.— Might I ask you Miss Lenox who was the origina- 
 tor of this Laurel Mountain garden party. 
 
 Miss Len. — Oh a gentleman who was there on a visit, his 
 idea was to have a sort of garden tea, the Ladies at each table 
 to represent a certain flower, there are to be big Canopies 
 over each table showing just what flower it represents, Poppies 
 Sunflower's, Mountain Laurel, etc. The gentleman's name 
 who suggested all this is Mr. Randall Mackay, you have heard 
 of him girls. 
 
 Chorus of Voices — Mackay the Sculptor? (The pink paper 
 model fell from the hands of the designer, whose back was turned 
 from the group ) 
 
 Miss Len. — He is going to do great things, Papa says he 
 has an unfinished Statue, which will place him in the front 
 rank of American sculptors when it is completed. Now dear 
 Mrs. Roper don't disappoint me about sending it in time, 
 Come girls. Good afternoou Mrs. Roper. 
 Exeunt 
 
 Mrs. R. — Mrs. Fawcett you could make your fortune as a 
 designer, I wish you would think about it. 
 
 M'S. F.— I think my own work suits me best, I am afraid of 
 fashionable young Ladies. 
 
 Mrs. R. — I am going to tell you something, You don't seem 
 to know anybody, and I do believe you are discreet, it just 
 goes to show what an all sort of a world this is but I heard 
 one of Mrs. Lenox's friends say, that " She was just making a 
 fool of herself about Randall Mackay. " 
 
 Mrs. F. — Well what have you or I to do with it. 
 
 Mrs. R.— Not much — but well — Plan is my Brother that is 
 all, not that I would ever bother him, even if he were to be- 
 come Jerome Lenox's son-in-law tomorrow. 
 
 Mrs. F. — Randall Mackay your brother? (excitedly.) 
 
 Mrs. R. What's the matter, anything wonderful about my 
 having a Brother. 
 
 Mrs F. — No, no— only it appears so strange. 
 
35 
 
 Mrs. R — It sounds strange does it, well he is ray brother, is 
 that so hard to believe, he is a good deal younger than I am. 
 I wasn't married when Father died. Mother died when Ran 
 was a handsome little chap in kilt skirts, I always took care 
 of him, Mother made me promise I would look out for him al- 
 ways, then when Father died, as I was engaged to Mr. Roper 
 who was in a good business, and able to look out for me, I 
 gave Ran the Three hundred Dollars, that was all that was 
 left after paying for Father's funeral, and told him it was to 
 give him a start in life. He took it, the start I mean, and it 
 wasn't long before he walked clean out of my life, I think he 
 sort of looked down on Mr. Roper, because he was a Tailor, 
 Ran always was a high flyer, but as long as he needed me I 
 was willing to overlook his nonsense, if he needed me this 
 minute I would go to him that I would. 
 
 Mrs. F. — A.nd you have known nothing about your Brother's 
 life since he left you? 
 
 Mrs. R. — -Precious little, you know it's easy enough to loose 
 sight of a body right here in town. We heard he was work- 
 ing under an old portrait painter somewhere in Hoboken, then 
 I did hear that he was married, but I know that ain't so, for 
 sometime back, I was hurrying through Washington Square 
 late, when I saw Ran sitting on a bench dressed in full even- 
 ing dress smoking a Cigar, and there was a big bouquet of 
 roses on the bench by him. I knew him the minute I laid 
 eyes on him. 
 Mrs. F. — How does all that prove him unmarried? 
 Mrs. R. — Oh, well he didn't look married, besides this talk 
 today shows I'm right. If he is flying around Miss Lenox he 
 can't have a wife anywhere. Ran isn't that sort of a scamp. 
 He's selfish, He was born selfish, and I think I helped to make 
 him more so, but Ran is a gentleman. He never would play a 
 mean trick on a woman never ! I don't know why I have bored 
 you with this bit of family history, but it is a comfort to open 
 your heart to a discreet woman like you. He can climb to 
 the topmost rung of the ladder without any fear of me putting 
 a block in his way. (Laughing) It did strike me however as 
 very comical to hear of him as a beau of Miss Lenox's. 
 
 Mrs. F. — Then you think perhaps your Brother really is an 
 admirer of Miss Lenox? 
 
 Mrs. R. — Admirer yes, we all admire her, who can help it, 
 but in love with her no, if Ran ever does come to loving any 
 woman, it will have to be a growth with him, and when he 
 does yield his heart, the surrender will not be made to Jeanne 
 Lenox. 
 Mrs. F. — To what sort of a woman then? 
 Mrs. R. — To a woman stronger, better, and truer than any I 
 nave ever had the honor of fitting yet. Now I will go. 
 Exit Mrs, Roper. 
 
36 
 
 Mrs. F. — She is right, it will be the growth of a passion. 
 Curtain falls. 
 
 Woodland Scene- — A Garden Party Tableau. — Under 
 Canopies representing different Flowers, the Ladies under the 
 Canopies being dressed to represent the Flower under which 
 they are standing. 
 
 ACT 3— SCENE 3. 
 
 Mr. Mackay's Studio. Mr. Mackay lying on a sola-bed his 
 eyes closed. 
 
 Enter Mrs Roper. 
 
 Mrs. B. — {Approaching the sofa cautiously) Ean, its me 
 Ean, Your Sister Rebecca. 
 
 Ean. — (Starting up) Becky, I know you Becky, and I am glad 
 to see you, find a chair for yourself. 
 
 Mrs. E. — I am glad to see you Ean. I thought if there was 
 nobody you'd rather have Ean, you'd let me stay here, and 
 nurse you, I read about your illness in the Paper. 
 
 Ean. — There is nobody I'd rather have Becky, it is good of 
 you to come. What paper did you read about me in, and if 
 you have the Paper with you, won't you read it to me now ? 
 
 Mrs. E. — (Rumaging in her pockets) Yes Ean dear, here it is, it 
 is a copy of Truth and says. " Friends of the promising young 
 Sculptor Mr Eandall Mackay, whose handsome face and figure 
 were seen often in fashionable parlors during the past spring, 
 will regret to hear that he has completely broken down under 
 the strain of the severe labor he imposed upon himself during 
 the recent heated term, and that he now lies suffering from an 
 attack of nervous prostration in his rooms, Studio Building, 
 North Washington Square. Mr. Mackay's genius is equalled 
 only by his ambition, he has for several years been industrious- 
 ly at work upon a Statue, from which he deservedly hoped to 
 reap fame and fortune, it was this fatal resolve to complete 
 this Statue in time for the next Academy opening, which led 
 to his overworking himself. This Masterpiece now stands 
 finished in his studio, but if his vigorous young life is to be 
 sacrificed to it, one can hardly give it the full need of praise 
 its transcendant merit claims." There Ean, now you had bet- 
 ter try and get a little nap. I will be about when you are 
 awake. 
 
 Ean. — Thank you Becky. I think I would feel better for a 
 little sleep. I feel very, very, tired Sister (Goes to sleep). 
 
 Mrs. E. — (Turning around, sees medicine bottles and bouquets 
 in various stages of decay remarks to herself) The emcll of these 
 flowers is enough to kill a well man. (Then lights a lamp after 
 
37 
 
 which softly opening the door called to the hall Boy) Here Boy, 
 throw these flowers away. 
 
 Boy. — Them's the young Lady's flowers, did he say dump 
 em out? She fetches them every day. 
 
 Mrs. K. — Which young Lady? 
 
 Boy. — The one who comes bout dark. She's a stunner better 
 looking than the one that stayed here at first with him, We 
 all thought that one was Mrs. Mac. — 
 
 Mrs. R. — (With great dignity) I am Mr. Mackay's Sister, and 
 I have come here to nurse him, I shall see that no one else in- 
 trudes on him. 
 
 Boy— All right mum, I guess he needs a Sister or some 
 womankind to take him in hand, I can tell you — (Called away) 
 
 Mrs. K. — (Seeing some one glide past her into the room quickly 
 shut the door saying) Now who are you? and what are you doing 
 here, heavens ! Miss Lenox, I might have known that basque 
 anyway. t 
 
 Miss Len. — Eoper ! Don't keep me from him, Boper I did 
 not know you were a nurse, but I am glad it is you who are 
 with him Boper Ob, don't keep me from going into the studio 
 he doesn't know it, I come always when I know he will be 
 asleep, I should die if I could not. 
 
 Mrs. K — Miss Lenox are you engaged to that young man in 
 there? 
 
 Miss Len. — Yes-no-that is-Oh Boper, I know I am putting 
 myself completely in your power, but — 
 
 Mrs. B. — You are safe with me Miss Lenox ; but there's the 
 world at large. 
 
 Miss Len. — (Snapping her finger fiercely) That's for the world 
 at large ! I love him, He loves me, he would not speak out 
 because I was rich and he was poor, Oh ! my love, my love how 
 could you be so foolish. (Pushing by Mrs*. Roper she kneeled a 
 few moments by Mr. Mackay's couch, then suddenly rising up 
 said) I have not harmed him Boper, He don't know that I have 
 ever been here, nobody does but Florence my maid, If I could 
 not kneel by his side to ask God to make him well, I could not 
 stand it Boper. I have left the roses. (Mrs. Roper leading her 
 quietly out of the room whispers good adviceto her) 
 Exit Miss Lenox. 
 
 Ban. — (Awakening) I thought maybe you had gone away 
 from me Becky, W ho lighted that? (Pointing to a lighted lamp) 
 
 Mrs. B. — I did, least about for a Lamp that would make a 
 soft light, and that was the only one I could find. 
 
 Ban. — I line it, I am glad you did it, would you mind taking 
 that sheet off her face Becky? (Pointing to the Statue) I have 
 not cared to uncover it for anybody else, but I'd like you to 
 see how beautiful she was. Please take the sheet entirely off 
 Becky (Mrs. Roper takes the sheet off) You like her Becky? 
 
38 
 
 Mrs. R. — Like it, Randall — it's superb, she looks as if she 
 had just turned her head away to listen for something she 
 wanted to near, and her neck, and that arm and hand, Randall 
 the world will ring with your name, after once that thing has 
 been placed on exhibition. 
 Ran. — Then it will never ring with my name Becky. 
 Mrs. R. — -Come now that's a sick man's fancy, you think be- 
 cause you are unwell, the end of all thing has come, wait until 
 1 get to coddling you with ail the messes you used to love, 
 —(noticing that Randall was paying no attention to her she stop- 
 ped talking and he began muttering) 
 
 Ban. — Oh my love, my love, my beautiful, have you not 
 heard of it of late, have you not heard all my remorse, all my 
 love, all my agony, over and over again? Would you come 
 back to me if you could my sweet, could you only come back . 
 to me from the cold, cold water, and let me hear you say I 
 forgive you, would you do it my beautiful one? Have I not 
 kissed your marble feet my own? Have I not pressed my hot 
 cheeks to your little cold hands darling, and you would not 
 take pity on me? Do you not know where you are my dear 
 that I would not let your image be gazed at by vulgar eyes? 
 
 Mrs. R. — (Placing herself suddenly between him and the Statue, 
 and hastily covering it said sharply) Randall. 
 
 Ran — Yes Becky — what was I saying, has Mr. Grayson 
 been here? 
 
 Mrs. R. — Mr. Grayson, no, a Mr. Chiltern has been here, and 
 he told me to say, that he means to bring his own Doctor here 
 to-morrow, he says yours is a " poor quack," but his will make 
 a new man of you in no time. 
 
 Ran. — Dolly is a good fellow, a loyal friend, I don't deserve his 
 friendship. 
 
 Mrs. R. — You deserve everybody's friendship Ran. You 
 always did have the knack of making folks love you Ran, from 
 a little boy up. 
 
 Ran. — If Mr. Grayson comes while I am asleep Becky, make 
 him stay, and, make the old man comfortable won't you 
 Becky? 
 Mrs. R. — Yes Ran, but who is Mr. Grayson dear? 
 Ran. — .He is my Father-in-law, an my companion in grief. 
 Mrs. R. — Your Father-in-law Randall (No response came, he 
 had again fallen asleep) Well if Mr. Grayson is his Father-in-law, 
 where is his wife, and if he has a wife, what does Jeanne Lenox 
 mean by coming here on the sly. Things are mixed up, no won- 
 der he is ill, I think such a mixture would make any one ill, how- 
 ever I will run home for a few minutes, perhaps the fresh air 
 will aid me in solving the mystery for there is a mystery exist- 
 ing around here. 
 
 Exit Mrs. Roper. 
 
39 
 
 ACT 3— SCEtfE 4. 
 
 Mrs. Roper's millinery shop. Mrs. Roper seated on a band 
 box. 
 
 Mrs. R. — {Knock at the door) Come in. 
 Eater Mrs. Fawcett, 
 
 Mrs. F. — You are so hard to find lately that I shall have to 
 set a trap for you, whenever my rent falls due. 
 
 Mrs. R. — Little thought have I been giving to room rent 
 this week (Speaking disconsolately but extending her hand for the 
 bills) there are more things in this world to bother about 
 than money Mrs. Fawcett. 
 
 Mrs. F. — Many more, you are in trouble, can I do anything 
 for you? 
 
 Mrs. R. — Not this time, it's a graver matter than designing 
 a Laurel Mountain ball dress, do sit down, it gives me the fid- 
 gets to have you standing up, and me sitting, but I'm that 
 tired I am ready to drop. 
 
 Mrs. F. — (Sitting down as requested) this is your busy season 
 I suppose. 
 
 ^Mrs. R. — It isn't work, I'm used to that, but I'm not used to 
 nursing, I'm done up. 
 
 Mrs. F. — Sickness in the family. Nothing serious I hope? 
 
 Mrs. R. — It's my Brother, Mr. Randall Mackay the sculptor, 
 you have heard me speak of him. 
 
 Mrs. F. — (Startled) What of your Brother is he very ill? 
 
 Mrs. R. — Dear me Mrs. Fawcett, if you ever read the papers 
 you wouldn't have to ask. Didn't you see in Truth that poor 
 Randall had worked himself nearly to death to finish a Statue 
 think of such foolishness? 
 
 Mrs. F. — And is it finished? 
 
 Mrs. R. — Yes, but it came very near finishing him. 
 
 Mrs F. — (Excitedly) Is it on Exhibition? Has the world 
 passed sentenced on it? Do they call him great? Is he famous? 
 
 Mrs. R. — Do they call him great, I call him a bag of bones, 
 Is he famous maybe what is left of him is, but that is precious 
 little, much good has his marble beauty done for him so far. 
 
 Mrs. F. — Have you seen it? 
 
 Mrs. R. — Only once, and then I didn't see the face well, 
 the thing stands there finished, but a dusty old sheet hides it 
 from everybody I heard an old man say, who came in to in- 
 quire about Ran. that the figure never would be put on Exhibi- 
 tion, though I should think some of his rich friends, and he 
 seems to have lots of them, would give him Thousands of 
 Dollars for it, on the principle of a Fool and his money soon 
 parted you know. 
 
 Mrs. F. — Why is the Statue not to be exhibited? 
 
 Mrs. R. — The dear only knows. Nobody has honored me 
 
4° 
 
 with an explanation, all I know I caught by making use of my 
 ears, when the old man and the Doctor' were talking, and I 
 may not even have had that straight. 
 
 Mrs. F. — Well whatever it is, please let me have it. 
 
 Mrs. K.— Well I think I heard tne old man tell the Doctor, 
 tnat since Ean had heard of his wife's death, he had sworn the 
 Statue should never be exhibited. 
 
 Mrs. F. — You say his wife is dead? 
 
 Mrs. B. — Yes dead, and the outrageous part of it is nobody 
 knew he had one until the old man let it out, which I wish he 
 hadn't, for since she is dead, Kan might have done much better 
 and married — but there now how my old tongue does get away 
 with me. 
 
 Mrs. F.— Who says his wife is dead? 
 
 Mrs. E. — The old man I suppose Mrs. Fawcett, I heard him 
 telling the Doctor something about a Telegram which he show- 
 ed Ean too sudden, both men seem awfully cut up about it. 
 
 Mrs. F. — (Laughing hysterically) What a pity it isn't true! 
 So this is the outcome, that is what comes of having high 
 ideals and trying to force other people to live up to them. How 
 many lives have I ruirled. 
 
 Mrs. E. — My dear you don't look as if you'd ever ruined any- 
 body's life. What does ail you Mrs. Fawcett? 
 
 Mrs. F. — I think I will go to him Mrs. Eoper at once. 
 
 Mrs. E.— Go to who? 
 
 Mrs. F. — To Eandall, your Brother — my Husband. 
 
 Mrs. E. — (Amazed) Eandall Mackay your Husband? 
 
 Mrs. F.— Yes. 
 
 Mrs. E. — And then you are not dead after all. Why how — 
 
 Mrs. M. — No doubt you will soon know all there is to know 
 Mrs. Eoper. At present I must go to Eandall and to Father. 
 
 Mrs- E. — Did you and Ean have a falling out Mrs.— 
 
 Mrs. M. — Call me Marianne, we are Sister's in law— you 
 know. 
 
 Mrs. E. — Yes I always did feel drawn towards you but was 
 there no divorce my dear? 
 
 Mrs. M. — None. 
 
 Mrs. E. — Then what is the matter? 
 
 Mrs. M. — I made a mistake, I believed he would make a 
 position for himself easier and quicker without me, than with 
 me, I meant to leave him " Unhampered "for his work. I be- 
 lieve I was more ambitious for him than he was for himself. 
 
 Mrs. E, — Unhampered for his work, Unhampered for his 
 deviltry you mean, my dear, don't you know that men like Ean 
 need to be driven to work, I used to drive him to school, yes 
 you made a big mistake, He'll get well fast enough now, but 
 there is one thing I want settled and that is an explanation 
 of some kind to be made to Miss Lenox. 
 
4 1 
 
 Mrs. M. — I agree with you. 
 
 Mrs. R. — Ran's conduct towards that innocent child was 
 shameful, she has no woman folks to guide her. I have half 
 a mind to go and see her myself, in the meantime go to Ran- 
 dall and get him away somewhere as soon as possible. My head 
 that is dizzy, with all this excitement, 1 never was as near daft 
 in all my born days. If 1 don't spoil the next dozen dresses I cut 
 out, it will be a special providence preventing. Are you coming 
 with me now, or shall I go first and prepare Ran for the return 
 of the prodigal. 
 
 Mrs. M— You go first please, and instead of your visiting 
 Miss Lenox I will call upon her, and when you hear me come 
 to the Studio, I will knock twice, send me my father first if he 
 is there, he is the dear old man you spoke about — just say a 
 lady wants to see him. 
 
 Exit Mrs. Mackay. 
 
 Mrs. R. — Mrs. Fawcett, Randall's wife. Miss Lenox his 
 sweatheart, Randall my Brother. Well whosoever would 
 have supposed that I, Koper, would have lived to be a victim 
 of such proceedings, I wonder what will happen next, but 
 1 forget the patient, I must hurry to him. 
 Exit Mrs Roper. 
 
 ACT 3— SCENE 5. 
 
 Miss Lenox's boudoir. Miss Lenox walking up and down 
 the room awaiting with impatience the entrance of her maid. 
 Enter Florence. 
 
 F. — We have made a mistake (She said cooly laying anunopen- 
 ed note\before her also a, srrall bouquet of flowers) I am sorry I could 
 not deliver them, but it was impossible. 
 
 Miss Len.- — And why? 
 
 F. — Because it is reported that Monsieur's Wife has returned, 
 and it would be manifestly indiscreet. I could not risk my 
 Young Lady's reputation so thoughlessly. 
 
 Miss Len. — (Very shocked) His Wife? 
 
 F. — Yes Monsieur's wife, it would seem their quarrel is quite 
 made up, the Janitor says everybody is happy, and that 
 Monsieur will get well shortly, and go away, let us hope so, 
 and Miss Lenox I have other news for you, my friend the 
 Janitor gave it to me, he got it from the Elevator Boy in the 
 Studio building, and I believe the Elevator Boy heard it from 
 the man of the Gentleman who picked Mr. Chiltern up, but of 
 that I am not quite sure. 
 
 Miss Len. — Well Florence, what about the Gentleman's 
 man and the Elevator Boy and Mr. Chiltern who was picked 
 up? that has such a disreputable sound. 
 
4 2 
 
 F. — The Janitor says, he is very badly injured, perhaps will 
 carry the soar to his grave, at least so one of the waiters at 
 the Club told the Gentleman's man who picked him up. I 
 mean the man of the Gentleman who picked him up... 
 
 Miss Len. — Scar to the grave poor Mrs, Chiltern, she mast 
 be almost crazy, but what was he doing, did your footman and 
 your waiters tell you that? 
 
 F. — He was defending a young Lady, Mr. Chiltern is of the 
 knightly sort, only Miss Lenox never seemed to discern it. 
 
 Miss Len. — Who was the Lady Florence, that Mr. Chiltern 
 defended in a draymen's style, did your footman give her 
 name? 
 
 F — I do not know her name, my friend the Janitor did not 
 give it to me, I thought Miss Lenox would be interested, be- 
 cause she knows Mrs. Chiltern and her daughters. 
 
 Miss Len.— Yes I am very, very, sorry poor Mrs. Chiltern. 
 
 F. — I suppose we will see it all in to-morrow's papers. 
 
 Miss Len. — Hear what in the papers tomorrow? 
 
 F. — About the trouble at the Club, the Lady's name and so 
 on, fortunate Lady, now she will become the fashion, my Lady 
 Eunice said (Hearing a cry she looked up and saw that Miss Lenox 
 was fainting taking her in her arms, she laid her on a couch) 
 
 Miss Len. — (tiecovenng from her fainting spell) What is the 
 matter with me Florence, I feel so stupid. 
 
 F. — Miss Lenox fainted, that is all, one's first affaire always 
 excite one unduly, Miss Lenox had better try to go to asleep. 
 (Placing a screen between the couch and the door) 
 Exit Florence. 
 Enter Miss Hildah Warren. 
 
 Miss W. — (Going behind the screen she notices Jeanne lying down 
 apparently asleep) Is the child unwell, and never a word to me 
 about it, I must be of very little importance, and none to 
 Jeanne lately (Raising her voice) Jeanne, are you unwell 
 Jeanne? 
 
 Miss Len. — No I'm not unwell Aunt Hildah. 
 
 Miss W, — You look like it, your cheeks are fiery red, I do 
 believe you have fever, let me see your tongue. 
 
 Miss Len. — I am not sick Aunt, and I do not care to show 
 you my tongue. 
 
 Miss W. — Well, well, don't get snappish, there is a person 
 here Jeanne who wants to see you, she says she wants to see 
 you privately on particular business. 
 
 Miss Len. — Did she send in her card? 
 
 Miss W.— No, She says you don't know her, but she begs 
 you will not refuse to see her. 
 
 Miss Len. — Have you seen her? 
 
 Miss W. — Yes, Janson showed her into the parlor, I should 
 say she was a Lady, in spite of her extremely plain dress, beg- 
 
43 
 
 gingfor some charity I suppose, shall I tell her you are sick? 
 
 Miss Len. — Bat I am not sick, and I think I should rather 
 enjoy hearing about poor and miserable people just now, send 
 her in here Aunt please 
 
 Miss W. — -Enjoy hearing about poor and miserable people, 
 Jeanne Lenox you are enough to make one a convert to the 
 theory of original depravity (Opening doov to admit the stranger) 
 Please walk in, I have told the Lady Jeanne, that we have so 
 many calls on us from our own Church, that we rarely step 
 aside for strangers. 
 
 Enter Mrs Mackay. 
 
 Miss Len. — Yes Aunt Hildah, but I will make my own state- 
 ments if you please, there is some one calling you Aunt. 
 Exit Miss Warren. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Miss Lenox, I have come here begging, but it is 
 not for any Church charity, I have come here to beg your par- 
 don, and if possible to right a great wrong, I have helped to do 
 you. 
 
 Miss Len.— I don't understand, who are you? 
 
 Mrs. M. — I am Marianne Mackay, Mr. Randall Mackay's 
 wife, and I want to be your friend (Divesting herself of her wraps) 
 
 Miss Len. — (Haughtily) Did your husband send you here Mrs. 
 Mackay to plead for him the impostor, has he told you how he 
 won the friendship of Jerome Lenox, and his Daughter? 
 
 Mrs. M. — I think you must let me make things a little clearer 
 Miss Lenox, and you will see that I came here on my own ac- 
 cord with the earnest desire to serve you, he does not know I 
 am here. 
 
 Miss Len.— To serve me. 
 
 Mrs. M. — To serve you, I have suffered too much myself not 
 to recognize the sign of it in others. I will not detain you 
 long. You imagine do you not dear that the world, all your 
 world will soon be wagging its head over Miss Lenox's folly. 
 You imagine how the story of your giving your first girl's 
 fancy only a fancy dear, to a married man. 
 
 Miss Len. — He is a wretch, don't mention his name in my 
 presence I hate him. Oh how I loathe him. 
 
 Mrs. M. — I do not intend to insult you by mentioning his 
 name any oftener than is needful, it is only because I feel largely 
 responsible for your trouble that I dared come to you, please 
 hear me quietly to the end. When I went away from my hus- 
 band with a view of testing his ability for earnest effort, it was 
 because the wealthy patrons of art here in this City were be- 
 ginning to notice him, and I imagined that I was a drag to his 
 ambition, I had always kept in the background, in fact you 
 were the only Lady visitor to the studio whoever saw me. 
 
 Miss Len — I have seen you. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Yes, you came to the studio whilst Mr. Mackay 
 
44 
 
 was away and offered me money to let you see the Statue. 
 Miss Len. — True, true, how I must have insulted you. 
 Mrs. M. — Well to resume, I thought my utter absence would 
 be unnoticed, but I was not far seeing enough t<~» calculate 
 some of the evil possibilities of giving him his liberty, he had 
 never been what is called a Lady's man, in fact I think I knew 
 he was too self absorbed ever to form a deep attachment for 
 any woman. I believe he wanted his freedom as an Artist, 
 and I gave it to him. " God knows at what a sacrifice" but 
 that his face and smooth ways might ever prove a snare to 
 others, I had never thought of, if I did, I dropped it as the 
 foolish fancj* of a jealous woman, for that result of my blind- 
 ness I am here to beg your pardon and to make reparation. 
 Miss Len. — What reparation can you make? 
 Mrs. M. — You have already found out that the only wound 
 is to your pride. 
 
 Miss Len. — Yes 1 have but that wound.- 
 Mrs. M.— Is the on e I am here to heal. 
 
 Miss Len.— Then be quick about it. I will die of the shame 
 of it. 
 
 Mrs. M..— (Abruptly) What Church do you attend? 
 Miss Len.— Trinity Chapel. 
 Mrs. M. — Is it large and a fashionable one? 
 Miss Len.— Yes. 
 
 Mrs. M.— Your pew conspicuous? 
 Miss Len. — Yes. 
 
 Mrs. M.— Then, my dear, I wish to accompany you to Church 
 to-morrow (Jeanne started and blushed) Do not be afraid that 
 you will ever have to recognize me afterwards, but here is a 
 paragraph 1 wish to have inserted in a society column on Mon- 
 day. All the world, your world, Mill wag its head and say 
 << We must have made a mistake, there is nothing wrong there," 
 it will be a disappointment to them for doubtless they think 
 just now that they have an unusually sweet morsel to roll un- 
 der their tongues. 
 
 Miss Len. — (Taking Mrs Mackay"s hand) I wish I might 
 know you, have you for a friend, you must be strong, and good, 
 and unselfish, or you never would have thought of sheltering 
 me, for 1 am wicked, desperately wicked. 
 
 Mrs. M. — My dear, if a little white dove who had been robbed 
 of its Mother, should tumble ignorantly from its soft nest 
 into the mud and mire of the road side, and soil its pretty 
 wings, would you pass by on the other side and call that little 
 dove a desperately wicked tning. 
 
 Miss Len. — If J were like you I suppose 1 would pick the silly 
 
 thing up smooth its soiled plumage, and replace it in its nest. 
 
 Mrs. M. — (Releasing her hand) And that is just what I want 
 
 to do my dear, will do. It is only the plumage that is soiled, 
 
 and mine be the hand to smooth it. It is agreed upon there- 
 
45 
 
 fore our walk to Church and if you will name the time, I will 
 not disappoint you? 
 
 Miss Len.— Eleven o'clock the services commence'. 
 
 Mrs. M. — I will call for you at half past ten. May I now say 
 adieu, and au revoir. 
 
 Exit Mrs. Mackay. 
 
 Miss Len. — " When griping grief the heart doth wound, 
 And doleful dumps the mind oppress, 
 Then Music with her silver sound, 
 With speedy help doth lend redress." 
 
 Band plays. 
 
 Curtain falls 
 
4 6 
 
 ACT 3— SCENE 6. 
 
 Mr. Mackay's studio. Mr. Mackay seated in a chair bolster- 
 ed up with pillows, talking with Mr. Grayson. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Roper. 
 
 Mrs. R. — Well Randall, oh you have some one with you Mr. 
 Grayson I believe, we have met before, I do not think you 
 know my name, it is Roper. I am Mr. Mackay's nurse, by the 
 way won't you go to the door, I hear some one knocking. 
 (Mrs Mackay appears when door is opened and remains in the 
 Hall talking to her Father ) 
 
 Mr. G.— My God! it is Nan-Nan. 
 
 Mrs. M. — 1 wanted to see you first Father you alone. 1 
 want to beg your pardon for all I've made you suffer, I did not 
 know until this morning what you had endured, my patient, 
 precious Father. 
 
 Mr. G. — It has been hard darling, very hard, but I thought 
 I was being justly punished for the way I treated you that last 
 night my sweet, but thank God ! I've gotten you back, it was 
 the Telegram that mowed Ran and me down, 
 
 Mrs. M. — It was a mistake Father one more mistake, every- 
 thing I have done has been a mistake, don't you think so 
 Father? but tell me about the Telegram? 
 
 Mr. G. — Why Nan-Nan dear, I got so excited about your 
 continued absence, that I employed an Officer to find out where 
 yo" were, and a week ago I received from him a Telegram 
 saying " Have run out clue your Daughter is drowned." You 
 can imagine my state of feelings on receiving this news, and 
 as soon as I was able, i rushed to see Ran, and after reading 
 to him the despatch he fainted, you know the rest. 
 
 Mrs. M. — But how did the Officer get such a report? 
 
 Mr. G. — It seems he traced you somewhere in the neighbor- 
 hood of the river, and whilst investigating saw a corpse taken 
 from the river, of a young woman that resembled you minutely, 
 and no identification having taken place, he jumped at the con- 
 clusion that it must be you, yes, yes dearie, it was the Tele- 
 gram that made it hurt so. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Did you go to look at the corpse? 
 
 Mr. G. — Yes. and the moment I saw it, I knew it was not 
 you, but the mischief had been done, and I could not convince 
 Randall it was not so. 
 
 Mrs. M.— Come Father, I hope Mrs. Roper has prepared 
 Randall for my coming, I hear her calling now. 
 
 Mrs. R.— (Speaking loudly) I wish you'd come and do it your- 
 self or undo it, I don't know which, I can't. 
 
 Mrs. M. — (Impetuously approaching the invalid, and kneeling by 
 his chair took his hand saying) It was a mistake Randall, that 
 
47 
 
 Telegram, I will tell you more when you are stronger. Are 
 you glad to see me back now that the masterpiece is done? 
 
 Ran. — Nan-Nan forgive me, I never knew what you were to 
 me until I thought I had lost you forever, but I knew you 
 would come back to me if you were alive. 
 
 Exeunt Mr. Grayson and Mrs. Roper. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Randall did you want me tocomeback, did I mis- 
 take in thinking you could work better without me. Have 
 you found out whether you need, me or not? 
 
 Ran. — Need you Nan-Nan, I need you every hour, the Statue 
 is finished, go and look at it, I want to know what you think 
 of it, idealized you will say. (Marianne goes to the Statue and tak- 
 ing off its shrou I stands before it in deep contemplation) Well Nan- 
 Nan what do you think of it? 
 
 Mrs. M — It is a grand piece of work, it is perfect, I am 
 proud of it, but you are right it is idealized. 
 
 Ran. — You have lost tone mabelle, grown a trifle angular, 
 but we will both come back from Italy as good as new, read 
 that (Giving her a note) 
 
 Mrs. M. — Well — Six thousand dollars is a good round sum 
 and you will take it? 
 
 Ran. — Without question. When that idiotic Telegram came 
 I felt for a little while that there was too much of you in it 
 Nan-Nan for me to convert it into hard cash, bub now that I 
 have you back, I see it in a different light. 
 
 Mrs. M. — Yes of course 
 
 Ran. — Nan-Nan — I think I feel well enough to go away very 
 shortly, please make your preparations accordingly, and per- 
 haps under the sky of another Continent, "Life's Young 
 Dream" will be realized by both of us, in a way neither of us 
 ever contemplated. 
 
 Mrs. M. — (Addressing the audience) 
 
 Farewell my friends, Thanks for your attention. 
 May "Hampered" prove worthy of your mention. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 warn 
 
 017 401 184 9 <