LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. TRAt^T^ Shelf. .H-3i.S^ I UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. |l Jriiiuati^nition, in £j)rce ^tfs. OF CHAS. DICKENS" CHRISTMAS STORY ()K 'I'UE SAMK TITI.K Bv CHARLES A. SCOTT. NEWAKK, N. J.: NEW JERSEY SOLDIERS' HOME PRINT. 1878. THE ttAUUTEC MAN! A Drani.itizcr>.ion in 'ri-irc(: Acts C^Ht^S, 1d1CKJ:?JS' Ctf?JSTM7^0 STCT-Y >F THE sa:me title. BY Charles A. Scott. 1878. r ri?'^^? .H^ 5 A- EaU.r.,1 aoc.,.r.linK h. Acl. c,f Cm^iess, i„ the v.ur 1S7S. 1, (^Hvu.Ks A. 8.:oTr, in the ui]i V of tlu. Lihrariau of Co.Havss . A\l rights resolved. This e.litio:iis linrtol an I is pniil^ltor tli ■ .•onv.o.ie.K- of r . ,. . ' ' '^'••■■•^ s.icU alteiMtious as iii:iv se -u ju.JiOions. CHARACTERS Ru-lnrl Rj.ll.r.v. n Pi-.jfjsr«)r of Choiuistry Th^ P]i:iuto:a of Ri-dlaw .T.au3s LoagforJ, a foi-sii n- fridu.l of 11 'dliw. . Elmuad Louj^fcr.l. a stndjut, ami sou of J.imcs LougfoVil. Philip S\vi., | ^^"^ «^ ^^'"^'i' A lolnhns T»tt<)rby. a newsd^al.a- Ailolji'ius 'IVttarIn', Jr., a uewsboy Julmny Tetimby, Moloch's viitiiii 'J'hi-oe Tflterby fhildreii Th-' Waif, a shvet ganiiu JMrs. William Swidgers Mrs. Sopliia Tetterby Alice Wcutwort'a COSTUMES. Itedhyi'. B'ack or brown suit: loncf scpiare tai'ecl cnt- v.wty coat, longf vest, black neckerchief. Ion*,' black hai7% fini^ed with grtv-grizzled ; hollow clie< ks ; age 5-'); low- ( ]-(wned hat. J*hant<)))i. Same as Iledlaw. Jantes Lonr/foni. A seedy suit of I la'^-k, (^oat bnttono 1 rp to chin ; iron grey wig, short hair, battered hat, dissi- I'Hted appearance : sge 50. Kilniinid Lainjford. Morning goMn. W.i'king suit. J*hiHj^ S}rl(J(/ers. Old fashii ned dcnblet, light blu;:! ; l)roAYn trousers ; great eoat, leggings and low crowne 1 hat for out doors ; cot+on sliirt, bald Avig, long thin whit j hair ; age 87. Wdllain, SirUhjfvH. Fly-away coat, red wiistfioat, grey trousers, white scarf ; drab box coat, and low crowned hat for oiit doors: short light hair, on end all over : age 3 "J. Gmi'ffe Sii'Uh/crs. Rough sui'-, worse for Av^'av; slrigj-y l)eard under chin ; sandy hair, unktinpt; slon:'h hat; agtj 45. Tetterh;/. Striped woolen trousers, black waistcoat shirt, no eoat or collar, black neckerchief; iron grey wig. short hair, smoijth f. c^ ; age 50. Ailolphna and Johmii/. B(.ys' ill fitting siiits. r.igge 1 and torn, and Johnny's trousers too short ; cap an 1 com- forter for Alolp'ni^. Children. CoarKonight s'ips and ragged suits. 'J'he Waif. I3oy"s ragged suit: sho( k wig : dirty face. JA-s. Wdliatn: Rid and white fisjwered skirt : black bodice, white apron, a trim, tidy c:^p ; bonnet andAVOolen shawl for out doors : age 25. J//*.-?. Tetferhy. A house dress of comni-'n material ; Ixmnet and shtwl; ajfe 45. S!i y\. \ bj a iu\^.i womia, Alice. Traveling siiil Furniture and Properties. -A.OM? I. SCENP] 1. Fi.m- leallier-botloiiicd diiiirP, lilf^-li-back- ed. iuiti(iiie [)a(leni ; tu' lo, c , roturts and crucibles ; .jafs (irchciiiic.ils, iiicasures, books, &c., i^c, dip[tlay(.'(l. CJlobi; bnii|) (111 (al)lc ; diiiiicr tray, easier, two plates, kiiiCc and iofk ; tliivfi tallo spoons, t!u-ee tci spoons, saltcellar, tnndiler, decani er of water, bread, napkins, bntter. Tray with roa^t Ibwl, niaslied p'>tat(j('S, <;ravyboat for Milly t.) enter witli. Holly and evergreens, with red berries, Ibr I'hilip lo enter with, i'luso for Redl .w. . .^CENE 1. Tab1<\ c, four common chairs; Imfiet with ci-iickeiy, I,, u. K Ncwspiper rcreoii before door, i. 2 . 'I'lundle bed, u. u. K. ^.tairu'ay, r. 3 >:. Oyster s..ells for bo'.BatR. 2 E. k-',t(jnl lor Johnny, r ( radle, l. 3 r. ^larket basket viih p(>as-[)ndilinL? wrapped in papei-, and kiinckl(! (d" roast l.>^' of poik with gravy and cracklin'^'s, in a lar^c cover(>d dish tn- basin, bread for Mrs. Tetteiby to enter \>itli. I'itcher of water and glass on buffet. SCENE 2. No properties. SlEXE ;J. Couch at l 2e; small tabic near head (d' c<»n<'h ; two common chairs Eook for Edmund. Ihirse for Uedl iw to enter with. Wuik basket and muslin fur ^lilly to cider with. SCENE 4. T.uckle bed, e. 3 e. ; small stand at hoad of bed ; lighted candle on bed. -^O'l? XXX. SCENE 1. Gauze fr centre duor of 11 t. Table and chair, R. c. SCENE 2. Same as Scone 1, Act 11. Baby in cradl •. SCENE .'3. No properties. SCENE d. Set fire l. 2 e. Easy ch ir fn- Pliilip. Table, c. Four chairs and sofa. Clulhing convenient for Milly to put on boy. #1111 ka,ij-kt: Act. I. THE GIFT BESTOWED. SCENE I. — J//-. J^edlaw's chamber, 4 g. boxed; part //- brari/ a) id 'part laboratori/. JJoors, v. Old fashioned fire-place, l. Table, c. Three or four leather bottovi- ed chairs, antlrjne pattern; globe lamp on table. IA; L. C. I). liedlair. "Who's that ? Como in. J'J liter Wm. /^i/u'dgers, L., iclth dinner tray, carefully oj^eiilng and closing the door, to prerent noise. Wllllaiv. I'm biinibly f'oiifiil, sir, that it's a good hit past the time to-night. But Mrs. William has been taken uiY her b'gs bo often — Jied. Hy the wiiul ? Ay ! I have lieard it rising, lyni. ( /*uts tray dovjn, lights the lamp — lights up — (tnd spreads the cloth.) By the wind, sir. That it's a mercy she gut home at all. dear, jes. Yes. It was, by the wind, Mr. liedlaw. By the wind. Mrs. William i.s of course subject at any time, sir, to be taken oil' Iier balance by the elements. She is not formed superior to that. J ted. No. {Abruptly , bat good-naturedly .) 'Wni. No, sir. Mrs. William m '.y be taken (,)fr her balance l)y Earth; by Air; by Fire; ])y Water. Yes, sir. Mrs. William must be taken out of tlio elements, f'per. Why, there'ri my father, sir, super.Jirmated L:oe2:)er and cu.studian ef this Institution, eighly-scvdu years old. lies a Swidger ! — Red. True, "William (AbMrartedb/ ) ]r?/<. Yes, sir. That's what I always say, sir. You lary call him the trunk of the trf^e. — livead. Taen you rome to his successor, n.y unworthy seh' — ,svo'/ — and Mrs. AYiliiam Swidj,'tr3 both. — Knl^e and /ork. Then you (!ome to all my bothers and their families, Swidg-ers, man and woman, boy and girl. Why, wdiat with cousins, uncles, aunts, and relationship with this, that and t'other degree, and what not degi-ee ; and marriages and lyings- i;i, the Swidges — tund/ler — might take hold of hands and make a ring around England! {Redlair, en(/rossed hi thought^ thakuu/ no rephj, WillUon n/a/ie.s a feint of av- eide/ntally knocking the table irlth a decanter, and si/c- ceediny in rousing him, re.^ttme.s.) Yes, sir ! That's just what I say myself, sir. Mrs. William and ma have often fc^aid so. Theie's Swidgers enough, we say, without our voluntary contributions. — Ilutier. In fact, sir, my father is a family in himself — ca.ster — to take care of : and it li ippens all for tic best that we have no child of our own, though i'b's made Mrs. AVilliam rather quiet-like, too. Quite reacy for the fowd and masbc 1 potatoes, sir 1 Mrs. "SSal.iam said she'd dish in ten minutes, when I left the Lodge. lied. I am quite ready. (Rousing himself af< If from a dream, and ioalking t.) and fro.) Wni. { Warming a plate at the fire, and shading his face icith it. ) Mrs. AVilliam has been at it again, sir ! H THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act One. (Jledlaw stops walking, and appears hiferested.) What 1 always say myself, sir. She will do it ! There's a motherly feeling; in Mrs. "William's breast th it must and will have went. Jied. "What has she done ? ir?«. Why. sir, not satisfied with being a sort of mother to all the young gentlemen that come up from a wariety of parts, to attend to yom- coiirses of lectures at tliis ancient foundation — it's surprising Iioav stonc-chanc}^ catches the heat tliis frosty weather, to be sure ! ( Turn- ing the plats quickly, and cooling his Jingers.) J.ed. Weir? Wm. Tijat/s just what I say myself, rir, {spea7ci)ig over his shoulder in dellghtexl asxen^t.) That's exact y where it is. There ain't one of our students but ajDpeai-.s to regard Mrs. William in that light. Every day, they puts their heads into the lo.lge one after another, and have all got sometliing to tell her, or somtt'-iing to ask her. Swidge is the appellation in general by which thty f-peak of Mrs. AVdliam among themselves ; but that's what I say, sir. Better be called ever so far out of your n ime, if i."s done in real liking, than have it made ever so much of, and not cared about. What's a name 'or? To know a person by. If Mrs. Willif.in is known by something bc.tter thr.n htr name — I allude to Mrs. Wi liam's quali- ties and dispofition — never mini her name, though it is Swidge]-, by lights. Let 'em call her Swidge, Wi(lge.Bridg« , L.mdon Bridge, B.ar*kf. iais, or any other bridge, if they like ! ( linslness irith plate, vhich he brings to the table, and half drops it, icith a lively sense of its being heated.) lUnter JStilly ifith tray^ door in flat, foUoved by Old Philip with holly in his arms. Mr. Jiedlatc takes seat at K. . Punctiiil, of course, M lly, or it woulln'fc ho you. Here's Mrs. William, sir! — Kj looks lonelier than ever tc-niglit, and ghostlier alto;;-oLii.n'. { .L-tldi to MUlif as he tu/i-es the tra//. ^ III come dmni. Millij sets thln.yti iishes his plats au'ag, rises, ajtd crosses 10 THE HAUNTED VAS. [\ct One. to Philip, touchlnff him v2)on the shoulder.) lied. It recalls the time when inary of tliose years were old and new, then ? Does it ? J^hll. Oh, many, many. I'm eighty-seven. JRed. {Iji a low voice) Merry and happy, was it ? Merry and happy, old man 1 I^hil. May be as high as that, no higher {holding hU hand out a little above the level of his knee), when I first remember 'em. Cold, simshiny day it was, out a-walk- ing, when some cne — it was my mother as STire as yon yon stand there, though I don't know what her blessed face was like, for she took ill and died that Christmas- time — told me they were food for birds. {Refers to the berries.) The pretty little boy thonght — that's me, yon understand — that bird's eyos were so bright, perhaps, be- cause the berries they lived on in the winter were so bright. I recollect that. And I am eighty-seven ! lied. {3Iusl)ig. ) Merry and happy ! Merry and happy — and remember well ! I^hll. Ay, ay, ay ! I remember 'em well in my school time, year after year, and all the merry making that used to come along with them. I was a strong chap then, Mr. Eediaw ; and if you'll believe me, hadn't my match at foot-ball within ten mile. Where's my son, William ? Hadn't my match at foot-ball, William, within ten mile. Wni. That's what I always say, father! You are a Swidger, if ever there was one in the family ! Phil. When my circumstances got to be not so good as formerly, through not being honestly dealt by, and I first come here to be custodian, which was upward of 50 years ago — whei'e's my son William ? More than half a century ago, William ! Wm. That's what I ssy, father; that's exactly where it is. Two times ought's and ought, and twic3 five tea, and there's a hundi-ed of 'em. A(i One] THE HirNTED MAN. 11 J*hiL It was qnite a pleaKiire to >now that r,Tie of riir foixndfcrs, that he'p3d to endow up in Queen Elizabeth's time, left in Iris will, among other bequests he made us, j-x) much to buy holh', :'ct gornishing the walls and wiu- (lo-s\H, ccme Christmas. There wns something homelj' and friendly in it. Being bi\t strange here, then, and coming i\i Christmaf--t'me, we to( k a liking for his very picter, iJiat hangs in what usid to be, ancient y, our great Din- ner Hall. — A sedate gentleman, in a peaked beard, with a rufi around his nc(k. and a scroll below him, in old Enj.,- lish letters, '"Lcrd! keep my memojy green!" Yuu know all about him, Mr . Redkiw ? Bed. I knew the pcilrait hangs there, Ph Tp. J^hil'qK Yes, sure, ifs the second on the right, above the panneling. I was goirg to siy— he has helj^ed to keep my memory green, I thjaik him : for, going round the building every year, as I'm a-doing now, and fresher.- ing up the bare rooms with the branches, the bright ber- ries freshens up my bare eld brain. One 3-ear brings back another, and that year another, and these others, numbers ! At Its':, it seems ti me as if the birth- time of ( nr Lor J was the birth-l.'nia of all I have ever had affec- tion for, or mov.rned fc ]•, c r delighted in ; and they are I retty many, for I'm eighty-seven. lied. Merry and happy. (Abstyoctcdb/.) JViil. So you see, sir, I have plenty- to keep when I keep this .season. Noav, where's my cjuiet mouse ? Chat- tering's the sin of my time of life, and there's half the ])uilding to do yet, if the cold dcn't freeze i;s, or the wind <"!on't blow us away, or the darkness don't swallow lis up. (Milhj joins lihu, and they start to yo out.) Comeawsy, iny dear. Mr. Eedlaw won't settle to his dinner, other- wise, tid it's cold as Avinter. I hope you'll exciise me rrmbling on, sir, and I wish you good night, and, once icain, a merrv I^ THE HAITNTED 5IAN. [Act One. RpfJ . Stiiy. {Resumes seat at. tnhh.') S-pare mo an- etla-r moment, Pliili[>. VYilliam, you w(.ro goiiij^ to tcU )ne fiometliiiiTf to j-our excellent wife's lionoi-. It will not t)e disagreeable to her to hear you praise her. What w. » it:'' Win. Why, that's Avliero it is, you sec, sir. Mrs. WiHi^m has got her eye upon uve. Jied. But you are iml alraid t>r Mrw. William's eye 'i Win. Wliy, no, nir ; tluit's what I say n>v8elf. It wnsnt made to he alVaid ol'. it wouldn't have been made 8u mild it' that was tlie isitentioii. But I wouldn t like to— Milly — him you knmv. Down in the biiildin .,s. Tell; liini, my de.ir! You're t, c works id' '•ihaks|R.'ar in eom- jiarison with mysell". Bown in the buildin-s, you kni>u-,. my love — htudcnt. lied. Student 'i Wilt. That's what I ^ ay, ftir ? If it wasn't the j)oo!.- student down in the buildui ..s. why should }(ju Nvis.i t'^ hfar it from .Mrs. N\ illiams lip.-;.'' Aiis. W illianj, my dear — Pxiihl B^'s Milly. I didn't knou' that WilTam had s.^id an; tliin^L; about it. or I wouldn't ha\e eome. 1 . sked hini nut to. It's a siek yoiiiij^- j;-e'itleni m, sir — ami very^ pool-, I ant al'raid — who is loo dl to j^o lionse this holiday-tinu', and li\-es, unknown to any one, down in Jerusalem buildings^ That's all, sir. hed. {Ji/si/n/ ItiirviedlvA Why hav(> I never heard oi." hhn 'i "Why has l)r n.it made l-is situation kn'>wn to uw'. [•lick ! (!ive rue my hat and ehuik ! J'oor ! — wliat house,, winit nnndier '' Millij. Oh, you nuisn't g-o there, sir. {(J there ^ WLat do you menu ? Will. \V1 y vmi sre, sir, tliat s what I say. Bfp'Mid ujiou it, t:;e }uuiii^- yiMilleuuin would never liave uuide hit> A(rr One.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 13 situation known to one of liis own sex. Mrs. Wiiliatn has got into his oontidcncc. Thvy all contide in Mrs. AViiiiam ; they all trust uer. A man, sir, couldn't liavo got a wliisper out oi liini ; but woman, sir, and Mrs. AV^iliiam combined — ! Jitd. There's good sense and delicar y in what you say, William. {Stcretly paU jmrse into MU.ly\s fuinxL) MiUy. Oh dear, no sir {Gives pume back.) He said that of all the world, he would ii )t be known to you, or receive help from y^u — though he is a siudent in your class. Jled. Why did he say S). Milly. Indeed I c^iu't tell, sir. Eut 1 know he is poor and lonely, and I think he is somehow neglected, to*). [Stage (jradaally darkened.) How dark it is. Jled. What more about him t Milly. He is engaged to be married when he can ai- ford it, and is stud;^dng, I think, to <|ualify himself to earn a living. — How vejy dark it is. J*hiL It's turned colder, too. There's a chill and dis-^ mal feeling in the room. Where's my son William? Wil- liam, my boy, turn the lamp and j ouse the fire ! Milly. {Jieanminy, as if to herself. ) He muttered in his broken sleep yesterday afternoon, after talking to me about some one dead, and some great wrong done tliat could never be forgotten, but whether to him or to an- other person 1 don't know. Not by him, I am sm-o. Wni. And, in short, Mrs William, you see — -wliich she wouldn't say herself, Mr. Eedlaw, if she was to stop here till the new year after this next one, has done him world's of good ! Bless yoii, worlds of good ! All at home just as fcnug and comfortable as ever — yet Mrs. William ])ackward and fo!-\vard, backward and forward, up and down, up and down, a mother to liim. Not con- tent with this, sir, Mrs. WilHam goes and finds, this very 14 THE HAUNTED i^AX. [Act One. night, wLon she was coming home, a creature more like a wild beast than a young child, shivering on a doorstep. Whit does Mrs, William do, but brings it home to dry it and feed it. If it ever felt the lire before, it's as much as ib tvjr did ; for it's setting in the old Lodge chimney, staring at ours as if its ravenous eyes would never shiit again. It's sitting Ihjrj, at leas':, unless it's bolted. lied. Pleaven keep her happy ! And you, too, Phi'.ipt and you, Wdliam ! I must consider what to do in tliis. I may desire to see this s!.udent ; I'll not detain you longer now. Good night ! J*hU. I thank ee, sir ; I thank 'ee, for moiise, and for my son NVilliam, and f^r mysJ'. Where's my son Wil- liam? Wilham, yoii take the lantern and go on first, through them long, dark passages, as you did last year and the year afore. Ha, ha ! I remember — t-iough I'm eighty-seven ! L jrd keeji my memory green ! It's a very good prayer, Mr. Redlaw, that of the learned gentleman in the peaked beard, with a rujEf roimd his neck — hangs lip second on the right of the paneling, in what used tj be, afore our ten jjoor gentlemen commuted, our great Dinner Hall. Lord keep my memory green ! It's very good and pious, sir. Amen ! Amen ! {Exeu.'it Wm., Jlillt/ and Philip, door in ^fiaf.) \_FreKions to the exit, the Phwitom enters froi/i trap in rear of the table, and in concealed from vieir hy the t d)le cloth. Iledlavi seated in hir/h-backed chair at r. of t ible, apparently tnnsing. iSift Christmas tnicsic in dir.- tince. Jsifjhts doirn. Phantom gradually rises to view behind chair-back. As lledUcw leans his arm iipon the elboio nd passing between roe and the centre of the system of my hopes and strug- t;lep, won her to himself, and shattered niy frail universe. My sister, iloubly dear, doubly devoted, lived oJi t<» see m<^ famous, and my old ambition so rewarded, when its spring was broken, and then . Hid. Then died. Died, gentle as ever happy, and Avith no ('(Micern but for her brother. Peace! {Pause.) lu'Miembered! Yes. Vm well remembered, that cveu 4 Act One.] TIIE II.VUXTED MAN. 17 now, wlien yera-s ha,ve passe.l, anl lu tliin.c^ iw more idle (.r more visionary to me tli ai tlui b^ yiish iove so long out- lived. I tiiink of it witli sympathy. Sometimes I tvcn wonder if I cv^r bad a p.iico in her liei-rt, and if htr a>- fecti jns went witli h r hanl. — .Bit tliat is m t ling. Early unliappineoh', a wouu i i'-oni a h md tb;it I loved and trasi- ed, and a lohs t lat njLiim.jf iuax ropLiC(j, on Live hucii fuii- (ies. Pjianf. Thus I beir wit'uu me a sorr.iw an 1 :i v.'ron-;. Tlias I i,r y np..n n ysel-\ Tuns menu ry in li y ( urtf : aid if 1 cjnid foi-.^^et my surr.:w and my wr n^-, i wonlc'. lied. Mickn-I {Leiplicj up, rii up in triii,iiip/i .) L ly a Jian 1 ou nu an I die. ( Purue. ) ir' I couid I'or^^et my sorrow an 1 wr.-ng", 1 w u i. lied. [l,t trfihihUug loin.) Evil spir't of myself, my I'fe is darkdiie l by tii.it iu--ess.mt waispor. Phant. Ig is an eel;), Jled. If it b.> an eca;) o" my tU.)n.;-jts — is 7iow, I hncAV it is, wj y shonl 1 I tlier-, foro be ti,riiJLnte \ 1 1.. is not a sellish til ^a^-'it. I s lil' j.r it to r Ji;L,'e b(.y(;nd n.t • - self. Al VI n an i w )m jii lin.ve t'leh- S' r.-jwt — ;aost i-f tliem tlie'.r wr n ^^s : in ;'Mt/tT le, an I s -r b' T j-ialoiisy and interest besettin.,' all de ;veo,-3 of life \V .j w m.d nut forget tlieir s r,\j-.vs a i I their wr mj.^s 1 I*h(inf. AV 10 WwU.l not, tru y, and be the lu] pier fcr it ? ^^.e^l. Thes ! rev )ln'i)n:! of year.^, which v,'e commem- orate, what do tJu'ii re^':d ? Are tli.jre any min-ls in which t'ley do not r - w.i.k ;n S( m .! sorrow, or some trouble ? AVhat is the remtmlri-aiice of the old man who was litre to-night? A tiefiue of s.:rr^\v and trouble. IS THE HAUNTED A.AN. [Act Oxe. Phciitt. Biiu C( rti aon LPctiires. T;nenlig'"atenecl mhi'I.s 811 1 oraanitry e.pjritt^, do not fcei or reason on those things like nun of li .rlier eix.tivation and profouader tliougLt. Red. ToiJipttr, wl.ose hollow look iuid voice I dread nior ! than I can ^.x^rress, I !iear ligain un echo of my ow;i uiir;d. Piiai.t. Hereive it rs a proof that I ain powerful. Ile^r whit I (fitr ! Forget the sonvw, wrjng and trouble y.)u have knrwi. JUa. Forg.t t lem ! VltAiid. I have the pov/er to cancel their remembranco — 'uO leave but very faint, confus-ed traces of them, that Avill die out sjon. Say, is it done 't Jltd. Stay! Itrenil le with distrust an 1 doubt of you — I would not deprive myself of any kindly recollec- tion, or any sympatl y that i.i good for me, or others. What shall I lose, if I assent to this 't What else will piiss fi-oni my rerucabrance ? Phaiit. No knowledge ; no result of study ; nothing but tlie intertwisted cl a u of feelings and associations, each in its turn depen lent on, and nourished by, the ban- islied recollecti jns. Those will ^o. lie I. Are they so many 'i riuint. Tliey have been wont 'm show themselvrs in the lire, in music, in the wind, in the dead stillncrss of the night, in the revolving yjars. {Mocking] >/.) Decide ! beiVre the opporiu:iity is lost! lied. A moment ! I call Hexven to witness, that I have never been a hater of my kind — never morose, in- different, or hard to anything around me. If li-ving here jvlone, I have made too much of all that was and might have been, and too little of what is, the evil, I believe, lias fallen on me, and not on others. But if there were poison in \\\y body, shoxild I not, jiosrsessed of antidotes und knowledge how to use them, use them? If there hi Act One.] TtiE KAUNTED MAX. 19 poison in my niind, anil tlironyli this fearful shadow I can oast it (Hit, sluiil I nut cant it (;ut '( J'/uDit. Say, is it dune ? J.ed. I would forget It if I could ! IFave I tliouglit tiiat aloiio, or lias it boon the llunight of thousands upon iJiuusukIs, generation after generation 't All hunuiunjern- ory is fraught with sorrow and trouble. ]\ly memory is as the memory of other nnni, but other men have not this choice. Yes, I close the bargain. Yes! /IT/XZ for- get my sorrow, wrong and trouble I Vhant. Say, is it done \ Red. It is ! Phant. It is. And take this with you, man whom I hero lenounce ! The gilt I have given 3011 shall give again, go ^vhere you will. Without i-ecovering yourself the power j-ou have yielded up, you shall henceforth de- Ktruy its like in all whom you approach. Your wisdom ii;i«s discovered that the memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble is the lot of all mankind, and that mankind woidd be the happier, in its other memories, without it. Co ! be its beneiactor! Freed from such remembrance, from this hour, carry involuntarily the blessing of such freedom with you. Its diffusion is insoparuble and inalienable from^ou. Go! Be happy in the good you have won, and in the good you do ! ( Dhappears quickhj throuf/h traj9. Lights vp.) lied, ^tay! {Advances and stops.) It will not ! It is gone ! {Ajypcars rooted to the sptot, possessed 0/ fear tnid wonder.) Pliant. {Beloir stage.) Destroy its like in all whom you approach. 20 THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Two. Act, [I. THE GIFT DirrUSED. SCENE I. Tetterby^s aparUnevts in, Jerusalem Jiuihl- iiKjs. JHaln chamber, 4 G. JJoor^ i- 2 e. Screen in front of door, parted over iri'h scraps of nevspapers. Table, c. Trundle bed, b. u. e. iStairirai/, r. i> b. J)oor, R. c. in flat. Fire in chimney, c. iti flat. Ttt terby discovered seated in front of scree)), reading a neuis2)aper. Tiro small boys scuffling in and out tf bed, v'lth an occasional dash at two other small boys, engaged in building an oyster-shell icall at B. 2. e. Johnny Te'iterby, toith Moloch, tottering across the stage ton'ard s'ool. near e. e. Mr. TttLerby, throwing dov;n paper, rushes toirard the boys, who scamper into bed and through door in flat, and pounces d nrn on Johnny and boxes his ears. Children sit up in bed and jieep through the door. Tet. Ytm l>ad boy! Ilavcii't jou uny fcoliiij^ foryonr l)oor lutlier, after the fatigues and anxieties of a Iiaid winter's (lay, since five o'clock in the morning ; Imt must you wither his rest, snd coirode liis httest intelligence, with your wicious tricks ? Isn't it enough, sir, that your l.rother 'l)ul[»hus is toiling and moiling in the log and i-oKl, and ytm r.-Uing in t.e liiii of Inxniy, with a— with a bal)/, and everything yon can wish for; hut must you make a wilderness ol h'-uie, and maniacs ol'your parents? Must you, Johnny y [Sfiaking him.) l\v\ 'i {^^haling him. ) Johnny. {Wh'inpering.) OS, f;it' er, when I wasn't doing anything. I'm suie, but taking sucli care of Sally, and g(!tting her to si ep. Oh father! Tet. I wish my little woma)i would come homo. [Re- Itnting.) I only wish my little woman would come home! Act Two.] THE HAUKTED MAN. 21 I ain't fit to deal with 'em. They make my head go round and get the better of me. Oh, Johnny ! Isn't it enough that your dear mother has provided you with that sweet sister ? Isn't it enough that you were seven boys before, without a ray of gxl, and that your dear mother went through wliat she did go through, on pur- pose that you might all of vdu have a little sister, but must you so behave yourself as to maka my head swim ? (Embraces Johnny; breaks away a)id pursues the other children, who escape to the bed and through the door; captures one and p)'i'etehd3 to jyunish hi?n and restores order. ) My little woman herself could hardly have done better I I only wish my little woman had had it to do, I do indeed. (Hestanes his seat at the screen, and reads therefrom.) It is an undoubted fact that all remarkable men have had remarkable mothers, and have respected them in after-life as their best friends. Think of your own remarkable mother my boys, and know her value while she is still among you. {iSits cross-legged in his chair, and takes up his neiospaper. Let any body, I don't care who it is, get out cf bed again, and astonish- ment will be the portion of that respected contemporary ! Johnny, my child, take care of your only sister, Sally ; fv^r she's the brightest gem that ever sparkled on your early brow. Ah, what a gift that baby is to you, Johnny ! and how thankful you ought to be ! {Reading from Screen) 'It is not generally known,' Johnny ' but it is a fact assertained, by accurate calculations, that the fol- lowing immense per centage of babies never attain to two years old ; that is to say' — Johnny. Oh, don't, father, please ! I can't bear it when I think of Sally. Tet. Your brother ' Dolphus is late to night, Johnny, and will come home like a lump of ice. What's got your precious mother ? 22 TIIE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Two. Johnny. Here's mother, and 'Dolphiis too, f.iiher I I tliink. I'et. {IJsteninff) You're right ! Yes, that's the foot- step of my little womau, she's coming through tiie sho]). ^nter Mrs. Tetterhy and Master Adolphus. l. 3 e. Mrs. 7\ ]} (its her market basket on table ; t.'iro.fjs her bonnet and shawl back, and seats herself faf't'juo:! in chair at table. Adolphus unwinds a colored comforter from his neck, and hangs it on the wall and takes seat near k. 2. e 3lrs. 7\ Johnny! Bring that precious jewel tome, for a kiss. (tTohnny totters tcith Moloch fro)u his stool to his mother, and back again.) Dolph. Johnny ! I must kiss my dear little sister. {Johnny as before.) Tet. Johnny, my child, bestow the same favor on your father. {Johnny as before.) 3Irs. T. {shaking her head.) Whatever you do, Johnny, take care of her, or never look your mother in the face again. Dolph. Nor your brother ? Tet. Nor your father, Johnny. Are you wet, 'Dol- phus, my boy % Come and take my chair, and dry your self. Dolph. No, father, thankee. I ain't very wet. {/Smoothing himself down. ) Mrs. T. {Having laid her shaicl and bonnet aside, begins to lay the cloth for su2)p>er.) Ah ! dear me, dear me, dear me ! That's the way the world goes. 2'ct. Which is the way the world goes, my dear ? ]\[rs. T. Oh, nothing. {3Ir. 2\ looks up in asto>i- ishuient and abstractedly reads his paper. Mrs. T. gioes vent to her humor in hitting the table hard with the articles she places on it.) Ah! dear me, dear me, dear me ! That's the way the world goes. AcrTwo.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 23 'Jet. My du; k you said that before. Which is the way the world goes ? Mrs. T. Oa, nothing. J'et. Sop^iijT, y>ju srid that before, too. Zlrs. T. W.!ii. I'll say it again, if you like: Oh, nothing— thcr.' ! and again, if you like : Oh, nothing- there ! and . g Jn, if you like : oh, nothing — now, then ! Tet. {I, I astoins/mient.) My Httle woman, what has put you out 't Mrs T. I'm sm-e / dont know. Djn't ask me. Who said I was put out at all ? 7" never did. Tct. ( Lays aside paper, rises and crosses to e.) Your Slipper will be ready in a m'nute, 'Dolp.ms. Your mother has been out into the wet, to the cook's shop, to buy it. It was very good of your mother so to do. You shall get some supper, too, very soon, Johnny. Yow mother's pleased with you, my man. for being so attentive to your precious sister. {Supper ready; children in bed and at the door tmtching preparations with interest.) Yes, yes, yoiu- supper will be ready in a minute, 'Dolphus — your mother went out in the wet to buy it. It was very good of your motlier so to do. Mrs. T. {Exhibiting signs of contrition, and catch- ing TettcrJyj around the neck — weeping.) Oh, 'Dolphus ! how could I go and behave so. I am sure, 'Dolphus {sobbing), ccming home, I had no more idea than a child unborn — 2'et. Say than the baby, my dear. 3Irs. T. — Hid no more idea than the baby — Johnny, don't look at me, but look at her, or she'll fall out of yom- lap and be killed, and then you'll die in agonies of a broken heart, and serve you right — no more idea I hadn't than that darlin;^-, of being cross when I came home : but, somehow, Dolphus — Tct. 1 see. I understand. My little woman was put 2i THE HAUNTED JIAN. [Act Two. out. Hard times, and hard weather, and hard work, make it trying now and then. 'Dolf, my man, here's your mother been and bought, begic'es pee.se jndding, a whole knuckle (fa lovely I'oast leg of pork, with lots of crackling left upon it, and with ser.sjning and mustfi.rd quite unlimited. Hr.nd in your plate, my boy, and be- gin while its simmering. ( Tetterhy serves, holph and Johnny return to their seats; children steal in and silently ai-,peal to them, oixd they dole out a little to each. Mrs. T. does not eat, but keeps turning the ring on her Jinger; she laughs and cries loithout reason. Tet- erby makes a da.->h at the child '-en, and they scamper ojf.) Tet. My little woman, if ihe world goes that Vv^ay, it I ppears to go the wrong v.ay, and to choke you. Mrs. T. Give me a drop of wf.ter, and don't speak to me fur the present, or take any notice of me. Don't do it. Tet. {Gioes water, and turns to Johnny, who is munching oti his stool.) Why are you wallowing in gluttony and idleness, instead of coming forward with the baby, that the sight of the innocent may revi , e its mother ? Mrs. T. [Johnny approaching icith the burden.) I am not in a condition to bear this trying aj)peal to my feelings : advance another step and I shall hate you for- ever. (Johnny returns to stool.) I am better now. ( Laughs. ) Ttt. My little woman, are you c|uite sure you're bet- ter, or are you, Scjihia, about to break out in a fresh direction "1 Jlrs. T. — No, 'Dolphus, no. I'm quite myself. (Set- tles her hair, presses the palms of hev hands, and laughs again.) Come nearer, 'Dolphus. Let me ease my mind and tell you all about it, ( Tet brings his chair closer; she laughs, hugs him and wipes her eyes.) You know, 6 Act T^vo.] TEE HAUNTED MAN. 25 'DolphuP, my clear, that when I was single I might have given myself away in several directions. At one time, four after me at once ; two of them were sons of mars. Tet. We're all sons of ma's, my dear, jointly with pa's. Mrs. T. I don't mean that ; I mean soldiers — ser- geants. Tet. Oh ! Mrs. 2\ Well, 'Dolphus, I'm sm^e I never think of such things now, to regret tliem ; and I'm sure I've got as good a husband, and v/ould do as much to prove that I was fond of him as — ' Tet. As any little woman in the world. Very good. Very good. Mrs. T. But you see, 'Dolphus, this being Christmas- time, when all people who have got money, like to spend seme, I did, somehow, get a little out of sorts when I w^as in the streets just now. There were so many things to be sold — such delicious things to eat, such fine things to look at, such delightful things to have — and there was so much calculating and calculating necessary, before I dm-st lay out a sixpence for the commonest thing ; and the basket was so large, and wanted so much in it, antl my stock of money was so small, and would go such a little way — you hate me, don't you, 'Dolphus % Tet. Not quite, as yet, Mrs. T. Well! I'll tell you the whole truth, and ■ then perhaps you will : I felt all this so much when I was trudging about in the cold, and when I saw a lot of other calculating faces and large baskets trudging about, too, that I began to think whether I mightn't have done better, and been happier, if I hadn't — ( Turns ring on her Jinger, and shakes her doioncast head.) Tet. I see, if you hadn't married at all, or if you had married somebody else ? 26 THE HAUNTED xMAN. [Act Two. Jfrs. T. {SGhhinr/.) Yes. That's really wliat I thought. Do you hate me now, 'Dolphus ? Tet. Why, no ; I don't find that I do, as yet. 3Irs. T. {Kissing him.) I begin to hope you won't, now, 'Dolphus, though I haven't told you the worst. I can't think what came over me ; I couldn't call up any thing that seamed to bind us to each otler. All the l^leasui-es and enjoyments we had ever had — theij seemed 60 poor and ins'gaiiicant, I hated them ; and I could think of nothing else except our being poor, and the number of mouths there were at home. I'et. [Shaking her hand encouragingly.) Well, well, my dear, that's truth, after all. We are poor, and there are a number of mouths at home here. 3Irs. T. [Laying her hands upon his shoidders.) Ah ! but Dolf, Dolf ! my good, Idnd, patient fellow ; when I had been at home a very little while — how differ- ent ! oh, Dolf, dear, how different it was. I felt as if there was a rush of recollection on me all at once, that softened my hard heart and filled it up till it was burst- ing. All our struggles for a livelihood, all our cares and wants since we have been married, all the times of sick- ness, all the hours of watching we have ever had by one another, or by the children, seemed to speak to ms and say that the}' had made us one, and that I never might have been, or could have been, or would have been, any other than the wife and mother I am. Then the cheap enjoyments that I could have trodden on so cruelly, got to be so precious to me — oh, so priceless and dear that I couldn't bear to think how much I had wrongdcl them, [Enter Redlaio, door l. 2 e. ) and I said and say again a hundred times, how could I ever behave so, 'Dolphus, how could i ever have the heart to do it? ( Weqys on his neck, and, raising her head, discovers Eedkuo; screams and ge*s behind Tet- \ciT,vo.] THE IIArXTED MAN. 27 terby; children start from the bed and cling to her; she (axes and points at Medlaw.) Look at that man ! Look tiitre ! What does he want ? 7H My dear, I'll ask him if you'll let me go. What's the uiatttr? How yon shake. j)frs. T. I paw him in the street when I was out just now. He lookdJ at me and stood near me. I am afrcud of him. Tet. Afraid of him ! Why ? Mrs. T. I don't know why — I — stop ! husband ! ( One hand 071 forehead and one upon, her breast; an ap)p>arent and trembling consciousness of losing something.) 2'et. Are you ill, my dear *? Mrs. T. \Muttering.) What is it that is goiDg from me again 't W^hat is tiiis that is going away ? Ill ? No, I'm quite well. {^LooMng vacantly at the floor.) Tet. W^hat may be your pleasure, sir, vrith us ? Red. I fear that my coming in unj^erceived has fJra-med you; but you were talking and did not hear me. I'et. My little woman says that it's not the first time you have alarmed her to-night. Red. I am sorry for it. I remember to have ob- served her, for a few moments only, in the street. I had no intention of frightening her. {Redlaw and Mrs. T. raise their eyes and regard each other with dread.) My name is Eedlaw. I come from the old college, hard by. A young gentleman, who is a student there, lodges in your house, does he not ? Tet. Mr. Denham ? Red. Yes. Tet. [Passes his hand acro-'-s his forehead a7id looks qnieJdy round the room, as if sensible of some change. Redlaw step>s back and transfers the look of dread to Jiim.) The gentleman's room is up stairs, sir; there's a more convenient private entrance, but as you have ll I THE HAUNTED MAX. [Act Two. 1 1 I come in here, it will save yoiir going cut into the cold, ■ ' if you take this little staircase, and go up to him that wf,y, if you wish to see him. J,.€d. Yes, I wish to see him. Can you spare a Hg*ht '' I'iit. ( Staring at Redlaio as if stupljied or fascinated. ) I'll light you, sir, if you'll follow me. Bed. No, I clon't wish to be attended or announced to him. He does not expect me. I would rather go alone. Piecse give me the light if you can spare it, and I'll find the way. {Hastily takes the candle, and in do- ing so touches Tetterhy; withdraws his hand qiiicJdy a)id ascends the utairicag to the landing, turns and stops; children cluster about the another, gazing timidly at Redlaw; Mrs. T. seated, twisting the ring round and round on her finger; Tetterhy vnth head bent forroard on his breast, as if musing sullenly.) Tet. [Moughly.) Come! There's enough of this. Get to bed here ! Mrs. T. The place is inconvenient and small enougli without you ; get to bed. {Children scamper off to bed, Johnny and the baby lagging uust; Mrs T. glances contemptuously arowal the room, then sits pondering idly and dejectedly; Tet- terhy at the chimney bent over the fire.) Redlav\ ( Confusedly.) What have I done ! What am I going to do ! Fhantorn. {Invisible.) To be the benefactor of mankind. SCENE II. — A street. Exterior of Jerusalem build- ings, 1 G. Sign on building of " Tetterby & Co., I I Newsmen. '' I Enter Longford and WiUiani. supporting George Sv:idgers, foUo\t'cd by Philip, r Geo. Father! 7 Act T^o.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 29 Fhil. My boy ! My son George ! ( Goes up to him.) Gto. You spoke just now of my being mother's favor- ite, long ago. It/s a dreadful thing to think now of long ago ! Fhil. No, no, no. Think of it. Don't say its dread- ful. It's not dreadful to me, my son, Geo. It cuts you to the heart, father. Fhil. ( Weeping.) Yes, yes, so it does ; but it does me good. It's a heavy sorrow to think of that time, but it does me good, George. Oh, think of it too, think of it too, and your heart will be softened more and more. Where's my son William ? Wili'am, my boy, your mo- tlier loved him dearly to the last, an 1 with her lattst breath said, ' Tell him I forgave him, blessed him and Ijrayed for him.' Those were her words to me. ■ I have never forgotten them, and I'm eighty-seven. Geo. Father ! I feel that I am near death. I am so far gone that I can hardly speak, even en what my mind most runs on. Is there any hope for me ? Fhil, There is hope for all who are soft3ned and penitent. There is hope for all such. Oh ! ( Clasping his hands and looking vp.) I was thankful, only yester- day, that I could remember this unhappy son when he was an innocent child. But what a comfort it is now to think that even his Creator has that remembrance. Geo. Ah, the waste since then, the waste of life since then I Longford. The sooner we get him to bed, the better. Wm. That's what I £ay, that's where it is exactly. Come, father ; he'll waste away if we stand hero all the evening. You're right, father. Let us get him into his lodgings and into his bed, while we can, and once there, to keep him as quiet as ever we can, and Mrs, William may bring him around in time. Come, ff.ther, come ! This is the place. \Exeunt into building.'] 30 THE HAUNTED AJAN. [Act T.vo. 8CENE III. — Room in Jeriiaalem huAd'mgs, 2 g. rialn chamber; Coiich or lounge at l. 2 e., that can be readily withdraton at close of scene; set fireplace, r 2 E./ small table near head of couch; ttoo chairs. Ed- mund Longford, in dressing-gown, discovered lying' on couch reading a book. Enter liedlazo, n. Ed. {Starting iqy.) Mr. Eedlaw ! Hed. {Stopping hhn by gesture of the arm.) Dcn't come near to me. I will sit here. Remain you where you are ! {Seats himself near entrance; Edmund stands 'irith hand upon the couch, for supjwrt.) I heard by an accident — by what accident is no matter — that one of my class was ill and solitary. I received no other desarip- tion of him than that he lived in this street ; be<]finning my enquiries at the first house in it, I have foiind him. Ed.- I have been ill, sir ( With cace a7id hesitatioji.), but am greatly better. An attack of fever — of the brain, I believe — bas weakened me, but I am much better. I cannot say I have been solitary in my illness, or I should forget the ministering hand that has been near me. died. You are speaking of the keeper's wife ? Ed. Yes. Med. ( With head averted, gazing on the ground — cold and apathetic ) I remembered your name, when it was mentioned to me down stairs, just now, and I recol- lect yoiir face. We have held but very little personal communication together? Ed. Very little. Red. Xoyx have retired and withdrawn from me more than any of the rest, I think ? Ed. I have, sir. r^ed. And why? {Without expression of interest, but with a vmyvxird kind of curiosity. ) \\\iy >. How AciTwo.] THE HAUNTED UMi. 31 comes it tlir.t y.;ai hare sought to keep especially from lue the know,edg-e of your remaining here, at this season, v.'hcn all the rest have cTisiDersed, and of youi- being ill? I want to Imt'W why this is ? jEd. Mr. Eedlaw, you have discovered me ; you know EiV secret. JRed. Secret ? I know ? jEd. Yes. Your manner, so differant from the inter- est and sympathy which endear you to so many hearts, your altered voice, the constraint there is in everything you say, and in your looks, warn me that you know me. That you would conceal it, even now, is but a j)roof to me of your natural kindness, and of the bar between us. died. Ha, ha, ha ! ( Vacantly and contemptuously.) Ed. But, Mr. Eedlaw, as a just man and a good man, think how innocent I am, except in name and descent, of participation in any wrong inflicted on you, or in any sorrovv' ycu have borne. Ji'ed. Sorrow ! Ha, ha, ha. "Wrong ! "What are those to me ? Ed. For Heaven's sake, do not let the mere inter- change of a few words with me change you like this, sir ! Let me pass again from your knowledge and no- tice ; let me occupy my old, reserved and distant place among those whom you instruct. Know me only by the name I have assumed, and. not by that of Lorg'ord — lied. Longford ! {Starts, clasjys his head 'with both hands, and advances toioard Edmund, as if inspired vnth a memory of the j^ast/ halts, and resumes his for- tner expression. ) Ed. The name my mother bears, sir ; the name she took when she might, perhaps, have taken one more hon- ored. Mr. Eedlaw, I know that history. I am the child of a marriage that has not proved itself a well-assorted or a ha^Dpy one. Fruiu infancy, I have heard you spoken 32 THE HAUNTED MAX. [Act Two. of -n-itli honor and respect — with something that was al- most reverence. The little lesson I learned from my mother has shed a lustre on your name. At last, a pocr student mysalf, from whom could I learn but you i {liedlair, unmoved, n gards hitn with a stariiig frmon ) Our ages and positions are so different, sir, and I am so accustomed to regard you from a distance, that I won- der at my presumption when I touch upon a theme that must awaken many sad and tender memories. But io (.ne who — I may say, who felt no common ir.t^rest in my mother once — it may be something to hear, now thai all is past, with what undescribable feelings of affection I have, in my obscurity, regarded you; with what pain and reluctance I have kept aloof from yoiu' encouragement when a word of it would have made me rich ; yet how I have felt it fit that I should hold my course, content to know ycu and to be unknown by you. Mr. Eedlaw, vrhat I would have laid I have said ill. for my strength is strange to me as yet ; but for anything unworthy m this fraiid of mine, forgive me, and for all the rest forget me. {Advances ioicard Hedlaw, extending his hand.) Med. [IStarnly and draioing bade.) Don't come nearer to me ! {Edmund ntops — shocked. and2)asses his hand though- f idly acroas his forehead as if aioare of fioine change. ) The past is pr.sl:. It dies like the brutes. Who talks to me of its traces in my life ? He raves or lies ! What have I to do with your distempered dreams ? If you want money, here it is. {77irou-ing 2>f(^'se on table.) 1 came to offer it, anel that is all I came fcr. There can be nothing else that brings me hare. [Hold- ing his head with both hands, as if trying to remember.) There can be nothing else, and yet — Ed. ( Takes up the purse and holds it to him.) Take it back, sir. I wish you could take from me with it tha r^mambrance of your v>-ords and offer. 8 Act Iwo.] THE HAUNTED SLiN. 33 Bed. Yon do ! You do ? Ed. I do. Ited. {A],proach€s him/ taJces the purse; turns him by the arm and looks into his face.) There is sor- row and trouble in sickness, is there not? (Laughs.) Ed. {Absently.) Yes. lied. In its unrest, in its anxiety, in its suBiDense, in all its train of physical and mental miseries 1 ( Wildly and exultingly .) All best forgotten are they not ? Miliy. (Outside.) I can see very well, now, thank you, Dolf. Don't cry, deaf. Father and mother will be comfortable again to-morrow, and home will be comfort- able, too. A gentleman with him, is there? Mod. [lleleasing his hold of Edmund, icho passes his hand con/usedly across his forehead.) I have feared from the first moment to meet her. There is a steady quality of goodness in her that I dread to influence. I may be the murderer of what is tenderest and best in her bosom. Knock, e.) Shall I dismiss it as an idle foreboding, or still avoid her. (Looking uneasily around. Knock, e.) Of all the visitors who could come here (in a tone of alarm, turning to Edmund), this is the one I should desire most to avoid. Hide me ! (Ed- mund points to door in flat, and Medlaw passes quickly in.) Ed. (0)1 couch.) Come in. Enter Milly, b. Milly. Dear JMr. Edmund (looking aroimd), they told me there was a gentleman here. Ed. There is no one here but I. Milly. There has been some one ? Ed. Yes, yes, there has been some one. Milly. (Puts little basket on table, aptjyroaches head of couch as if expecting a kiiully greeting, and betrays a 34 THE HAUNTED ilAN. [Act Two. little svrprise.) Arc y on quite as well to-uig'ht ? Y mr head is not so cool as iu the afoernoou. ( Touchuig iilrn 071 the broxL'.) Ed. {Petulantly.) Tat ; very little ails me. Mill I/. {After hasi/ii^fj about tlie room, ami maJcing tilings tidg., sits at taMe and begins to sew.) It's the new muslin curtain fcr the window, Mr. Edmund. It will look very clean and nice, though it costs very little, and will save your eyes from the light. My William says the room should not be too light just now, when you are re- covering so well, or the glare miglit make you giddy. £Jd. {Fretful and impatient.) The room will do. Milly. {Lags down her 7oork and ap2)f'oaches him.) The pillows are not comfortable, I will soon put them right. Ed. Thsj are very well. Leave them alone, pray. You make so much of everything. Millg. {Pausing, timidly resumes Jicr loorJc. ) Ah, Mr. Edmund, how true the saying is, that adversity is a good teacher. Health will be more precious to you, after this illness, than it has ever been, and j-ears hence, at this time of the year, grateful recollections will revive kindly memories of those who have served you. When I have seen you so touched by the kindness and atten- tion of the poor people down stairs, I have felt that you thought even that experience some repayment for the loess of health ; and I have read in your face, as plain as if it was a book, that but for some trouble and sorrow we should never know half the gjod there is about lis. Ed. {Rising from the couch.) We needn't magnify the merit, Mrs. William. The people down st.iirs will be paid in good time, I dare say, for any little exbra ser- vice they may have rendered me ; I am much obliged to you, too. {She stops her vork and looks at him.) I can't be made to feel more obliged by your c^z-iq-^-eratin^r AcrTwo.] TEE HAUXTED MAN. 35 the case. I am senyible tliat you have been interested in me, and I s.iy I am much obliged to you. What more would you have ? {Her 'Mork falls on her lax); he v^alks to and fro, s'.opplug noio and then.) I say again I am much oblige I lu you. Why weaken my sense of obliga- tion by prefviiTiug enormous claims uj^on me? Trouble, sorrow, aSliction, adversity ! One might suppose I had been dying a score of deatiis here ! MlUy. {Rlsbif/ and a2>proach'<.ng him.) Do you be- lieve, Mr. Eimuad, that I spoke of the jioor people of the horise, v.-ith any reference to my self if To me? ICd. Oh ! I think nothing about it, nij good creature. I have had an indisposition, which your solicitude — ob- serve ! I say solicitude — makes a great deal more of than it merits ; and it's over and we can't perpetuate it. (7'(//i7v? book and sits at table.) Jlcllt/. {Takinrj up her basket.) Mr. Edmund, would you rather be alone ? Ed. There is no reason why I should detain you here. Milly. Except — [Hesitating and showing her work.) JEd. Oh ! the curiain, ha, ha, ha ; that's not worth staying for. Milly. ( Standing before him unth a look of entreaty.) If you should Avant me, I will come back v,illingly. When you did want me, 1 was quite happy to come ; there was no merit in it. I think you must be afraid, that now you are getting well, I may be troublesome to you, b'ut I should not have been, indeed. I should have come no longer than your weakness and confinement lasted. You ovre me nothing ; but it is right that you should deal as justly by me as if I was a lady — even the very lady you love ; and if you suspact me of meanly making much of the httle I have tried to do to comfort your sick-room, you do yourself more wrong than ever you can do me. That" is why I am sorry. That is why 36 THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Two. I am very sorry. [Uxit, r. Ednamd staring drearilt/y as i/ tnnisji:ced.] lie-enter Redlaw. lied. ( Coming doicri stage.) "When sicliness lays its hand on you ag^iu {looking at him fiercely), may it be soon ! — Die here ! Kot here ! Ed. ( Catching at his cloak.) YvTiat hiive you done ? What change have you wrought in me "? "What ciu-se have you brought upon me '? Give nie back myself ! lied. {Yiohntly.) Give me back w^^'st//'/ lam in- fected ! I am infectious 1 I am charged with poison for my own mind, and the minds of all mankind. "\;\'here I felt interest, ccncipasticn, sympathy, I am turning into etone. Selfishness and ingratitude spring up in my blighted footsteps. I am only less base than the wretches whom I make so, that in the moment of trans- formation I hate them. Release your hold ! {Struggles irith him, strikes him, and exits hurriedly l.) Jid. \^Rec.yvers himself quickly and J'ollous after Redlaio.'\ I'll not release my hold. He shell not escape me until he restores me to myself. \_Exit, l.] \^Couch withdraicn.'] SCENE lY. — A room in Jerusalem Buildings scantily furnished, 4 g.; Geo. Su-idgers on truckle-led near r. 3 E.; Wm. Szcidgers at bed e., James I^ongford takes lighted candle from small stand at head of bed to ans- irer knock at door in fiat, l. c; old Philip at bedside, R. c; Longford 023ens door and Hedlaw enters. Jjong. Mr. Eadlaw ! {^Starts, betrays emotion and retires to l u. e. and remains loith his back toio ird Eed- lair^ 7i.-ho st02)S, stares at him with sicr2)7'ise, as if endeav- oring to recall his recollections.^ 9 Act Two.] TEE HAUNTED MAN. 37 Phil. {&mffi.ing toicard the door.) Mr. Eedlaw, this is like you, sir. You have heard of it, aud have come after us to render any help you can, {Coming doicn to bedside.) Ah, too late, too late, Mr. Redlaw. Wm. Thai's what I say, father. That's where it is, exactly. To keep as quiet as ever we can while he's a- dozing, is the only thing to do. You're right, father. lied. "Who is this ? Phil. {Kneeling at the bedside.) My son George, 3Ir. Redlaw. My eldest son, George, who was more his mother's pride than all the test. Ped. ( Turn 17} g his eyes to I^ongford, as if trying to recall him/ Longford exits door in flat. William, who is that man that went out ? Wm. Why, you see, sir, that's what I say myself. Why should a man ever go and gamble, and the like of that, and let himself down, inch by inch, till he can't let himself down any lower"? Red. Has he done so ? Wyn. Just exactly that, sir, as I'm told. He knows a little about medicine, it seems, and having been way- faring toward Lcndon with my unhappy brother that you see here, {Passes his coat sleeve across his eyes.) and being a lodger up stairs for the night, he looked in to attend upon him. What a mournful spectacle, sir ! But that's where it is. It's enough to kill my father. (Pe- tires to bedside.) Ped. ( Calling to mind the spell he diffused, crosses to L. and turns his face from the bed.) Was it only yes- terday when I observed the memory of this old man to be a tissue of sorrow and trouble, and shall I be afraid to-night to shake it ? Are such remembrances as I can drive away so precious to this dying man that I need fear for hirn ? No ! I'll stay here. Phil. {Still kneeling at the bed.) He was a child 38 THE HAUNTED AlAN. [Act Two. once. He played with chilJrea. Sefore ho laid down on his bed at night, and fell into his guiltlesii rest, he said his prayers at his poor mother's knee. I have seen him do it many a time, and seen her lay his head upon her breast and kiss him. Sorrowful as it was to her, and to me, to think of this, when he went so wrong, and when our hopes and plans for him- were all broken, this gave him still a hold upon us that nothing else could have given. Oh, Father, so much better than the fa- thers ujion earth ! Oh, Father, so much more afflicted by the errors of thy children, take this wanderer back ! Not as he is, but as he was then ; let him cry to Thee as he has so often seemed to cry to us 1 Geo. [Starting iqy.) Stop him ! do not let him go ! Where am I "l Father ! I^hil. Yes, yes, my son George. Geo. My time is very short ; my breath is shorter, {^sup2)orting himself on one arm, and toith the other groping in the air) and I remember there is something on my mind concerning the man who was here just now. Father and William — wait ! — is there really anything in black out there ? l^hil. Yes, yes ; it is real. Geo. Is it a man ? Wm. {Bending kindly over him.) What I say my- self, George. It's Mr. Eedlaw. Geo. I thoug'ut I had dreamed of him. Ask him to come here. ( Redlaio goes to the bed and George mo- tions him to seat himself upon it, xohich he does.) It has been so ripped up, to-night, sir, {laying his- hand iq^on his heart) by the sight of my poor old father, and the thought of all the trouble I have been the cause of, and all the wrong and sorrow lying at my door, tliat — ' {2)asses his arm across his forehead) that what I can do right, with my mind running on so much, so fast, I'll try AcrTwo.] THE HAUXTED MAN. 3s) to do There was another man here ; did you see him ? ( Hand to fonhead. ) lied. Tne Sjjeil is coming, I know the fatal sign. {Adde.) 1 di,.. (jreo. Hu IS penniless, hungry and destitute. He is completely beaten down, and nas no resource at all. Look after him ! Ljse no time ! I know he has ic in his mind to kill himself. Med. {Aside.) It is working. His face ia changing, hai-dening, dvjepening, in ail iLs shades, and losing uii its sorrow. Geo. Don't you remember ? Don't you know Long- ford? {Pause, hand over face, then lolth a scoiding look at Redlaw ) Why, blast you all, v>'hat have you been doing to me here ? I have lived bold, and I mean to die bold. To the Devil with you ! {Lays bade in bed, puts his arms up over his head and ears, as if resolute to keej) his threat. Redlaw starts back from the bed and crosses to L.; Philip, who has previously left the bed, returniny, avoids it quic/dy toith abhorrence.) Phil. {Hurriedly. ) Where's my son William ? Wil- liam, come away from, here. We'll go home. Wm. Home, father ! Are you going to leave your own sou ? Phil. Where's my son .'' Wm. Where ? why there ! I^hil. {Trembling vjlth resentment.) That's no son of mine. No such wretch as that has any claim on me. My children are pleasant to look at, and they wait upon me and get my meat and drink ready, and are useful to me ; I've a right to it ! I'm eighty-seven. Wm. {Hands in pockets .) You're old enough to be no older. I don't knov/ what good you are myself. We could have a deal more pleasure without you. Phil. My son, Mr, Eedlaw! My son, too! The 40 THE HAUNTED JIAN. [Act Two. boy talking to me of my son ! Why what has he evtr done to give me pleasure, I should like to know ? Wm. {Sulkily. ) I don't know what yv,n have e\er done to give me pleasure ? FhiL Let me think. For how many ChriBtmas- t!mes running, have I sat in my warm place, and ntvtr had to come out in the cold night air ; and have made good cheer, without being disturbed by any such VvTttched sight as him there? Is it twenty, William 'i ir???. Nigher forty, it seems. [2^o Redla-w, with irritation.) Why, when I look at my father, sir, and ome to think of it, I'm whii^jDed if I can see anything in him but a calender of ever so many years of eating and drinking, and making himself comfortable over and over again. J^hil. I — I'm eighty-seven, and I don't know as I ever was much put out by anything. I've had a power of pleasant times. I recollect once — no, I don't — no, its broken off. It was something about a game of cricket and a friend of mine, but it's somehow broken. off. I wonder who he was- — I suppose I liked him ? And I wonder what became of him — 1 suppose he died ? But I don't know. And I don't care, neither ; I don't care a bit. {ChucfcUng and shaking his head,2)ulls a hit of holly out of his 'waistcoat jyocket and looks at it.) Berries, eh ? Ah ! It's a pity they are not good to eat. I recollect, when I was a little chap about as high as that, and out a walking with — let me see — who was I out a- walking with? — No, I don't remember how that wns, I don't remember as I ever walked with any one particular, or cared for any one, or any one for me. Berries, eh? There's good cheer when there's berries. Well ; I ought to have my share of it, and to be waited on, and kept warm and comfortable ; for I'm eighty-seven, and a poor old man. I'm eighty-seven. 10 Act THiiEE.] THE HAU^'TED MAN. 41 Eiga-ty-.';even ! {Delivered in drloeling , pltlahle man- ner — nibbling the leaves of holly, and spitting them out. William coldly and sullenly regarding his father; George observing them icith determiiied apathy.) Ittd. L. I cannot, will not, bear this longer. Shadow of myself ! spirit of my darker hours ! come back and haunt me day and night, bnt take this gift away ! Or, if it must still rest with me, deprive me of the dreadful jjower of giving it to others. Undo what I have done. Leave me benighted, but restore the day to these poor creatures whom I have cursed. \_Exit hastily, l. ] Act- ly, TUE GIFT REVERSED. SCENE I. — A chamber in the College, 1 g.; centre doors throxon open, showing Red.latos chamber as in Scene 1, Act 1; Gauze on inside of doors to be removed or dropped after the shade of Milly disappears. Set fire-place, l. — painted fire; table and chair, k. c. Soft Christmas music at rise of curtain. Redlaio discov- ered seated l. of table. The waif lying before the fire buried in slumber, l. 2'he Phantom bettoeen the boy and door, l. c, observing Hedlaw. Milly looking toicard the boy as if in pity. Red. {Listening to the music, and moved by it rises, stretches forth his hands as if he welcomes the sound — trembles gently — his eyes appear filled with tears, puts his hands before them, and bows. As the music ceases, raises his head to listen.) It tells me the value of what I have lost. I fervently thank Heaven for the knovd- 42 THE HAUNTED MAX. [Act Thuke. edge — [Discovers Pliantom and Mill//.) Spectre! I have not been stubborn or presumptuous iu respoct to her. Ob, do not bring her here ! Spare me that ! I^hant. This is biit a shadoyr, when the morning shines seek out the reaht}' whosa image I j^rasent bafora you. Ited. Is it my inexorable doom to do so ? Phant. It is. Red. To destroy her peace, her goodness ; to maka her what I am myself and what I have made others ? Phant. I have said seek her out. I have said no more. lied. Oh, tell me, can I undo what I have done ? Phant. No. Med. I do not ask restoration to myself. What I abandoned, I abandoned of my own will, and have justly lost. But for those to whom I have transferred the fattJ gift ; who never sought it ; who unknowingly received a curse of which they had no warning ; and which they had no power to shun ; can I do nothing 'i Phant. Nothing. Jled. If lean not, can any one? {Phantom turns ///.s" head to JIcll>/.) Ah! can she? {Phantom makes a gesture of dismissal, and the low platform upon which Mlllij stands is gradually drawn up stage.) Stay. For a moment. I know that some change fell \x.\)or\. me when those sounds were in the air just now. Tell me, have I lost the power of harming her ? May I go near her with- out dread? {Phtntom Ijoks at Milly as she sloioly dis- appears.) At least, say this — has she henceforth the consciousness of any power to sat right what I have done ? Phant. She has not. Ped. H IS she the power bestowed on har without the consciousness ? AcrTHHEE.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 43 Pliant. Seek her out when the morning shines. ( M'dhj disappears. ) EecUaw. Ttrrible instructor {o)i his knees to Fhant- ())h), by vv^hom j; was renounced, but by whom I am re- YisiLed — in wnxca and in whose milder aspect, I woukl fam beheve I have a gleam of hops— I will obey without inquir}', praying that the cry I have sent up in the an- guish of my suul has been, or will be, heard, in behalf of Ihosa whom I have injured beyond human reparation. But there is one thing — (Jlising.) Phant. You speak to me ol vrhat is lying here. {Pointing to the bog. ) Ped. 1 do. You know what I would ask. Why has this child alone been proof against my influence, and why have I detected in its thoughts a terrible companionship with mine ? Phant. This is the most complete illustration of a human creature, utterly bereft of such remembrances as you have yielded up. No softening memory of sorrow, wrong or trouble enters here, because this wretched mor- tal from his birth has been abandoned to a worse condi- tion than the beasts, and has, within his knowledge, no one contrast, no humanizing touch to make a grain of such a memory spring up in his hardened breast. iVll within this desolate creature is barren wilderness. All within the man bereft of what you have resigned is the same barren wilderness. Woe to such a man ! Wee, ten fold, to the nation that shall count its monsters such as this, lying here, by hundreds and by thousands ! Pedlaio clasps his hands, and looks with trembling fear and pity from boy to Phantom.) Behold, I say, the perfect type of what it was your choice to be. Your iu- lluence is powerless here, because from this child's bosom you can banish nothing. His thoughts have been in terrible comj)anionship with yours, because you have 44 • THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Thi;f.e. gone down to his nnnatnral level. He is the grc^ tli c:f man's indifference ; you are the growth of man's i^re- f-iimption. The bentficent design of Heaven is in each case overthrown, and from the extremes of the imma- terial world you come together. {Redlaw stoops down and beiids over the boy ioith evident coin2^assio)i and st/inpathy. Phantora exits backicard through coitre doors, ichich close after him.) {Red. Sleep, sleep, poor waif, for unless the spell is broken you are henceforth my 02ily companion. Oh, Phantoms ! Funishcrs of impious thoughts, lock upon me! In the material world, as I have long taught, nothing can be spared ; no step or atom in the wondious structure could be lost, without a blank being made in the great universe, I know, now, it is the same wdth good find evil, happiness and sorrow, in the memories of men. Pity me ! Eelieve me ! Gone, gone — Vt^aif. {Sta)-ti)i[/ I'p.) Cornel joii let me go ! I've done nothing to jon. Don't you touch me. You've not brought me here to take my money away. Red. {Risinf/ from kneeling ocer bog.) No, here's more. ( Throws money doicn, boy throtus his body on it and watches Redlaw reswne his seat at table, and jij?s. T. Just as I would have done myself. Milly. Ah, but ttiore's more than that. When we got up-stairs into the room, the sick man, who had lain for hours in a state from which no effort, could rouse him, rose up in his bed, and, bursting into tears, stretched out his arms to me, and said that he had led a misspent life, but that he was truly repentant now, in his sorrow for the past, which was all as plain to him as a great prospect, from which a dense cloud had cleared away, and that he entreated me to ask his poor old fa- ther for his pardon and for his blessing, and to say a prayer beside his bed. And when I did so, Mr. Redlaw joined in it so fervently, and then bo thanked and thanked me, and thanked Heaven, that ray heart quite overflcwed, and I could have done nothing but scb and A.CT Three.] THE IIAUI^TED MAN. 51 ci'v, if the sick man had not begged me to sit down by liim — which made me quiet, of course. As I sat there, he held my hand in his imtil he sunk in a doze ; and even then, when I withdrew my hand to leave him to come hero — wliich Mr. Redlaw was very earnest indeed in witihing me to do — his hand felt for mine, so that some one else was obligad to take my place and make believe to give him my hand ba?k. Oh dear, oh dear (sobbing). How thankful and how happy I should feel, and do feel, for all this. [Redlaw enters door Ij. 3 k. , j^ctuses to ob- serve the group, then ascends the stairs and stops on the landing.) Mrs. T. You are a dear good creature, and deserve to be loved by everybody. Childnn. Yes, we all love her ! Hilly. Oh dear, oh dear, there's Mr. Redlaw waiting for me, and I wasting my time here, vv-hen Mr. Edmund may want me. I am coming, Mr. Redlaw. Good-bye, dear children, I'll see you again by and by. (Ascends the stairs.) SCENE III. — Exterior of Jerusalem JJuildings as in Scene 2, Act 2. Enter Milly. door in flat,folloioed by Redlaw, meetinf/ Mdinund-R., Redlaw uiithdra^os to l. Ed. Ah, my kind nurse, (falling on his knees cmd taking her hand ) gentlest, best of creatures, forgive my ingratitude ! Milly. (Guilelessly.) Oh dear, oh dear! here's an- other of them ! Oh dear, here's somebody else who likes me. What shall I ever do. (Puts her hands be- fore her face and apj^ears to loeepfor Joy.) Ed. I was not myself. I don't know what it was — it was some consequence of my disorder, perhaps — I was mad. But I am so no longer. Almost as I speak I am 52 THE HAUNTED MAIs. [Act Thkee. restored. I heard the children crying out your name, and the shade passed from me at the very sound of it. Oh, don't weep ! Dear Mrs. WiUiam, if you could read my heart, and only know with what affection and what grateful homage it is glowing, you would not let ma see you weep. It is such deep reproach. Milly. No, no, it's not that. It's not, indeed. It's joy. It's wonder that you should think it necessary to ask me to forgive so little, and yet it's pleasure that you do. Ed. And will you come again ? and will you finish the little curtain? Jinily. No. [Drying her eyes and shaking her head.) You won't care for my needle work now. Ed. Is it forgiving me to say that ? Milly. ( Takes him aside and whispers.) There is news from your home, Mr. Edmund. Ed. News? IIow? 3Iilly. Either your not writing when you were very ill, or the change in your handwriting when you began to be better, created some suspicion of the truth ; how- ever that is — but you're sure you'll not be the worse for any news, if it's not bad news ? Ed. Sure. Jlilly. Then there's some one come ! Ed. My mother ? (Glancing toward Medlaw.) Milly. Hush ! No. Ed. It can be no one else. Milly. Indeed. Are you sure ? Ed. It is not — 3Iilly. {-Puts her hand over his mouth.) Yes it is ! The young lady — she is very like the miniature, Mr. Ed- mund, but she is prettier — was too unhappy to rest without satisfying her doubts, and came up last night, with a little servant-maid. As you always dated your 13 iCT TmjEE.] THE HAUNTED MAN. 53 letter from the college, she came there ; and before I saw Mr. Kedlaw this morning, I saAV her. She likes me, too ! Oh, dear, that's another. JUd. This morning 1 Yv'here is she now ? 31 illy. Why, she is now {adva7icing her lips to his ear) in my little parlor in the lodge, and waiting to see you. {Starts to go, but she detains him.) Mr. Redlaw is much altered, and has told me this morning that his memory is impaired. Be very considerate to him, Mr. Edmund ; he needs that from us all. Ed. Dear Mrs. William, your caution shall be heed- ed. For the present, good-bye. {Exit tl.. As he passes Hedlain, bows respectfully to him, Redlaw returns the salutation courteously and even huinbly; looks after him, drops his head in his ha)id, as if trying to remember. ) Jfilly. Come, Mr. Redlaw, time is flying. Hed. {Bousing himself.) Where shall we go ? Milly. Shall we not go home, now, where my hus- band and father are ? Red. Yes. {Puts his arm in hers. Exeunt -r.) SCENE IV.— ^ room in the Porter's Lodge, 4: a. Philip seated in his chair iti the chimney-corner, with eyes fixed on the ground ; William on opyposite side of fire-place, leaning against mantel and regarding his father. Enter Milly ■&., followed by Redlaxo who re- mains at E. Philip and William brighten up. Milly. Oh, dear, dear, dear, they are pleased to see me, like the rest. ( Clapping her hands in ecstacy, and stox>2>ing short.) Here are two more I {Ru7is into Wil- liam's arms, and lays head on his shoidder. ) Philip. {Rising.) Why, where has my quiet Mouse been all this time ? She has been a long while away. {Embracing Milly.) I find that it's impossible for me to get along without. Mouse. I — where's my son Wil- 54 THE HAUNTED MAN. [Act Three. Ham — I fancy I have been droaming, William. William. That's "u-hat I say myself, father, /have been in an ugly sort of dream, I think — Ilovr are you, father ? Are you pretty well ? Phil. Strong and brave, ray boy. Wm. (^Shaking hands with him , patting him on the hick, and rubbing him gentlg down.) "What a wonder- ful man you are, father ! Are you really pretty hearty, though ? I^hil. I never was fresher or etouter in my life, my boy. Wm. What a wonderful man you are, father! But that's exactly where it is. When I think of all that my father's gone through, and all the chances and changes and sorrows and troubles, that have happened to him in the course of his long life, and under which his head has grown gray, and years upon years have gathered on it, I feel as if we couldn't do enough to honor the old gen- tleman and make his old age easy. — How are you, father? Are you really pretty well, though ? I^hil. I ask your pardon, Mr. Eedlaw, but didn't know you were here, sir, or should have made less free. It reminds me, Mr. Redlaw, seeing you here on Christ- mas morning, of the time when you was a student your- self, and worked so hard that you was backward and forward in o