IPS 3515 0515 |C6 1900 Copy 1 ir ^ ^Ir ^^ rtr ^ i:f ^ ^ ^ ii? ^ ^ ^!^ ^ f *!? ^jb 'i' tl:^ 'l:^ 'jb rl? vl? ^ vIlT ^ ilT ^ ^ ^ iiy iy i? ^ rfr ^ tfr ^ ^ ^1? ^ i? ^ ^ i? i? ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ The Convict's Daughter. ^fft 4^ 4^ ^j^ iij^ 4^ ^ ii^ iii^ 4^ 4* 4^ i|lft A^it «|^ 4>i ^ i|^ ^ 4^ 4^ 4^ ^ 4^ k^ ijfi ii^^ 4^ i|^ «|^ i|4 ^ i^ 4:* «f4 4^ 4^ ^ 4|4 ^ ^ 4^ ^ 4^ ii? ir ^ r!b »It r^ *!? TJb tIt tJ? rj^ tf? ':|:' *!? i:^ ^It ^ Tjb r^ 'Ir 'jb *!? 'It ''if ii? ^T i^ ^ ^ ^i^ tt? 4^ 4* The Convict's Daughter. A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS BY Marius D Hoogesteger. ACT I Langdon's Country Residence. Claiming Another's Child. ACT II Sanford's Lodgings. A Father's Sacrifice. ACT 1 1 1 Parlor, Langdon's Residence in Town. Liberty and Vindication. Copyright. 1900. by MaRIUS D. HoOGESTEGER. 52386 i-lbn*ry of Cor^f'-nm ■^wo Cofits Received SEP 27 1900 Copyright entry SECOND copy. Delivered to ORDE« DIVISION, OCT 17 I9UU CAST OF CHARACTERS. JOE SANFORD An Esoe^d Convict DAVID LANGDON A Retired Business Man DUDLEY WESTON A Stock Broker PHILIP RANDALL A Young Lawyer DANIEL WHITFIELD A Yankee Farmer MRS. LANGDON HELEN Reputed Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Langdon DOLLIE WHITFIELD A Pert Young Miss 5^^ THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. ACT ONE. Summer residence of the Langdon's on the Hudson. A gar- den. tSet house left Stone wall, back; gate, center. Rustic seat, right center. Table and chairs, left center. Stage Ciear, and door of house partly open as curtain rises. Dollie heard singing: Just a little sunshine, Just a little rain. Just a little happiness, etc. (Enter Dollie with broom and sweeps stoop.) DOLLIE — Oh, dear me! It seems as though I never would get through with the work this morning. I generally have Helen to help me, but when that fellow of her's is here she wastes all her time on him. Hello! here comes dad! (Enter Dan Whitfield, right.) WHITFIELD— Well, Dollie, this seems to be an awful long morning. DOLLIE — Yes, I should think so. I have been busy all the time and I ain't half through yet. WHITFIELD— Are you all alone? The folks gone away, have they? DOLLIE — All except Mrs. Langdon. Say, dad. I'm getting tired of staying here doing other people's drudgery. WHITFIELD— There, there, little one, you must not say that. Mrs. Langdon is good to you, and so is Helen. DOLLIE — Yes, when that fellow of her's ain't around to take up all her attention. WHITFIELD— Oh, well! he'll be gone in a day or two. You may be doing the same as she is before long, Dollie. DOLLIE — Yes. you ketch me at it. WHITFIELD— You're a likely girl, Dollie. There ain't one in the neighborhood your age that can do the work you are doing, and I won't be surprised if some day you will be some other man's housekeeper. DOLLIE — I think too much of you, dad. Of course, I won't say that I'm never going to get married because I might change my mind, but it won't be for a long, long time. 4 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. WHITFIELD— It's too bad Dollie, that your mother had to be taken away, but we'll get along the best we can. You be a good girl and mind Mrs. Langdon, and there'll be no trouble. Mr. Langdon and a gentleman from town will be here to dinner today. DOLLIE — I suppose Mrs. Langdon knows they are coming? WHITFIELD — Yes. I suppose you will wiaat some vegetables for dinner. Just give me a basket and I will get them for you. (Dollie gets basket from house.) There's no use scolding her, she means well, only she's a little thoughtless. (Dollie hands him basket.)) What do you want today, Dollie? DOLLIE— Oh! I don't know. WHITFIELD — Some corn, butter-beans and cabbage? DOLLIE— Yes, that will be enough. (Exit Whitfield, right.) Mr. Langdon and another gentleman. That means more work, I suppose. (Exit Dollie into house. Enter Helen Langdon and Philip Ran- dall, center.) HELEN — Well, Phil., what do you think of our country home? PHILIP — It is a beautiful place, and I am sorry to be obliged to leave it so soon. HELEN — Must you go away? PHILIP — Yes, I cannot possibly stay later than today, but be- fore I go I must ask you a question. HELEN — I wonder what it is? (Helen seated, right center.) These flowers we picked will make a lovely boquet. PHILIP — They are beautiful, and doubly so when in your hands. HELEN — Why, Phil., you are getting poetical! PHILIP — Oh, no! Miss Langdon, and if 1 were a poet I could not do justice to my theme. I believe you can guess the question I wish to ask you. HELEN— I don't know, Mr. Randall. PHILIP — I think it is unnecessary for me to tell you that 1 love you. HELEN — How should I know, when you have never said a word about it. ' PHILIP — il think you have discovered it long ago. There are certain little signs, which no observing person will overlook, that tell the story too plainly; and even now it is difficult for me to find words to express the depth of my affection. HELEN — Oh, fie, Mr. Randall, you can plead a case in court, and yet you are at a loss for words to tell a girl that you love her. PHILIP — ^Had I felt assured that you regarded me favorably I THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 5 would not have hesitated to ask you to become my wife, but a number of more clever men have been showing you such marked attention that I had but little hope that I could win the suit. HELEN — It was nothing but society flattery, and meant noth- ing whatever. PHILIP— Then you do love me, Helen? HELEN— Yes, Phil., how could you doubt it? PHILIP — I cannot now, Helen. (Kisses her.) When are you going to make me happy? HELEN — Whenever you wish. PHILIP — Then the wedding day cannot be far distant. HELEN — I must put these flowers into a vase. Excuse me a moment. PHILIP — No, let me go with you. (Exit both into house.) (Enter David Langdon and Dudley Weston .center.) LANGDON — Ah! Dudley, there's nothing like country life after all. People may talk about the pleasures of the city, but I al- ways look forward to my summer in the country with the keenest delight. WESTON — The country is all well enough for rest and recrea- tion, after the season in town, but would you care to live here the year round? LANGDON — Indeed I would! Here is where my boyhood was spent, and here would I like to end my days. Since I re- tired from active business I have spent more time here than in the city. WESTON — Opinions differ, of course. For myself I prefer the city with its life and activity; there I can watch every change in the markets. LANGDON — Ah! Dudley, you have the natural instinct of the speculator. You live too fast, my boy; this worry and anxiety is wearing on you. Take my advice, engage in some legitimate business; the profits will come slower but you will be better off in the end. WESTON — I am all right, Mr. Langdon. I know the ropes now, and I'm going to make my fortune one of these days. LANGDON — You have a remarkable gift for business, Dudley, but with all your ability you have been a trifle wild: a little too fond of sport. W'ESTON — I am thinking of selling my racing stock and quit- ting the turf entirely. I may as well settle down now as any time. 6 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. LANGDON — An excellent idea. Then you intend to marry? WESTON— Yes, if Helen will have me. LANGDON— Helen! WESTON — Yes, she is the only girl I care anything for. LANGDON — But she is a mere child. WESTON — In this age, Mr. Langdon, there are no children outside of the nursery. LANGDON— Do you think that she— WESTON — Cares for me. I am doubtful, still a word from you — LANGDON— Stop right there, Mr. Weston. Do you think I would use my influence over that child's heart? No, if Helen ever decides to marry it will be of her own free will. WESTON— Well, I meant no offence. LANGDON— Then we'll drop the subject. (Enter Helen from house.) HELEN — Why, papa, you here! I didn't know you had come. Good morning, Mr. Weston. WESTON — Good morning. Miss Langdon. This is a lovely morning. HELEN— Yes, delightful. LANGDON — Excuse me a moment, Mr. Weston. WESTON— Certainly. LANGDON — I will be back directly, and then, if you wish, we will look over the place. (Exit into house.) WESTON — I am glad we are alone. Miss Langdon. I have been waiting for this opportunity. Won't you be seated? HELEN — Yes, if you wish it. (Seated chair, left center.) WESTON — Helen, I am at a loss to understand the coldness with which you have treated m.e of late. I hoped that my un- tiring devotion would awaken in your heart an answer to that love which I cannot express in words. HELEN— Mr. Weston! WESTON — ^Surely you cannot doubt me. My actions must have spoken more eloquently than words, and now I must ask you for my answer. You have never confessed that you loved me, but at times I have thought that my affections were in some measure returned, and I have been led to hope. HELEN — ^Mr. Weston, I never gave you encouragement. I have told you plainly that I did not love you. I appreciate your friendship, but I can never become your wife. WESTON— Then you love another? THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 7 HELEN — That may be true; but there will be no pleasure for either of us in a discussion of that question. WESTON — Do not be too hasty in your decision, Helen. I have wealth, social distinction, and an indulgent disposition. Promise to become my wife and your slightest wish shall be gratified. HELEN — Once for all, Dudley Weston, let me tell you that your words are useless. No honorable man would ask a woman's hand were he unable to win her heart. (Exit into house.) WESTON— .Within a week my note for ,$10,000 will be due. The bank has notified me that they do not wish to extend it, and unless I can secure funds in time to meet it I am ruined. If Helen Langdon would accept my proposal I could secure her father's endorsement until I had time to recover what I have lost, and save my credit for future operations. She is the only child and will doubtless inherit the entire fortune. I must make another attempt. I will not be put off so easily when there is so much at stake. (Goes up center. Enter David Langdon and Philip Randall, left.) LANGDON — So you and Helen have made an engagement of marriage? This is something of a surprise. WESTON — (A most confounded surprise.) PHILIP — Yes, Helen has promised to become my wife, and it only requires your consent to make us both happy. LANGDON — I want you to be happy, but unfortunately there is an obtsacle in the way. WESTON— (Good! I'll find out what it is.) (Listens.) PHILIP — 'I hope, Mr. Langdon, you have no objections to my marrying Helen. LANGDON — None whatever. The objection, if any, will come from you, or, at least, from your family. PHILIP— My family? On what grounds? LANGDON — On the grounds of family pride; they might ob- ject to your marriage with a woman whose parentage is a mys- tery, whose birth may have been in shame. PHILIP— What do you mean. Mr. Langdon? LANGDON— Helen is not my child. PHILIP— Sir? , LANGDON — Her real name is Helen Cartwright. PHILIP — But Mrs. Langdon speaks as if she — LANGDON — Mrs. Langdon believes Helen is her ovvn child. Sit down, my boy, and I will tell you the whole story. One day while we were out driving the horses became unmanageable and 8 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. overturned the carriage, throwing my wife violently to the ground. Before she regained consciousness a child was born to us, but it died the following day. The doctor, fearing that when my wife recovered, the shock of discovering that her child was dead might permanently unsettled her mind, advised me to sub- stitute another; the daughter of a poor woman who lay dying at the home of one of my tenants. The dying mother gladly consented, and pledged me to name the child Helen. Years have come and gone, and my wife's affection for her has grown so deep and fervent that I have never dared to undeceive her. Had Heaven blessed us with another babe I should have avowed all, as it is, I have I'emained silent. PHILIP — ^Her father's name, you say, was Cartriglit? LANGDON— Yes, Thomas Cartwright. PHILIP— Who was he? LANGDON — No one knows. The doctor and the wife of my tenant Bailey alone knew the secret of Helen's birth. Both are liead. PHILIP — And no other persons have any knowledge of it? LANGDON — None but ourselves. PHILIP — Then let her bear your name until she has taken mine. Whoever her real parents are, she is worthy of any man living. LANGDON — You are a noble fellow, Philip. It may be that your father would object to this, but in my heart I believe we are doing right. (Exit into house.) (Weston comes down center, looking left.) WESTON — Ha! ha! None but ourselves. Was there ever anything so fortunate? All is not yet lost. Let me see. I think I have all the facts, name, place, date, etc. I must find a father for Helen; some bold, quick-witted, reckless devil who will sell his soul for money. Ah, my lady! you may now be com- pelled to accept my attentions, and in a short time you will be glad to accept my offer of marriage. As the old saying goes, "Those who laugh last, laugh best." (Exit, left.) (Enter Joe Sanford, center, singing or whistling.) JOE — iWell, this is a pretty fine looking place, but I guess I'll tackle it, although I'm afraid it wom't do any good. People that's hardly got enough for themselves will generally invite you in, and give you the best they have in the house, but when you strike a place like this yoti are lucky if you get a handout. No dogs around, so here goes. I'll spring the same story of hard times and no work, and then give the girls a jolly about their splendid THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 9 cooking and the advantages of living in the country. (Knocks at door — Dollie appears.) Good morning, Miss, would you be so kind as to give a poor man that ain't had a mouthful in two days, and can't get any worK, a little something to eat? DOI^LIE — Wait a minute and I'll call the dog. Here, Sport, come here. JOE — Oh, never mind bringing on the dog; I don't eat sausage. DOLLIE — You don't! You must be a high toned tramp. JOE — Yes, Miss, I had a good bringing up. DOLLIE — Who are you, anyway? JOE — I'm nobody. DOLLIE — Where did you come from? JOE — Nowhere. DOLLIE — Where are you going? ' : JOE — To the same place I come from. DOLLIE— What do you do for a living? JOE— Nothing. DOLLIE — Then why don't you go to work? JOE — Well, I'll tell you. Miss, it's like this; when I'm hungry I ain't got strength enough to work, and when I've had enough to eat I don't have to. See! DOLLIE — You must get money somewhere to keep that nose of your's colored up that way. JOE — Sometimes I strike somebody that's dead easy, and get a good suit of clothes for nothing. That's something I've got no use for, and so I sell 'em. DOLLIE — And blow the money for whisky? You must like to drink. JOE — It comes natural. I was raised on a bottle. DOLLIE — That's no sign you've got to live on it now. I was raised on a farm, but I don't expect to stay here all my life. JOE — No, I suppose you'll go to the city, and get married. DOLLIE — Me! Not much! I've got trouble enough now. (Enter Helen, left.) HELEN — Why, Dollie! you here. I've been looking all over the house for you. DOLTJE — I'm entertaining a visitor; the worst specimen of a tramp I've seen in a long while. , JOE — Well, I ain't a professional beauty, that's a fact, and if you'll just wrap me up a little somthing to eat. I'll promise you'll never see me again. HELEN — Certainly you can have something to eat. Come right into the house. 10 THE) CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. JOE — No, thank you, Miss, I ain't fit for that. Just give me a handout. HELEN— A what? JOE — I mean just give me something I can eat out here. DO-LLIE — (Aside) — ^When she's seen as many of tliese fellows as I have she won't think so much of them. (.Enter Dan Whitfield, right.) WHITFIELD— Well, I'll be hanged! If tramps ain't getting thicker than mosquitoes around here. They seem to take this place for a free lunch coiunter. Well, stranger, what ye looking for? 'Tain't work, I'll be bound! JOE — It's no use these hard times, pardner. There's too many better men after the same thing. To tell the truth, this silver and gold, 10 to 1 business has just ruined me. WHITFIELD— I should think you would be the last one to be affected by it. JOE — You're off there, pardner. I was one of the first to feel it. WHITFIELD— How's that? JOE — ^It brought about too much competition in my business. WHITFIELD — That's so, there's altogether too many tramps around here. JOE — Yes, there's so many amateurs in the business that even a professional can't make a living. WHITFIELD — Let me give you a little advice. JOE — ^I've got enough now to start a Sunday school. I need something more substantial. WHITFIELD — I suppose you've had your breakfast. JOE — No, not lately. You see, I get my meals so uncertain I'm a little rocky in my dates. There's nothing will so upset a man's domestic economy as eating yesterday morning's breakfast for dinner day after tomorrow. WHITFIELD — Dollie, you had better give him something to eat. DOLLIE — Helen has gone after it now. I suppose she will bring on all the victuals she can find in the house. (Enter Helen with waiter, etc.) There' didn't I tell you so. (Dollie exit into house.) JOE — Well, if this don't beat anything I've struck in a monlh! WHITFIELD — Willie Whiskers, you're in luck this time, sure enough. (Exit, right.) JOE— Thanks, Miss. This is the first decent meal I've sat down to in some time. THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 11 HELEN — I should think you would bo better off if you stayed at home. JOE — It's many a long year since I've known the meaning of that term. No, whether I'm in the hills of New England or the orange groves of California, it's all the same to me. HELEN — Then you are a regular tramp? JOE — Nothing else, Miss. To tell the truth, I've been in more strange places, seen more curious people, eac more queer grub, and drank more mean whisky than any man out of jail. HEIjEN — I'm awfully sorry for you. JOE — Don't waste your sympathy on me, I ain't worth it. I've got used to this sort of life and it don't worry me. HELEN — If you will stay here I'll ask papa to give you some work. JOE^Well, I don't knovv. It's so long since I've done anything of that kind I've most forgot how. HELEN — What are you accustomed to doing? JOE — I ain't got no trade. I am too light for heavy work, and too heavy for light work. I guess I'd better stick to my present occupation. HELEN — I'm sorry I can't do anything for you. JOE — Never mind me, Miss. I've always got along up to date. I don't really live, I just exist, like any other fungus growth. HELEN — Is there anything more you would like? JOE — No, thank you, I'd explode if I eat another mouthful. I'm a thousand times obliged to you. HELEN — You're entirely welcome, I'm sure. (Exit Helen, left.) J0E3 — She's a lady, anyway. The kind you don't meet every day. If there was more of them I'd get my meals with greater regularity. These doughnuts just fit my stomach. I'll take 'em along; there's no telling what luck I may have the rest of the day. (.Enter Dudley Weston, left.) WESTON — What are you doing here? You miserable beggar! JOE — First place, I'm no beggar second place, I ain't miserable, I'm happy as the day is long. WESTON — You appear to have considerable nerve. I am looking for just such a man. If you will do a little work for me I'll pay you well for it. JOE — I'm at your service. What's the job? WESTON — It requires a sharp, bold, quick-witted fellow. JOE— All right. What's the plant? WESTON— There is a young lady living here by the name of Langdon. Her supposed father is immensely rich. 12 THIS CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. JOE — Yes, go on. r WESTON — I want you to assume the name of Thomas Cart- wright, and claim her as your child. JOE — And after I've claimed her, what then? WESTON— Then you will take her away. JOE — To live with me in poverty? WESTON— Yes, certainly. JOE — Say, Misteir, I'm a tramp; a ragged, dirty, good-for-noth- ing tramp, but before I'd be as mean and contemptible as you are I'd drown myself in a sewer so the rats could eat me. WESTON — Do you expect me to take that from you, you im- pudent beggar? JOE — I suppose you are considered a gentleman? WESTON — In the eyes of the worid, yes. I can tell you this much, a word from me will go farther than you imagine. So it will pay you to keep on the good side of me. JOE — The good side of you? — I didn't know you had one — I thought yoai was bad all through. WESTON — You'll have reason to think so if you don't keep a civil tongue in your head. Who are you, anyway? JOE — I'm a New York dude in disguise. WESTON— I think I've seen you before. JOE — I shouldn't wondei", I've met some pretty tough custom- ers. WESTON — Your name is Joseph Sanford. JOE — Correct, pardner, except that my first name ain't Joseph and my last name ain't Sanford. WESTON — il want to tell you a story from real life. JOE — Well, life is short. So boil 'er down. WESTON — Sometime ago a gentleman was visiting Sing Sing prison, and left his overcoat in the warden's office. On returning for it he was surprised to find it on the back of a trusted convict. On atempting to call the guard he was knocked senseless by the cowardly ruffian, who effected his escape wearing the gentleman's coat and hat. I am the gentleman who was robbed, while you are — JOE— At last! At last! WESTON— Joe Sanford, the jail bird. JOE — I offered to return the coat to you, but you tried to call the guard, and T wuokl have been punished for trying to escape. If you know what that meant you would not blame me. WESTON — ^Now that you see I'm acquainted with your past history I think you will listen to my proposition. THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 13 JOE — In Heaven's name, man, don't ask me to injure one who has befriended me. Have you no heart? No pity? I can't do that. I can't do it. (Sinks to ground.) WESTON — You know the consequences of your refusal. JOE — Spare me I Spare a miserable wretch! Here on my knees I beg for mercy. WESTON — Do you see the prison walls? The solitary cell, the lash? JOE] — Yes, I see it all. I can't go back to that place of tor- ture, that living death. I'll do your dirty work. WESTON — I thought you 'would come to your senses, you cowardly cur. JOE — (Rising) — Yes, call me a miserable, whining cur, for no honest dog would bite the hand that fed it. WESTON— Oh! Cut that! I don't admire such sickly senti- ment. You must make the claim at once. I will give you the necessary instructions. See that you follow them to the letter, or I will hand you over to the authorities as an escaped prisoner. Come with me and I will explain to you fully w^hat I wish you to do. (Exit Weston and Joe through, gate, to right.) (Enter Mr. and Mrs. Langdon, from house.) MRS. LANGDON— I must tell you about Helen, David. Some- thing that may surprise you. LANGDON— No, Philip has told me all. MRS. LANGDON — They are to be married soon. I dread our approaching separation. (Enter Helen.)) HELEN— Mamma. MRS. LANGDON— My dear child. HELEN— You look sad. MRS. LANGDON — I am thinking of the future. You are hap- py, and I rejoice at it; but you are going away, and I have a strange presentiment today that I shall lose my child forever. HELEN — Dear n^other, we shall not be separated. We intend to remain here with you. MRS. LANGDON — My child, how happy you have made me! T am foolish to think you would leave us. LANGDON — I am satisfied that we did right. They are happy and the secret will never be known. (Exit Mrs. Langdon and Helen, right. Langdon sits on bench. right.) (Enter Joe Sanford. center.) JOE — So this is Langdon's home. The dove cote that I've come to rifle. It's i desperate game I'm playing, and I'm a nice 14 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. subject to be claiming their daughter; but there will be a day of reckoning for the devil who has driven me into it. (To Langdon.) I beg pardon, sir, I would like tO' see Mr. Langdon. LANGDON — That is my name. What can I do for you? JOE — I am looking foir a long lost child. LANGDON— I fail to comprehend. JOE — Oh, no! you don't, sir; no, you don't. The child in question is here in your house. LANGDON — Nonsense, man! There is no child here by my daughter. JOE — You mean the one you call your daughter, for your child died on the day following its birth. LANGDON — Silence! My wife and daughter do not know of this. JOE — Then I'll speak lower. \ou see, sir, the girl's real father — LANGDON— Is he living? JOE — I shoiuld say he was. LANGDON— Do you know him? JOE — il am his dearest friend and most intimate acquaintance. LANGDON— Then you are— JOE — Thomas Cartwright. LANGDON— What shall I do? Oh, my wife, my child! JOE — Excuse me, please; my child. LANGDON — Your child, if you prefer. How did you find her? JOE — It was quite a job. 1 was put on the track by a man named Bailey. LANGDON — Bailey is dead. Perhaps you are deceiving me. JOE — I should have presented myself before but I was unwill- ing until I obtained the necessary proofs. LANGDON — Enough, I am entirely at your mercy. JOE — I am sorry to disturb the comfort of a well regulated family but — LANGDON — If half my fortune will purchase your silence, it is your. You do not answer. Name any sum. JOE — I regret to say it is impos-sible. (Eenter Helen and Philip, center.) HELEN — Papa, do we intrude? LANGDON — No, I have something to say to you. (Aside.) How can I tell her? (Aloud.) My poor child! I have a terri- ble secret to relate. (Enter Mrs. Langdon, right.) THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 15 MRS. LANGDON— Husband, what is the matter? What is this man. doing here? JOE — My business here, Madam, is to claim my daughter. MRS. LANGDON— Sir! JOE — That beautiful young lady by your side is not your daughter, but mine. MRS. LANGDON— What do you mean, sir? JOE — Ask your husband. HELEN — Father, answer us. JOE — You see, he is silent. Madam, during the time you lost your wits your own child died; and, by the advice of the dootoir, your husband substituted in its place this girl, who is my daughter. MRS. LANGDON — W^ho shall say my child is dead when she is here with her arms about my neck, clinging to her mother as she has ever done through storm and sunshine. Your story is false, sir. Leave the place immediately. LANGDON — No, let him remain. Since the fatal secret has been disclosed, let me explain. You have heard the truth, our child died when it was but a day old. Fearing that your reason would not on its return bear the intense shock of such a loss, we placed in your arms the child of a poor woman who had just breathed her last. JOE — And that poor woman was my poor wife, as I have just proved to your husband. MRS. LANGDON — But, sir, you will not take her from me. I recognize your rights, but think, she has been a child to us so long. JOE — I know you've been a good mother to her even if you ain't her mother, but it ain't natural — PHILIP — Surely you will let her remain? , JOE — I'm sorry to say, it is impossible. She must be known to the world as my child, and in order to preserve my authority I have decided to remove her to my own house at once. See her when you like. My house will be open to both of you, and to this gentleman. But now I am compelled to say she must go with me. PHILIP — You wretched vagabond! Would you drag her from such a home as this, and disgrace her by letting the world know she is your child. LANGDON — (Stopping him) — Philip, he is her father. TABLEAU. Mrs. Langdon and Helen, R. Langdon and Philip, L. Sanford. C. CrKTAIN. ACT TWO. A poorly furnished room, door center and left. Table at right, at which Helen is discovered crocheting. Small rosewood or mahogany box on table, containing locket and letter. HELEN — Ten days now — ten long days since I left them. They seem like years to me. I cannot understand why father should take me from them when he could have seen me at any time. In his rough way he is very kind to me, but perhaps he Tv"as jealous of my love for them. It is strange, I wrote and gave them my address, and not one of them has come to see me. (Enter Joe Sanford, center.) HELEN — I'm so glad you have returned, father. JOE — I didn't expect to be gone so long. Have you been lone- some? HELEN — Yes, I'm so nervous when I am alone. joe: — I got into an argument with a fellow on the money question. It's a mere waste of time to talk politics. You are sure to meet some old fool who won't agree with you. HELEN— What is the matter, father? JOE— Nothing at all, child. HELEN — What's troubling you; is there anything I can do? JOE — No. Tell me how you have spent the day. HELEN — As I spend every day, father, thinking. JOE— About what? HELEN — About my friends; those whom I called my friends, friends no longer, for they have forsaken me. JOE — You forget Mr. Weston. He has been here nearly every day. HELEN— Even Philip! JOE — (Aside) — Philip was her sweetheart. What a fool I am! HELEN — (Looking at clock) — I didn't notice it was so late, but i'U have supper ready in a few minutes. JOE — It ain't necessary for me, child. Get something for yourself, but I'm not hungry. (Joe about to smoke.) HELEN — Are you going to smoke, father? JOE — Yes, but dont' be afraid, my dear, it won't hurt me. I'm used to it. (Lights pipe.) HELEN — Oh, dear! I suppose I must learn to accustom myself to it. (Coughs.) JOE— What's the matter; got a cold? THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 17 HELEN — No. don't mind me, go on. JOK— Go on, what? HELEN— Smoking. (Coughs.) JOE— Oh, it's tLe tobacco, is it? HELEN — Never mind; I'll get used to it. JOE — Looks like it (Puts pipe away.) Can't stand the to- bacco smoke. No doubt the girl's been nicely brought up. I must cut this dodge of being father, it won't answer. Weston must get her off my hands. I'm not a father, but a house-maid; not a gentleman of leisure, but a young lady's travelling com- panion. (Gets hat and is about to go out.) HELEN — Are you going out again, father? JOE — Yes, for a few minutes. You don't minu, do you? HELEN — My mother — I mean — you know whom I mean — so spoilt me that I'm afraid of being left alone. She was always with me. (Joe puts hat away.) (Enter Weston, center.) HELEN — Mr. Weston, is there any word? WESTON— None, I regret to say. HELEN — Not from mamma? They cannot have forgotten me; yet this is the third letter you took. WESTON — I drove out to see them this morning. They were about to leave, and I learned that they intend to spend the re- mainder of the summer at the sea-shore. JOE! — That's devilish queer. WESTON— It's true, nevertheless. HELEN — Philip does not know, or surely he would come to me. WESTON— He has gone abroad, I hear. HELEN— Then they have all forsaken me. WESTON — They no doubt feel that you are lost to them, and endeavor, if possible, to forget you. HELEN — (Crying) — Gone! Gone! Oh my second mother, have 1 lost you as I have the first? Oh, Philip! To think that you could be so base. WESTON — Do not waste your tears on them, Helen. Forget those who have forgotten you. HELEN— I cannot! Oh, I cannot! WESTON — When your grief has subsided, and your eyes, no longer dimmed by tears, can see more clearly, you will find in me a faithful friend, with a devoted heart, that loves you. HELEN — Do not mock me in my misery. If you could induce my mother to come to me you would earn my undying gratitude. 18 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. WESTON — Write once more, Helen, and you can rely on my doing all that is in my power to assist you. HELEN — Excuse me a few moments. I will write another letter. Perhaps if you deliver it in person she will answer. ESTON-^With pleasure, if you wish it. (Exit Helen, left.) WESTON— Well, Joe, how are things going? JOE — All right. I'm Thomas Cartwright, and she's my daugh- ter, sure as cheating. WESTON — By the way, did you have much tro'Uble with the old folks when you took her away? JOE — The old lady was going to have me throwed out, but the governor told her I was telling the trutn, and then she begged me to let her keep the girl; and then there was a young fellow there, her brother or lover, I guess, who was going to interfere, but the old man quieted him, and then I had it all my own way. WESTON— You're a noble feiiow, Sanford. JOE — Yes — next to you I'm the most contemptible thing th«l ever drew breath. WESTON — Hold on! I won't stand insult from yO'U. JOE — I'm only speaking the truth. If you think you can make me forget what a wretch I am by flattering me you are mistaken. I had a daughter, who if she is living is about Helen's age, and if any one treated her as I am treating this girl I would kill him as I would a snake that bit me. WESTON — I don't care to argue the question. How does she ta.ke it? JOE — No doubt she is delighted with these elegant apartments. WESrON — So she complains of them, does she? I expected that. JOE — Oh, no! She believes that I furnished them, and I haven't told her of the gallant gentleman who takes such an in- terest in her weiiare. WESTON — You seem to be sarcastic this evening. Perhaps it may be well to remind you that I can still make good my threat. JOE — Well, make it good if you choose. You can't do it without upsetting your own plans. You can't do worse than send me back to prison, and I would sooner be there than here, the way things are going. WESTON — What's the matter; does she make it too hot for you? JOE — On the contrary, she is too affectionate and obedient. She couldn't be more so if she were my own child. It is this THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 19 which forces me to realize what a friend I am. My very soul revolts at the outrage. It's heart-rending to hear her speak of her parents. She thinks they have forsaken her, when God knows they must be hunting high and low for her. If she must stay here allow her parents and friends to visit her. WESTON — I cannot permit any one to see her now; even Mr. and Mrs. Langdon must be kept in ignorance. JOE — But I told them they could see her at any time, and the young gentleman; her lover, I presume. WESTON — Confound him! He, of all persons, must be kept away from her. Now see here; I thought you had nerve but you seem to be unable to withstand a few tears. JOE — Well. Dud., I'm heartily sick of the whole business. I became your confederate to help you get hold of some of the old man's money, but not to drive a poor girl crazy, or prehaps to kill her outright. WESTON — Oh! she is not being abused as much as all that. I suppose she does miss her home and friends but she will have to get used to it. JOE — Well, I wish you would make some other arrangements and get her off my hands. I would sooner be behind the bars than to stand this much longer. There I would have no misery but my own to think about. (Enter Helen, left, with letter.) WESTON — Ah! Helen! You have finished your letter? HELEN — Yes. Will you deliver it for me? WESTON— Certainly. (Takes letter.) HELEN — Tell my mother I am dying to see her, and tell her where she can find me. WESTON— With the greatest of pleasure. (Exit Weston, center.) HELEN — I canot understand why mamma does not answer my letters. She must be ill, or she surely would send me word or come to see me. JOE — Yes, she took good care of you, much better than 1 can; still I'm going to do my damn — ^I mean my level best to make 't pleasant for you. HELEN — I have no doubt, father, that you are doing all you can for me. JOE— I know I'm not particularly handsome. You get your good looks from your mother. My manners are not what you have been accustomed to, but still, I am your father. HELEN — Yes; and if it wasn't for Philip Randall— JOE--Guess I don't know him. Who is he? 20 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER- HELEN — He is a gentleman who — JOE — A gentleman; I thought I didn't know him. HELEN— I was— JOE — His sweetheart. Yes, I see. I had a sweetheart once. I loved her. Oh, how I loved her! HELEx