PS 635 .Z9 C497 Copy 1 IN DAYS OF OLD CLEMANS. / \ * IN DAYS OF OLD A COLONIAL ROMANCE IN FIVE ACTS BY LOUIS L CLEMANS ALL RIGHTS RESERVED MONSON^CORRIE PRESS WABASH, INDIANA f THE LIBRARY Of CONGRESS, Two Comes Recbvcd DEC. 23 1902 »KJHT BKTWT Cs- xXa Ho. 2. o i/- k COPY B. COPYRIGHT, 1902. BY LOUIS L. CLEMANS. TMP92-008853 TO THE MEMORY OF THE PATRIOTS WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES FOR THE SACRED CAUSE OF LIBERTY AND FELL IN THE DEFENSE OF THEIR COUNTRY, THIS LITTLE ROMANCE IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. THE AUTHOR. CAST OF CHARACTERS, Stephen Prescott, A New York Merchant. Harold Peyton A Colonial Patriot. Sidney Wolfe Major of British Hussars. Ned Prescott A Fugitive from Justice. Jack Reynolds A Loyalist Friend. Dick Prescott The Youngest Brother. Matthias A Servant to the Prescotts. Messenger From Continental Army. John Waiter at the Windsor. Elizabeth Prescott Wife of Stephen Prescott. Nelle Prescott Jack Reynold's Sweetheart Margaret Peyton The Wife; A Fair Loyalist. SYNOPSIS. Act i. Sunday, April 23rd, 1775. The Separation. Act ii. December 18th, 1779. The Plot. Act in* Christmas Eve, 1779. Face to Face. Act iv. Christmas Day, 1779. Driven from Home. Act v. April 23rd, 17*6. Retribution. COSTUMES. Period: 1775-1786. Stephen Prescott: Suit of black. Harold Peyton: Act 1. Suit of black. Act 3. Uniform of Captain of Continental Dragoons. Military cloak. Act 5. English Court Costume of 1786. Sidney Wolfe: Act 2. Uniform of Major of British Hussars. Act ■'>. English Court Costume of 1786. Ned Prescott: Act 1. Rough seaman's garb of 1775. Act 4. Ragged uniform of Continental Army. Act 5. English Court Costume of 1786. Dick Prescott: Private's Uniform of British Hussars. Jack Reynolds: Act 1. Suit of black. Act 2. Uniform of Lieutenant of British Hussars. Act 5. English Court Costume of 1786. Matthias: Suit of brown. Messenger: Farmer's garb, 1775. Waiter: English Livery of 1786. Elizabeth Prescott: Martha Washington dress. Nelle Prescott: Dresses of the period; with handsome English Court Costume for last act. Margaret Peyton: Handsome gowns of the period. SCENE PLOT. Act 1 — Parlor in the Prescott home. Fancy In- terior boxed in 4. Backed by Street in 5. Large practical window, 6x8, C. in flat, with a practical window seat filling recess. Practical door, L. u. E. Set fireplace, L. 2. e. Large double arch, R. 2. and 3 e; backed b} r single arch which in turn is backed by fancy interior. Practical winding staircase, R. u. E. with wide steps and heavy balustrade. Table and two chairs, R. c. Sofa, L. c. Other fancy furniture and bric-a-brac to make an elaborate set. Act 2 — Headquarters of Major Wolfe: An apart- ment in the Prescott home. Center Door Fancy boxed in 3. Backed by Plain Chamber in 4. Set mantle. R. 1. E. Practical doors, R. and L. Fancy table and two chairs, L. c. Divan up R. Center opening in flat, heavily draped. Acts — Boudoir of Margaret Peyton. Fancy Chamber boxed in 3. Practical door in flat, R. Practical window, two feet and one-half from floor, \\ 2. E. Chiffonier, r. 3. e. Bed and canopy, l. Table and two chairs, L. C. Elaborate set. Act 4— Same set as Act 1. Winter street backing. .] r/ .7— Fashionable suite of lodgings, London. Supposed to be on second floor. Fancy Interior in 4, boxed. Practical French window, c. in flat, open- ing on practical bal ony with breakaway balustrade. Backed by Exterior showing London housetops. Large arch, L. 2. E. heavily draped with portieres. Practical door, R. 2. E. (Built to breakaway). Fan- cy table and chairs, L. c. Fancy divan, R. Mantel, up R. Build platform, two feet high, for balcony, extending inside and just filling window. Two wide steps up to window. Elaborate set as possible. TIME OF PLAYING — TWO HOURS. IN DAYS OF OLD, ACT ONE. Scene: Parlor in the Prescott home. Stephen Prescott discovered coming down stairway — goes to window in fiat — looks out. Stephen. This is indeed a splendid spring morn- ing-. Strange it is — that this Sabbath day, when our beloved colonies are on the verge of war with the mother country, amid such surroundings— all nature should unite in breathing forth a hymn of gladness, of peace and of beauty. ( Chimes Heard in the distance.) Ah, the bells call us to the house of worship. It is right that we should return thanks for the many blessings that have been showered upon us. Oh! that I could enjoy the beauties of this day, {down to table. ) but the bitter memories of the past have effaced all hope of pleasure, {sits right of table.) 'Twas just such a pretty Sunday morning, one short year ago, that my eldest son, the pride of his father's heart, crushed out all our brightest hopes, when he stood before us, a self-confessed thief. Since that time the dark pall that has enveloped us like a shroud, has never lifted for one moment Had the ground opened and engulfed him, his disappearance could 12 IN DA YS OF OLD. not have been more complete and although I should not have hesitated in turning him over to the proper authorities for punishment, I often wonder what has been his fate. Enter Matthias, l. u. e., comes clown. Stephen. Well, Matthias, what's wanting? Matthias. Please, sir, if you will only forgive me for disobeying your orders. I mean no oft'ense, sir, but I would ask you to grant a favor. Stephen. What is it, Matthias? You well enough know that I never refuse any reasonable request. Matthias. A friend of mine, or at least, sir, an acquaintance whom I feel very friendly towards, is outside and seems to be very much in need, sir. If you would only see him, sir. Stephen. A friend of yours in distress, Matthias? Who is it? Matthias. Master Ned, sir. Oh! please, Mr. Prescott, let him come in. Stephen, (rises) No, sir! (crosses, l. ) I have sworn that he shall never darken the threshold of my house again. Even tho' he is my own son, he is a fugitive from justice and must pay Matthias. But I beg of you, Mr. Prescott, the lad is ill. He has erred it is true; but, sir, I assure you he is a, changed man. Stephen. No doubt, he is changed for the worse. Lucky for him that it is Sunday morning, (Enter Elizabeth Prescott and Margaret Peyton down stairway) or I should hand him over to the constable this moment. IN DAYS OF OLD. 13 Margaret, (comes down r.) Why, father, who is it you would hand over to the officers'? Elizabeth, (left of table) You do not answer. (pause) Matthias, to w T hom does he refer? Matthias. Master Edward, ma'am. Margaret. i\ed back! Elizabeth. Oh! dear me, my poor boy! Where is he, Matthias, where is he? Matthias. Waiting* in the garden, ma'am. He arrived on the ship last evening 1 , but just came on shore an hour ago. Stephen. He had sense enough to know Sunday was safer. M*cthias. I was down to Valentine's to inquire after his sick daughter and ran across Master Ned upQn the dock unawares. He looked so very ill and wretched, ma'am, that I persuaded him to come home with me. Stpehen. Don't lie to me. You mean that he persuaded you to come and intercede for him. Matthias. I beg pardon, sir, he is much changed. He says that he has reformed and I believe he has, for he shows the truest signs of penitence. Elizabeth, (crosses to Stephen) Stephen, you had better tell Matthias to bring him in. If you don't, goodness only knows what he may do. Stephen. Madam, would you have me break the oath I swore, when we learned the infamy which h^ had heaped upon us. Margaret. Oh! papa, think what people will saj\ If he has reformed U IN DAYS OF OLD. Stephen. Let him show by his future conduct that his reformation is complete, and when he finds that I refuse to look upon him as my son, let him de- liver himself like a man — to the law for punishment, and pay the penalty of his crime. Elizabeth. Don't, Stephen, dont! I never could endure the sliame. A jailbird in our family ; I should not dare to show my face in public. Oh, the disgrace! Margaret. Papa, you won't send him to prison, will you? Matthias. Really, if you would only see him ; if but for a moment Elizabeth. Stephen, he may wish to make atone- ment for past. I pray you, grant this one request. Margaret. Oh, please do, father! Elizabeth. When all nature is at peace — on this ideal spring day — thankfulness to our God for his mercies, should lead us to cherish a spirit of forgive- ness. "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us." Stephen, (crosses to chair, R. of table— sits) Tell him, he may come. Matthias. Very well, sir. Exit l. u. e. Elizabeth, (crosses to l. of table) Stephen, for my sake, please do not be to severe with the poor boy. You won't, will } 7 ouV Ned Prescott enters l. u. e.— hesitates — then rushes into Elizabeth Prescott's arms. Ned. Mother! Elizabeth. Ned, my boy! my boy! Ned. (by table — offers /ut/n/ to Stephen) Father! IN DAYS OF OLD. 15 Stephen, {refuses to take hand) So you have dared to return. I hardly t li< >ug*ht you brazen enough to do so. Have you forg A ^>n': Ned. Have I forgot Len, sir; I wish to Heaven I could forget. I don't know why you deserved to have a son like me. But I have suffered. A fugi- tive from justice — ashamed to look my fellowman in the face — startled at every little sound — feeling that the hounds of fate were at my heels, dogging my every step. — slowly — surely. Margaret. My poor brother! Stephen. You have wrecked your life with your eyes open — it is too late to alter it now. Ned. Father, }^ou haven't had my trials and temp- tations. You haven't had to endure my sufferings. You haven't had something here — (hand on breast) which gnaws and gnaws, day and night, day and night: while the whole world points the finger of scorn and cries aloud the story of your downfall. You may live on; hut you are only a husk — a shell— the frame of a man: the good has left you. Stephen. The world seems to have placed you in a very humble mood. Ned. "The way of the the transgressor is hard." When I reached the city of London, two months ago, I was on the verge of despair — the night was bitter cold — I was almost frozen. I saw a bright light in a little chapel. I knew that I could at least find warmth inside — so like the guilty wretch, I am, I crept in un- observed and sank into a pew. The preacher told the story of the prodigal s: n — how he returned and 16 IN DA YS OF OLD. was forgiven. I'm a bit like him, sir, and — and — I've came back. Stephen. You can't count on the fatted calf, how ever. Ned. I don't ask it Bread and water will do for me. My sin was a grievous one; grievously have I atoned! I came back to say that I was sorry — and — to see all of you once more. Stephen. Where do you intend to live and howV Ned. I hardly know. If only I might stay here till I could find employment. Stephen. My intentions were, should you ever again set foot in New York, to have meted out to you the punishment you so richly deserve. I do not give up my intention, I shall on'.y postpone carrying it into execution during your good behavior. You may remain here until you find employment. Ned. Thank you, sir. I dare say it is more than I deserve. I will try to give you no cause to regret doing so. Mother, have you a room for me'? Elizabeth. Yes, my son, you may have the same old room; it is just as you left it a year ago. Ned. Thank you, mother, (kisses her) 1 will try to get a few hours sleep; I am completely worn out and need rest. Exit up stairway. Elizabeth, {crosses to stairs) I'll call you in plenty of time for dinner, (at n. 2. E.) Stephen, do you kirvw that it's time for churchy The bell rang quite a while ago. Stephen. As soon as you are ready, we will go. Exit Elizabeth, r. 2. e. IN DAYS OF OLD. 17 Stephen. Are you going with us, my daughter? Margaret. No, not this morning, father. I have some letters to write, which I am very anxious to send to London, and the vessel sails early tomorrow morning. Stephen. Just as you wish, daughter; but I would not set my mind too firmly on this London trip. Margaret. Why not, father? Stephen. There is many a slip 'twixt cup and lip. Something may happen to change your plans. Margaret. If anything should happen, that I could not go, the disappointment would nearly kill me. Stephen. I hope, for your sake, that nothing will happen to prevent your sailing as now arranged, but don't build too many castles in the air. Life is made up of disappointments. Where is Nelle"? 1 haven't had a glimpse of her since breakfast. Margaret. She went over to Valentine's with a basket of dainties for their sick daughter, and as yet, has not returned. More than likely she has met Jack Reynolds on the way and they are taking their time in returning. Elizabeth, [outside) Stephen! are you going with me, or are you going to stand there talking an hour or two longer? Stephen. I'm coming at once, mother. ( Exit R. 2. e. Margaret. I wonder what keeps Harold so long. {up to window) He said that he would be gone but half an hour, and it is nearly two hours since he started away. Poor boy. he must have taken a longer 18 IN DA YS OF OLD. walk than usual; but after a whole week in that dingy old office, he needs plenty of exercise and fresh air. (down to sofa — sitx) Oh, how good he is to me. We have been married just a month and never for a moment has he ceased to be the attentive and faithful lover. Papa says he is a splendid man at the office, so kind and courteous 'to all; and for that reason offered Harry the management of the London branch. How happy we shall be in dear old London. Ever since I wasalittle child I have wished for noth- ing better than to live in the gay whirl of London society; and now that my wishes are so soon to be gratified, my happiness knows no bounds. Enter Nelle, unobserved, L. u. e. — slips down behind ■sofa. Nelle. Boo! Margaret jumps up — scrtams. Margaret. Oh my! you naughty girl, how you frightened me. Nelle. Oh, did I? Well, I'm sorry, of course, but it was too good a chance to let slip. Margaret. So you take all the chances you get, do you? Well, look out or you may let one chance slip, that you will be sorry for. Nelle. What are you talking about, anyway? Margaret. Your chances of catching Jack. Kate Claxton would make any sacrifice to win him from you. Nelle. Well, let her have him; I don't care! Yes, I do care, too. But she never knows her own mind. She thought she had caught brother Ned once u] on a time, you know. IN DA YS OF OLD. 19 Margaret. Oh, Nelle, did you know that Ned is here. Nelle. In New York? Margaret. Yes, at home. Nelle. Madge, dear, don't jest. Is he really at home again; poor Ned. Margaret. Yes, he is in his room upstairs. Nelle. I am going up and see him this very minute. (Marts for stairway. Margaret. Don't disturb him: he is ill and wishes to sleep. Nklle. {pauses <»i t bottom step) I don't care; he is my brother and I am going to see Re-enter Matthias, hurriedly. Matthias Mr. Jack Reynolds. Nelle. ('comes down) Bid him enter. Maiigaret. Well, dear, I am going to my room and write my letters. Enter Jack, l. u. e., as Margaret r; j aclies stairway. Jack. Good morning, ladies, (to Margaret) Do not let poor me drive you away. Margaret. Oh! certainly not. But I remember the old saying— "Two's company, three's a crowd. " Nelle. She speaks from experience, Jack; she's only been married a month, (all laugh) Exit Margaret, up stairs. Jack. Do you think she will change her mind? Nelle. Oh, yes! thev all do. 20 IN DA YS OF OLD. Jack. How often have I noticed that the weaker sex were very changeable. The poet undoubtedly knew them well when he penned these lines : "Oh, woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the quivering aspen made.' 1 Nelle. Let us change the subject. Why were you not at Miss Claxton's reception, last evening? You promised to come. Jack. Was it a reception? I thought it was only .a tea, and I simply cannot tolerate teas. Nelle. Well, what great difference is there be- tween a tea and a reception? Jack When you go to a tea, they serve tea and cakes; at a reception you get a good, square meal. Nelle. Oh, I understand. To a man, it is sim- ply a difference in the fare. Jack. That is a very fair definition. Nklle. So man, beinga worshiper of his stomach, avoids teas; but is seldom absent from receptions. Jack. I believe that you are partly right. On the other hand, a tea is only an excuse for the gathering together of a lot of women, old and ugly, young and pretty, sombre and sad, gay and witty; so they may admire each other's gowns to each other's faces, and afterward make remarks of a different sort in their absence. Nelle. Don't you think that my new gown is pretty. Jack. Who heeds the make of the gown, when the wearer is of divine make. IN DA YS OF OLD. 21 Nelle. Don't be silly. Had you known the fine compliment Kate passed upon you; you would have attended the reception had it been only a tea. Jack. What did Miss Claxton say? Nelle. I won't tell you, 'twould make you vain. Jack. No, it won't! Nelle. Yes, it will! Don't you think she is very pretty V Jack. What did she say? I am anxious to know. Nelle. Yes, I know you are — you always are. She's a very pretty girl, and I've heard you say so, too! You're in love with her, so you are. Well, I don't care; {half- cry intj) you're not the only man in this world. Jack. Oh, I don't know. There is one o-irl that thinks so, anyway. Nelle. I don't! Oh, I mean I'm sure there is nobody that does. Jack. But there is. Such a pretty girl, too, with such sparkling blue eyes— Nelle. Jack! My eyes are blue. Jack. But I didn't say that you were the girl. This girl really cares for me. Nelle. Oh! Kate Claxton. If I were a man, I would pick out someone who looked like somebody at least. Jack. People who are not jealous, say she is very pretty. Nelle. Jealous! Jack Keynolds! I'm not. Jack. Who said vou were? 22 IN DA YS OF OLD. Nelle. You did. You may think as you please; but you have no right to make such absurd accusa- tions. Jealous, why, Jack, I am surprised at you. Jack. I know that one woman cannot bear to hear another praised for her good looks or pretty gowns. Nelle. It is a vice incurred from the frequent examples set us by different members of your sex. Jack. Imitation is the sincerest flattery. Come, Nelle, we must not quarrel. I should never forgive myself if I said one unkind word to you. Nelle. Tnen why do you do so? Jack. Did IV Nelle. Yes, you did. Jack Nelle! {pause) Nelle! (pause) She's mad. Woman is made of wax. A little love melts her. (goes to her — places arms about tier) Nelle, dear, you must forgive me. Nelle. I don't see why I should. Jack. But you will, won't you, deary (kisses her) Nelle. I don't know. Jack. Yes, you do You know you will. Now don't make ire coax you. Nelle. Hut I like to be coaxed. •Jack, (kissing her again) Now am I forgiven? Nelle. Just this once; but you must never do it again. Jack. Even now I haven't the faintest idea what I have done; but here, on my bended knee, I promise never to do it again. Now, tell me, what did Miss Claxton say? IN DA YS OF OLD. 23 Nelle. She said that you were the handsomest man is New York, and that she had fallen deeply in love with you. Jack. Sorry I can't return the compliment. She is a pretty girl, of course; but Nelle. You confess it? Jack. I can't help it; she is pretty enough, as girls go — Nelle. As girls go — I like that. Jack. But, my dear, you cannot compare mere prettiness with royal beauty like yours. Nelle. Now, Jack, you know you don't really think me pretty. Jack. Nelle, if you will but look through my eyes into the innermost recesses of my heart, you will find mirrored there but one face — peerless in it's beauty and love — your own. Nelle. Then you do love me a little? Jack. Love you? How much I cannot find words to express; but more than anything else in all this world. Have I not told you so, hundreds of times. Nelle. But I like to hear you say it again and again. Jack. Oh, you little rogue! {kisses her — she breaks away — he chases her around stage.) Nelle. Don't! here comes Harry. Enter Harold Peyton, l. u. e. Harold. Hello! playing tag on Sunday morning? Why, Nelle, ain't you ashamed? Nelle. No, I ain't! 24 IN DAYS OF OLD. Harold. Well, Jack, have you heard any late news from Boston? Nelle. (angrily) You two make me weary! Harold. Why, Nelie! What's wrong now*? Nelle. Oh, nothing! Only Jack and you are eternally and all the time talking war. You have discussed the "Boston Tea Party" until I can't even look at a cup of tea. I am going up to Margaret's room, and I am going to stay there till you get this war fought and settled to your mutual satisfaction. You make me tired. Exit up stairway. Jack, (sits on sofa) No, nothing definite. But I have finally arrived at the conclusion, that at last we stand on the brink of the precipice — with a chasm of unknown depth yawning at our feet. Harold, (l. of table) You are right. The crisis is at hand and the events of the coming week will most certainly decide the momentous question of peace or war. If the colonies go to the extent of openingly firing upon the flag of Great Britian, a few days will determine if the victory is to be a bloodless one, or if peace is to be purchased at the price of war. Jack. General Gage has most surely had things his own way so far, and if the boasted "minute men" dared to fight, they would by this time have shown some symptons of it. You may depend upon this one fact; the Continental army will never fire a gun as long as the "red-coats" show a bold front. Harold. I wish I could view matters in the same light, Jack, but I have lived among the colonists for IN DAYS OF OLD. 25 fifteen years and I am sure that the British underes- timate their bravery and patriotism. Jack. It is impossible to underestimate any man- ly quality in a colonial ''rebel," who refuses allegi- ance to King George III. Harold. Yes, I understand that such is the gen- eral opinion of the loyal subjects of the British crown yet I, myself, have met many brave men among these patriots, who would face danger of any magnitude without shrinking, and prove themselves worthy adversaries of any foe. Jack. I cannot agree with you, Harold. Your patriotic "rebels'' may be brave enough during times of peace, but it is war, with all its attendant horrors that gives birth to patriotism. Should the men under General Gage come in contact with the •'rebel" volunteer army, and their boasted "minute men" have a chance to smell burnt powder, what would be the effect? {horses hoofs heard in the- distance, gradually growing nearer. ) Harold. The effect, sir, will be that of a torch applied to a train of powder. Every city and town will be a camp, every cross-road a rallying point. The colonies will put forth every effort, and although the entire country be devastated by fire and sword: the cause will not be lost, {up to window.) Jack. No! for the rebellion will be crushed out! Messenger rides on bark of window — horse covered with foam — both rider and horse appear morn out. 26 IN DA YS OF OLD. Messenger. Whoa! Harold, (opens window) Friend, you ride as if good horses were as plenty as worthless dragoons. Messenger. Neither horse nor man is spared in the service of the Continental army. I am seeking Stephen Prescott. Harold. Mr. Prescott is at church; an} r trouble? Messenger. Well, now, I guess, trouble is no name for it. I'm bringing news from Massachusetts. {slaps ha iids on papers in coat pocket.) Jack. Has anything happened at Boston? Messenger. Well, no, not just at Boston. But out Concord way and at Lexington, and on the high road back to Boston, I reckon as how a few things had happened. You see, sirs, it was this way: On last Tuesday night, General Gage sent a secret ex- pedition, under command of Major Piteairn, from Boston, to arrest Samuel Adams and John Hancock at Lexington, and to seize and destroy the military stores collected at Concord. Our patriots were on the watch, and at the first move, hung a signal from the tower of Old North Church. A silversmith, Paul Revere, by name, rode like a madman through the country, spreading the news, "The 'regulars' are coming!" At daybreak, the British arrived at Lex- ington to find fifty '"minute men" drawn up on the village green. The advance guard fired upon them, and seven brave men fell: but they held their ground until the main body of the regulars came up. Then they gave way and the "red coats" pushed on to Con- cord. Here they failed to find any stores; but affairs IN DAYS OF OLD. 27 took a sudden turn. Five hundred British regulars, who were guarding Concord bridge, were driven back by several hundred "minute men' 1 who had has- tily arrived from the neighboring towns. The posi- tion of British became perilous and at noon they started for Boston, exposed to a galling fire from all sides. Exhausted by an eighteen mile march and no provisions, they were soon put to rout, and entered Boston on the full run: leaving about three hundred dead to mark the path of their flight. But I must be on my way, these messages are important, {rides off — sound of galloping hoofs dies away in the distance.) Harold, [closes window — comes down) The words of Patrick Henry have at last come true. "There is no longer room for hope — we must fight!" Jack. The British will wreak dire vengeance up- on the Continental army for this blow. Harold, (l. of table) They may attempt it; but tne fight at Concord bridge will cause the colonies to stand more closely together. Jack, (rises) Aye, against the rebellious party. Harold. When I spoke of the colonies, I referred to what you are pleased to call the rebellious party. Jack. The rebels are not in the majority, there- fore you can not say that they represent the colonies. Harold. Pardon me, Jack, we shall find that they are in the majority, at least, outside of the larger towns. This news will fly to every corner of our country, as fast as brave men on fleet-footed steeds can carry it; and put the country folk in readiness for whatever the Continental Congress may decide 28 IN DA YS OF OLD. to do. This first shot will yet be heard around the world. Enter Nelle, down stairway. Jack. Their activity will put the loyal subjects of the British crown on their guard, ready for what these few "rebels" may attempt. Harold, (rises) Don't call the colonists "rebels. " They are good honest people striving to throw off the foot of the oppressor and only ask that they may at least have a voice in the dictation of the laws under which they must live. Once for all, I say, this is my country, may she always be right; but my country, right or wrong! Nelle. Bravo! Harry. Enter Stephen and Elizabeth, r 2. e., come down r. Stephen. Have you heard the newsV Harold. Yes, I think we were among the first to hear it. Stephen. Nothing short of a miracle can prevent war now. The service was just closing when a mes- senger rode up to the church door with the startling news. The entire assemblage was electrified by his account of the battle at Lexington. Captain Graham at once ordered out his company of volunteers, and will hasten to join the Continental army at Boston. Nelle. (r. c.) Well, I don't care; I will not believe we shall have war, until I see the troops marching through these very streets. Enter Margaukt, down stairs. IN DAYS OF OLD. 29 Elizabeth. Let us talk of something else. The very thought of war makes my blood run cold. Harold. My dear ladies, I believe it is best to think of this war as if it were even now at our doors, and thus fortify ourselves to endure it's horrors. I shall teach Margaret to do so. Margaret, {down c. i What care I, whether war is declared or not. 'Tis only a few short weeks un- til we shall be safe in England. Harold But if war is declared, the date of our sailing must be postponed. Margaret. Postponed! for how long? Harold. Until this question of peace or war is decided, Elizabeth. Why should you concern yourself about the colonies and their troubles? King George has soldiers enough. Ned appears on stairs— listens— cornea slowly down. Harold. You are right: 'tis the colonies will need the soldiers. Margaret. Then why must we stay? Harold. That I may take my part in it, Margaret. Jack. Bravo! Harry — neither of us shall forfeit a chance to fight for our king. Harold. Not for your king shall I be fighting; but for the cause of American Independence. Stephen. My boy. I am proud to grasp you by the hand. Ned. (c. ) Harold, I shall go with you. I am only a poor outcast — a fugitive from justice — friendless 30 IN DA YS OF OLD. and alone — knocked about from pillar to post- -what better fate than to die in defense of my country! (shakes hands with Harold.) Stephen. My sod, you have spoken nobly. Now is the chance to retrieve your good name. I freely forgive you the many hours of anguish which you caused, and will earnestly pray for your success. Elizabeth. So the rebels have made converts even in my own house. Stephen. Madam, are you not loyal to the colo- nies? Elizabeth. Sir! I am a Van Astor. Margaret. Good! No one shall destroy our allegiance to our king, mother. Do you understand that, Mr. Harold Peyton? Harold. Mr. Prescott, since we are become rebels ag - ainst the king; our wives pay us in the same coin, and turn rebels against their husbands. Margaret. This is no time for jests. One thing alone concerns me — my visit to London. Oh! Harry, you will not dissapoint me, will you, dear? Harold. I do not wish to disappoint you; but my place is here. Honor demands it. When I am con- fronted by the awful truth, I feel that to stand idly by, or to leave in the hour of such deadly peril to my country, would be to forfeit my own self- respect and invite the just contempt of all loyal, patriotic men. We must wait. Margaret. You have no right to make me wait. You have made promises, and you must redeem them. You told me long ago that we should go to London on IN DAYS OF OLD. 31 the first of June; since then — day and night, I have thought of it — dreamed of it — until it has become a part of my very existence; and now you say that we must wait, at least, months — perhaps, years. You have deceived me — the woman, whom you promised to cherish, honor and obey, until death do us part. And I have loved you as no woman ever loved before. I thought you the very soul of honor: but, ever since the day when first we met, you have been a living lie — winning a woman's love under a false pretense. 'T is the height of treachery — the act of a coward. A man of common honesty would keep his word: but you, a gentleman, who have said you would make any sacrifice to insure my happiness, decline to grant my one request. ir Tis cruel — unjust. Harold. Don't you understand, Margaret, my love, one has no choice when patriotism dictates. I would make any sacrifice that an honest man can make for your sake; but Elizabeth. Harold, you have your wife and your own future to consider. Kemember that your first thought should be for each other's happiness, and if you refuse my daughter's request, you will break her heart. Margaret. Oh! Harry, my love, think how I have set my heart on going. For vr y sake, my love, sweetheart, do not remain. Say we shall go, Harry, and you'll make me, oh! so happy. Harold My dear Margaret, I shouldn't be a man if I left America at this time. If I did: if I were to discard honor and trample upon principle, 32 IN DA YS OF OLD. your own true heart would be the first to turn from me in contempt. I should not be worthy of you. Margaret. Worthy! Is any man worthy of a woman, when he repays her love with such cruelty? You talk of principle — of honor — when you speak of your country's demands upon you. In God's name, what claim has the colonies upon you, equal to the claim of your own wife? Is honor but a cloak to put on and off at will? Oh! Harry, you are only jesting" are you not — just trying to test the depth of my love —you will keep your promise — won't you, dear. Harold. It was not exactly a promise, dear. Margaret. It was a promise — as sacred as any promise ever made. If you wisli to keep my |ove— fulfill this pledge; if you do not, you break my heart and instead of my warmest love, will receive nothing but my deepest hatred and contempt. You must choose now. Make this sacrifice for me — you must — you shall. If you don't, I'll hate you — I'll hate you! {sinks into chair by table) Harold. Margaret, dear, you are not yourself. Margaret, (-rises) More than ever myself and my own mistress, too. Speak, I command you! Shall we go"? Will you do as your wife wishes? Harold. I will do as your husband ought! Margaret. Shall we sail for London in June? Harold. No! I shall stay till the fate of the colo- nies are decided, and lo fight for them if need be! Margaret. So this is the depth of the great love which you professed for me. A love which is only governed by the whims and selfish motives of it's IN DAYS OF OLD. 33 master. A love which can cast the pure love of an honest woman aside for the sake of a crazy notion of patriotism. Very well, sir, how I shall hate you for it. (Harold steps toward her.) Do not touch me, Harold Peyton; here you and I part forever. Not only does your choice place an unsurmountable bar- rier between us; but even as water slowly dropped, drop by drop, upon living embers will destroy them; so will your perfidy and the memory of my wrongs, reduce the warm and tender passion I once felt to the dead ashes of indifference. Your wife in name, I still must be; but I would rather beg, starve, die! than link myself to the misery of an existence to be dragged out with you! {■starts up stairway.) Harold, {pleadingly) Margaret! END OF FIRST ACT. ACT SECOND, Scene: Headquarters of Major Sidney Wolfe. Jack Reynolds enters hurriedly, c. d., at rise of curtain. Jack. I wonder where Nelle can be? I have searched for her everywhere. I am only off duty for an hour and must see her. I can't understand her at all. But where in all this wide world will you find a woman that you can understand? She pro- fesses to love me dearly, and yet at the dance last evening, she ignored me entirely and seemed so devoted to Captain McLean. I want an explanation and I'm going to have it. I wonder if she really does love me and is only trying to tease. This love is a funny thing. Enter Nelle, d. r. Jack. "Mysterious love— uncertain treasure, Hast thou more of pain or pleasure! Endless torments dwell about thee; Yet who would live, and live withouL thee! (sinks into chair, R. ofT.) Oh! dear, (sighs) 36 IN DA YS OF OLD. Nelle. (crosses to c.) What a sigh! Are you in pain? Jack. In pain? No; a hundred times worse than that — I am in love! Nelle. No! Jack.. Yes! Nelle. You in love! (laughs) The idea — wilh whom? Jack. With you. Nelle. Never! Jack. Forever! (sighs) Nelle. And does that make you sigh? Jack. It's enough to make any fellow sigh. The worst part of it- -I know that you love another. Nelle. Another! Who? Jack. Captain McLean. I noticed your adoration taking complete control of you last evening. Nelle. Why should you care? The:-. 4 are plenty of girls, "all the world loves a lover." Jack. Yes; except the girl the lover loves. Nelle. There is one thing that I can never be- lieve. Jack. And that is— Nelle. That you will ever fall seriously in love with anyone. You are too jealous hearted. Jack. Do not forget the old adage: "There is no true love without jealousy. Nelle. Nonsense! Jealousy is but another name for the green-eyed monster of distrust. True love is not jealous? IN DAYS OF OLD. 37 Jack. So you think that only these English cap- tains love — and love truly? Nelle. Yes ; one woman at a time. Jack. Well, I am only a lieutenant now, maybe I will win promotion and learn a captain's way. Nelle, dari't you really and truly love meV Nelle. No; I love your uniform. Jack. 'Tis not the clothes that make the man. Nellp:. That is true enough, but many times it is the uniform that makes the soldier. Jack. Captain McLean deserved his promotion; such bravery merits reward. He attracts a great amount of attention. As a general rule, man attracts attention only at his birth, at his wedding and at his funeral. But since you have declared that only the English captains love truly; I am doubly glad for your sake. Nelle. Jack, a woman craves admiration; and just because the Captain seemed to enjoy my com- pany, you are angry with me. Jack. A woman may be for all men to admire, but she is for the happiness of only one. Nelle. And every man thinks himself the "only one. 11 (takes white rose, from her corsage, and hands it to Jack) In the language of flowers, Jack, the white rose is for "silent love 11 — a love to deep for words. A love, deep and true — a love, that waits patiently and believes — a love that trusts implicitly. Such a love every true woman gives — such a love every pure woman has a right to expect. Such a love I offer — such a love I demand. You are determined 38 IN DA YS OF OLD. to have it, that I am in love with Captain McLean. I am in love Jack. Oh! (sighs) Nelle. With some one else. Jack. See here, Nelle, I want to know — I have a right to know— who is it you are in love with? Some major or colonel, I suppose. Nelle. No, only a lieutenant. Jack. Only a lieutenant! My equal in rank; I'll call him out. Where is he? Where is he, 1 say? What's his name? Nelle. John Quincy Reynolds. Jack. Me! Then why did you flirt with all the others, and not even condescend a glance toward me? Nelle. I wished to see if you cared. Say, Jack, do you know what I would do, if you should try to kiss me? Jack No! Why? Nelle. Oh, nothing, only you don't seem to have any curiosity. Jack. (<f farewell or even a wish for his safe return. I feel sorry for you 54 IN DA YS OF OLD. Margaret — and I pity Harold. His burden must be heavy, for if ever a man worshiped a woman, Harold Peyton worshiped you. Margaret. Harold Peyton never loved me, or he would never have defied me as he did. I hate even his memory. Nelle. Hush, sister, not one word of reproach. He was your husband and fell in defense of his coun- try's flag. Let his name remain sacred, (.sees ring) Margaret, where did you get that ring? Margaret, (embarrassed) You have no right to question me. You forget yourself! Nelle. No, I do not forget myself. I have seen that ring too often upon another's hand. I have the right to demand why my sister is wearing Major Wolfe's ring, without the consent or knowledge of her husband! Margaret. My husband! I have no husband. In a moment of folly I linked myself to one whom I thought I loved. Later on, he basely deserted me, and by his own action, has released me from every obligation. Xklle. He is still your husband, Margaret, and I am sure loves you as sincerely now as upon your marriage morn. Wedding vows are sacred, and no one has the right to violate them with impunity. Death aloue is the only divorce. Margaret. Then I am free. Two years ago, Harold Peyton was found dead upon the battlefield. My divorce is absolute. IN DA YS OF OLD. 55 Nelle. The report of your husband's death was merely a rumor — but, whether living or dead, let the memory of his love and kindness keep you from all harm. Oh! why do you wear Sidney Wolfe's ring? Margaret. Simply because I choose to do so. Nelle. Sister, were the vows you made to me, only one week ago, all false: when you swore that you never loved this man".' Margaret. I know not what I said. My brain was afire, and in the excitement of the hour, thought only of his safety. Nelle. Margaret, you swore to me that you did not love Sidney Wolfe; that in the brief delirium of the passing moment, you had forgotten all else, save his protestations of love. Margaret. Then I lied. Hear me now, sister, declare once for all; that I do love Sidney Wolfe pas- sionately — with all the love which I am capable of bestowing. He is my heart's idol! my king of kings! Nelle. Oh, sister, have you fallen so low? Have you so little respect for your own womanhood, so lit- tle regard for your family, so little love for your husband? Margaret. Every woman has the right to obey her heart's commands: her life is her own, whether it be for weal or woe. Nelle. This can continue no longer. I shall tell brother Dick at once. Margaret. No, no, you must not! He will pro- voke a duel and pay his life as the penalty. Sidney is too far his superior in the art of war. 56 IN DA YS OF OLD. Nelle. Then with his own blood he will wash out this stain upon the Prescott name. Better he die in defense of our family's honor, than live at the price of a sister's shame! Exit D. f. Margaret. Under his influence, the brief delir- ium of the past fades into oblivion, for I now know I never loved before. If I go with him, the sin is not his, but mine — mine alone. The temptation well-nigh overpowers me. On one hand, I see a life of love, peace and happiness — a life with him whom I love; on the other hand, a bitter explanation, and then— the inevitable parting*. Before me lie two paths: one leading- to an existence amid the g - ayeties of London society; the other to the unbearable misery which now surrounds me. O, Heaven, forgive me, 1 — I cannot lose him. Send me poverty, disgrace, the hard world's scorn, but leave me my love — oh! leave me my love! Enter Harold, window in flat. Harold, (arms outstretched) Margaret! Margaret. Ah! (shrinks from him) You her e! Harold. Yes, 'tis I, Harold, your husband! (he starts towards her— she steps back) Don't be frightened. Margaret. They told me that you were killed at Saratoga. I thought you dead. Harold. And you seem disappointed because the report proved false. Margaret. No, no! but why did you come here, tonight. Harold. Because 1 loved you so dearly, that I could no long-er stav away. IN DAYS OF OLD. 57 Margaret. Do you not know that your life is in danger; that you are in the very heart of the British forces? Harold. Yes. If caught, they would hang me as a spy. For the first time since we parted, nearly five years ago. have J Ween near enough to come to you. Knowing full well that my presence here was most unwelcome to you. but hoping against hope that your heart had softened toward your husband, I came. My great love for you mastered me and in spite of the peril I passed through the British lines, asking only for a glance of your sweet face, and a word from your lips, e'en though it be buta whisper. My advances you have flung aside; but I can again do my duty, happy in the memory of this stolen visit to you. {goes to her — she steps back) Why do you shrink from me. are you angry because I am here? Margaret. 'Tis live years, you say. since you left — you are almost a stranger. Harold. Yes. 'tis five years! To me they have seemed ages, filled as they have been with privation in the cam])- hunger on the march — peril in the field: yet in my heart was graven the image of the wife I had left at home, and day or night, sleeping or wak- ing, the thought of you was uppermost in my mem- ory. The day I fell wounded — I went down with your name on my lips, and a prayer for your safety. Only an hour ago. when I dashed through the British lines amid a fusilade of leaden hail, I murmured your name and fancied it was the talisiiian that kept me from harm. Oh, my darling, do you mean what you 58 IN DA YS OF OLD. say? Am I a stranger in my own house? If you had ever loved me. all the old affections would rush back- like the pent-up torrents of years, and a moment's presence would bridge the gulf between us, no mat- ter how deep or how wide it had become. But still you say that I am a stranger — and greet me with a haughty coldness. What does my visit interfere with: Were you expecting company: or hearing of my death, have you so soon found another suitor to' iill my place in your heart. In mercy's name, Mar- garet, tell me 'tis not true! Tell me that my fears are groundless; that you are still my own darling Margaret. Tell me that the camp gossips lie! Margaret. And what do they say? Harold. They say that Major Sidney Wolfe has his headquarters beneath this roof, and that Mar- garet Peyton has so far forgotten her sense of honor as a wife, as to openly receive his attentions in spite of the fact that they are the talk of all New York! Tell me they lie, Margaret, for I can't believe you faithless. Tell me. as you have in the days of old. "I love you, Harold, I am yours, now and forever." Margaret reels and nearly falls — supports herself iritli hand on table. Harold starts toward her. Harold. You are faint! Margaret. No, no, don't touch me! Harold, (sees ring — staggers back) Margaret, where did you get that ring? Margaret. Ah4 (hiding ring) No matter. 'Tis onlv the grift of a friend. IN DAYS OF OLD. 59 Harold. A friend, eh! Then the camp gossips speak the truth, and he makes you presents. And only yesterday. Heaven forgive me, I nearly stran- gled one of my best friends, because he came and in- formed me what the scandalmongers were saying. [(/rasps her hand) Let me look at it! Margaret. No, no, you must not! you must not! Harold. My God! it is true! it is true! I did not think you capable of that. You — a Prescott; and— my wife: accept a ring from your husband's worst foe. They speak truly, when they say you love this man. He is your lover! You, his paramour! Margaret. Harold Peyton, you lie! Harold. No. I speak the truth. You dare not deny it — you that stand there with eyes that drop before mine for shame — nay. eyes that you raise with defiance. Brazen — brazen — oh! my God, my God. tell me that I am mistaken, that you are still true to your wedding vows, i /must i You are silent. Tell me that you are still my own dear Margaret. Margaret. No, no, let me alone! Harold. 'Tis now plain why I am so unwelcome. He is to be here, tonight. Well, the Wolfe may come, but he'll find the faithful watch-dog on guard at the wife's door. Although I can weep at my wife's per- fidy. I shall no longer endure this shame. 'Tis well I came tonight. Margaret. You will watch in vain. He is more likely to be found where you came from than here. Harold. I came from Morristown; what does he there? (pause) Speak! what do you mean".' 60 IN DAYS OF OLD. Margaret. Nothing! I spoke without thinking-. Harold. Then you spoke the truth. So, Major Wolfe, a British officer, may be found in our camp, tonight. Your lover, a spy in your husband's camp, as well as a traitor in your husband's house. Margaret. No, no! Harold. Perhaps another secret expedition and midnight attack. I must warn the cam]). Margaret. It is too late now. Harold. Our army is always on the alert for such surprises, and needs no warning from me. We have had many of them, and if there is such an ex- pedition on foot tonight; so much the worse for those engaged in it. Margaret. Major Wolfe's men are well on their way to Morristown; even if you do pass safely through the British lines, you will only meet them returning with your commander-in-chief. Harold. Another attempt to seize Washington? What folly! Margaret. Folly! Not when aided by traitors in your own camp! Harold. What! traitors in our camp'? Pshaw! what should you, a woman, know of such affairs. Oh! Margaret, could I only awaken the old love! 'Tis a pity that I must leave you when matters are so wrong between us: when I would give ten years of my life for an hour in which to win back your love. But I forget — treason in our camp, you say. There is dan- ger then — there is always a possibility. Wont you take my hand? (pause) O, Margaret, let me clasp IN DAYS OF OLD. 61 you in my arms once more. Think how I have loved you and for the sake of olden times, bestow upon me one kiss — then 1 must go! Margaret. Go! Where? Harold Back to camp, to warn the troops of this expedition. Margaret. 'T is hours since they left. Even if you should overtake them, do you think they would permit you to pass? Harold. Perhaps I might beat Major Wolfe in this as he has beaten me — elsewhere. Perchance I know the Jersey roads, better than I have known my wife's heart. I'll put the army on the alert, treason or no treason. Margaret, (clings to him) You shall not go! Harold, {struggling) Release me! Margaret. A moment ago, you asked for time to win back my love. Take the time now; you may not find the task as hard as you may think. I have never ceased to love you from the depths of my heart. Harold. Would to Heaven that I could believe you; but 'tis only a plea to keep me here — to keep me from my duty. 1 dare not; will not stay! I must go! Margaret. No, no! I love you, my husband! Harold. If you love me, you will not detain me! Margaret. If you love me, you will remain! Harold. Not one moment. Time is precious now. Do not tempt me. I will soon return. 62 /A 7 DA YS OF OLD. Margaret. If you go now, you shall never see me again. You are breaking my arm. Harold. And you are breaking my heart. Let me go! Margaret. You will have to kill me first! You shall not spoil my scheme. Harold. Yours! Margaret. Yes, mine! Mine against your com- mander; against your cause — your cause that I hate, because it has ruined my hopes forever. Harold. Margaret! Margaret. Were you fool enough to think that because I was wedded to you. it would keep me from fighting your cursed cause. I became your wife, not because I loved you: but that I might go to London. Failing in that — I was yours no longer. I hate you! Harold. God pity me. A moment ago you pro- fessed to love me. ■ Margaret. Aye, to save him! Harold. You confess your guilty lover Why does not a just God strike you down? MARGARET. Love him! yes. with all my heart and soul, and you shall not spoil his work and mine — you must kill me first! By heavens. I'll call the patrol! Harold. Would you deliver me to the enemy? Margaret. For his sake, yes! (hi catches her— they struggle) Help! Help! Harold, [forcing her to her knees) Silence! you fiend, or I'll kill you. Marga*RET. Strike me, if you dare! Harold, (overcome) I cannot, I cannot. IN DAYS OF OLD. 63 Margaret, (at window) Surround this house! A rebel spy is here. (Harold starts toward her) Statu! hack! They struggle. Harold, [flinging her aside) Gcd pity you! Exit Harold through window. Voice, (outside) Halt! (shot outside) Margaret at window— screams— falls. END of act third. ACT FOUR. Scene: Parlor in the Prescott home. Matthias enters l. U. e.. rise of curtain — goes to fireplace— replenishes Ihe fire — clean* off the heart!). , Matthias. Strange things happened around this house, last night, and I fear it bodes no good to any- one beneath this roof. About nine o'clock, I was sit- ting in my accustomed place in the hallway, waiting for Mr. Prescott to come from the office, when all at once I was startled to hear the sound of voices, com- ing as it were, from Margaret's room. It was her voice I am sure, and I would swear that the other was her husband's. I know that no one had entered the house since twilight. First, I could hear her voice in angry expostulation: then his. first entreat- ing, then threatening. 1 could not hear what was said. All at once the entire house was jarred as if some one had fallen heavily— then a shot was tired — a cry of anguish rang out from the room above: then all was silent as the grave. I hastened to the door and peered out into the darkness — not a sound could I hear. Then J went up to her room but all was shrouded in darkness. I questioned her this morn- 66 IN DA YS OF OLD. ing, but she only laughed at me and said that I had only had a naughty dream. I would stake my life on it that I was wide awake, and that it is an omen of impending evil, (looks off L.) Here comes the devil now. Enter Sidney, l. u. e. Sidney. Matthias, is Mr. Prescott at home? Matthias. He is, sir. Sidney. Kindly tell him that I am the bearer of sad news and wish to speak to him at once. Matthias, {aside) I knew it, I knew it. (aloud) I will inform him that you are waiting. Be seated, sir. Exit R. 2. E. Sidney. Thank heaven! everything has worked like a charm. Riding in full retreat, I had an excel- lent opportunity to repay Master Dick's insolence with a dose of lead. No one suspects that I myself tired the fatal shot. Of course, he was wounded as we entered the ambuscade. He knew entirely too much for my comfort — poor fellow! Enter Stephen, r. 2. e. Stephen. Matthias tells me that you nave sad tidings for me. Be pleased to make this interview brief. Sidney As brief as friendship. Your son, as you know, was a member of my staff. Last night, he accompanied a select number of my command on a secret expedition, and while on our way we fell in- to a rebel ambuscade. So sudden was the attack, IN DAYS OF OLD. 67 that it forced a hasty retreat. Among others, your 1 son fell wounded, I fear fatally; at least, our surgeon has but slight hopes of his recovery. He is now in our hospital, where I have made every arrangement for his comfort. Stephen, {offering his hand) I thank you. I will hasten to his side and see what can he done. Oh, Richard, my poor boy, must I lose you, too. {Exit R. Sidney. Well, old man, I am afraid you will be a little too late. Ha! ha! ha! The old man's burden is indeed a heavy one. A patriot sympathizer at heart, whose family are loyalists — except his eldest son, who is a disgrace to the mother that bore him. And now, his favorite son lies dead. It nearly broke his father's heart when he enlisted under the banner of King George. Ah, well, such is life. But, now to see Margaret. It is imperative that I leave for Lon- don at once and if possible I shall go tonight. But not without her. Enter Margaret, doirn stairway. Sidney. Ah, Margaret! I have returned, {takes fur hands. ) Margaret. And I need not ask you; you have failed. Sidney. Yes, we had not yet arrived at the ap- pointed rendezvous, when from both sides of the road, a heavy fire was poured into our little band of troopers, and we were compelled to fly for our lives. Margaret. I am sure you did the very best you could. 68 IN DA YS OF OLD. Sidney. They must have been warned of our coming and were lying in wait for us. They nearly surrounded us. Ninp of our men were killed out right and three more seriously wounded, one of them your brother. Margaret. Poor Dick! where is he? Sidney. At the hospital, where. every care is be- ing bestowed on him. Your father is bvthis time at his side. A little later in the day, I will take you to him. Margaret. You are very kind to me, Sidney. Sidney. It is probably the last favor that I may grant. I leave by tonight's ship for London. Margaret. Tonight! So soon. Why not wait until we hear from Ned, and try once more. The next time we must succeed. Sidney. To remain is out of the question. I have received a six months leave of absence and must go to England at once. Margaret, last night I failed to accomplish that which would have gained for us both g-reat honors; but my love is as deep and as loyal as before. You have pledged me your love — come with me, tonight, and leave this cursed country for one where you can command the respect you deserve. You shall be my cpueen : I your abject slave, and to- gether amid the frivolty of gay old London; we shall forget all the hated past. You will go, Margaret? Margaret. Oh! I cannot. I cannot. Sidney. Then you prefer a life of misery among these familiar scenes, every one of which brings to your mind the saddest recollections of the past; to a IN DAYS OF OLD. 69 life unalloyed content in a land where you will know naught save happiness. Margaret. No, no, it is not that. Here I am unhappy it is true, but I am free from want. Should I go with you, you might soon tire of me, as a child of a new plaything, and then cast me adrift in a strange land, to be dashed to and fro by the cruel billows of adversity and at last be hurled upon the rocks of destruction. Sidney. Margaret, come here! My love, so long as life shall last. I shall know nothing but the deep- est devotion for you. Time alone can prove the sin- cerity of my love. Can't you trust me, my darling? Margaret. Oh, Sidney, I do, I do! (throwing her (inns (/round hint) If I cannot trust you, whom in all this world can I trusty Sidney. As true as there is a heaven above us, you can trust me, and that trust I will never betray. Do you remember your promise — the night I gave you the ring? Margaret. Yes. I love you, Sidney, I am yours now and forever. Sidney And if the man you loved — If I — should come to be mean and unworthy before the world— M a RGAR ET. But you are not. Sidney. If I were? Margaret. My king! Sidney. If you saw me sneered at, even hunted as a criminal: but still loving, worshiping - Margaret. T would love you still — with tb.3 love that is the all — that is greater than the world. Love 70 IN DAYS OF OLD. that is above honors, above name— that outlasts them all. When I loved you, your fate became mine. Sid- ney, you will always love me. wont you? Sidney. Yes. Margaret, 1 will. I must go to headquarters and procure my passports. My dar- ling, make what preparations are necessary and we will go together, You will be ready when I return? Margaret. Yes! Sidney. Until then, Au Revoir. Exit L. u. e. Margaret. The die is cast. Right or wrong, I have chosen and it is too late to turn back. Only a few short hours and I will forever place myself be- yond the hope of returning. Come what may, my life could not be more miserable than it has been. Henceforth my duty shall be to forget all else save the love I owe my British Major. I will prepare for his return. < '/'osses to stairway. /utter Ned, r. 2. e., his head bandaged. Margaret, (startled) Ned! you here? Ned Yes, I am here! Look at me. No doubt, you are delighted to see your dear brother? Margaret. Of course 1 am always glad to see you, Ned. Ned. You are a fine specimen of the loving sister, you are! But I'll have my revenge. I came here on purpose to expose, your true character, you brazen hussy! You didn't think I'd live to tell the tale, did you? Margaret. Are vou speaking- to me, sir? IN DAYS OF OLD. 71 Ned. Yes, I'm speaking- to you. You thought if your husband would have me hanged, he would win promotion for himself. Margaret. That's a lie! Ned. A lie, is it? Dare you deny that your hus- band came to visit you last night and that you ex- posed your hellish plot to him? Do you think you can make your British sweetheart, Sidney Wolfe, be- lieve it is a lie, when he learns that you sent him on this secret mission, that you might betray him to your husband and that 'twas through your perfidy, that your own brother was fatally wounded. Margaret. I don't deny that Harold was here. Taking me by surprise, he found cause to suspect our plot, but it was through no fault of mine. That's tlif truth, and we shall see whether Major Wolfe be- lieves yo.i or me. Ned. You may be able to convince Sidney Wolfe, that you acted in good faith toward him, but 1 doubt if you can lead father to believe you innocent — I am going to tell him all. Margaret. You will not dare! Ned. Dare! Wont I! Margaret. No! Do you forget what you are: a fugitive from justice, even now on parole during good behavior: think you, that when he learns that you were ready and willing— for a few paltry dollars, to deliver to the enemy the safety of the camp, in which his whole being is centred: that he will hesitate to turn you over for the punishment such traitors de- serve. 72 IN DAYS OF OLD. Ned. And do you think that when he learns of the perfidy of his favorite daughter — learns that she is the mistress of a British officer — that he will hesi- tate to drive her from beneath his roof in disgrace. You have masqueraded long enough under the cloak of your husband's untarnished name — Harold Pres- cott is a Continental soldier and a gentleman, and I am going to tear oft" the mask of deceit and show you in your true light. Margaret, (crosses to him) Dare to utter one word against me to my father and I'll fasten my fin- gers around your traitorous throat and still its cruel work forever. Enter Stephen, l. u. e. Stpehen. (comes down) Daughter! What would you do? Margaret. Silence the lying accusations of this wretch, who seeks to destroy a sister's honor. Stephen. i.^xNedi So it is you, sir! Why are you not in camp? Ned. Because I am here to tear off the mask of deceit and dishonor worn by that woman, and expose the baseness of her true character. STEPHEN. What do you mean, sir! Ned. 'That since this war began, her conduct has been a living lie While posing as a patriot's daugh- ter — and under the protection of your roof — she has been in league with the British army for the betrayal of vour cause. IN DAYS OF OLD. 73 Stephen. Impossible, sir; my own flesh and blood could not be so devoid of honor as to plot against the cause I hold as sacred. NED. It is true, nevertheless; and the plot was hatched beneath this roof. If )-ou do not believe me, ask her wnat she knows of last night's cursed work. Stephen. Margaret, what do you know of this British plot? (pause) Answer me! Margaret. J dare not — it is not my secret alone. STEPHEN. If there is a secret beneath my roof I have a rigut to know it and I command you to speak. Margaret. You command! Stephen. Aye, command! MARGARET. And I refuse. You forget, sir, I am no longer subject to a father's commands, [starts for stair way) Stephen. Y'ou shail not i^ave this room, (detains her) When Harold left this house, four years ago, to battle for his country's liberty, he placed you in my keeping, until he should return. 'Tis time that I assume that guardianship over you. when I find that you have brought dishonor and disgrace upon his name by plotting against the cause he loves. Margaret Allegiance to my king is my right. STEPHEN. If allegiance to the king means treason to your husband, you have no right beneath Harold Peyton's roof. By heavens. I will know the truth. Margaret. Never from me. Stephen, (to Ned) What have you to say, sir? 74 IN DA YS OF OLD. Ned. Only this; that she and Major Sidney Wolfe entered into a conspiracy to kidnap Washington, and that the attempt was made last night. Margaret. Tell him also, that you were the traitor who, Judas-like, was to betray the safety of the camp. Stephen. Can this be truer' Leave lhis house at once, you treacherous scoundrel! Ned. Call me hard names if you will. You have never been the father to me that you should have been. If you had tempered your justice with irercv and gave me a kind word now and then, 1 might have had a different career. I erred, it is true: but you drove me from home, and what am I; a depised fugi- tive, with the prison walls staring me in the face. You made me what I am. Are you not proud of it? {pushes back hat, showing wound on temple) Do you see that? That's a present from my dearly beloved brother-in-law, Harold Peyton. Y T ou see, he came here last night to visit his devoted wife and from her learned all. He outrode the British, found me wait- ing at the rendezvous, presented me with this saber- cut, and gave the alarm. 1 leave it to \ou, sir, if your daughter there, after playing the traitor to her husband, for the sake of her lover Enter ELIZABETH, It. 2. E. Stephen. For the sake of her lover? What do you mean by that? Ned. Don't you understand English, sir? Margaret. It's a lie; a cruel malicious lie. Sid- nev Wolfe is a gentleman, you insolent wretch! IX DAYS OF OLD. 75 Ned. Any knave is a gentleman to his mistress. Elizabeth. Stephen, this is an outrage. Will you permit such insulting remarks made about your daughter? Margaret. Father, you surely will not heed the malicious lies of such a cur. He even accuses me of betraying the expedition to my husband. Ned. Harold was here last night, for he told me so. and that she exposed the entire plot to him; but that proves nothing. Women do strange things. A streak of repentance, maybe, or a lover's quarrel. {to Margaret) You would not have entered into a scheme like that with a man like him. unless you had a pretty close understanding of another kind. Oh, I know your whole damn sex. Elizabeth. Stephen, this is scandalous. Stephen crosses to l. u. e. — open* door — xteps back. Stephen, (to Ned) There is the door. Go! and never again dare you to darken it with your evil self. Ned crosses slowly to door \pauses, then exits. Stephen clases the- door and come* down stage, slowly. Stephen, {grasping Margaret) Tell me the truth. Are you guilty of this shame? Oh! God. that a child of mine should so far forget her honor as to commit such treason. Speak! I say, or I'll choke the life out of you. Margaret, {kneeling) Mercy, mercy! Stephen. What mercy do you deserve! You in- human wretch, a traitor to your husband and the laud of your birth — the mistress of a British officer! 76 IN DAYS OF OLD. Margaret. No. no, father, not that, not that! Stephen. Aye, all of that! Enter Matthias l. u. e., with message, which he ha mis Stephen, and then exits. Stephen reads message —crumples it in his hand — staggers. Margaret, [goes to him) Father, you are ill! STEPHEN, [recovering) Don't touch me. Not eon- tent with bringing this disgrace upon your family, you sacrifice your brother upon the altar of your base desires — you murderess! Margaret. No. no! Elizabeth. Murderess! Father, are you mad? Stephen. No! Our dearly loved Dick, who in his devotion to his mother, enlisted under the banner of her choice, was by that fiend sent upon last night's cursed expedition, and now lies cold in death. Elizabeth. My boy! not dead! not dead! STEPHEN. Aye, dead, and the cause lays at our daughter's door. Margaret. Don't, father, don't! Stephen. Don't call me thy father— for you are no daughter of mine! I have no daughter now. You are a thing I will not name — a fiend, with the brand of Cain upon your brow. Out of my house — I dis- own you. Go! I say. Go! Margaret, [kneeling) Mercy! mercy! Stephein. You can expect no mercy from me. Seek your British lover, you hussy, and tell him to care for vou. Out of my house, I sav! IN DA YS OF 01.1). 77 Eliza BETH. Stephen, do not send her away. Re- member, she is your favorite. Poor child, what will become of her. For my sake, father, let her remain. Harold would n't east her aside, guilty though she may he. Margaret. Oh! mother, mother! Stpehen. She must go, madam, and you shall not interfere. 'Tis for me to command. Stand aside, she is no child of ours. Elizabeth. No matter how guilty she may be, Stephen, she is still my child! (chimes ring) Father, do you forget the day, Christmas day. Even now the chimes are pealing forth '"Peace on earth. Good- will to all men. ,- Today is not the time for sorrow <>:• curses: but for happiness and peace. Stephen. There is the door; go! Never again let me behold thy face. Margaret, [pleading) Father! Stephen. Go! [Exit Margaret, l. it. e.) My deepest curses follow thee, wherever thou goest. Out of my sight forevermore. (closes door) Oh, God! my burden is greater than I can bear. My eldest son, n criminal— my youngest, dead; and my favorite daughter, dishonored. Reels and falls. END OF FOURTH ACT. ACT FIVE. Scene: Fashionable Lodgings in London. As cur- tain rises Margaret is discovered seated on divan R. She shows evidence of suffering. Margaret. Another dreary day has passed; every hour of which has seemed an age. Miserable as I thought myself in the days gone by, I now re- alize that they were only made so by my own wild desires for a life of pomp and show. Child that I was, I thought the dross of society was a metal of purest alloy. But I have learned the bitter truth, "all that glitters is not gold." The bread of repen- tance, we sometimes are forced to eat in maturer years, is made from the wild oats sown in earlier life. Enter Nelle. l. 2. e. Nelle. Margaret, it is nearly time for the ball, and you are not ready. Margaret. I have changed my mind; I am not going. Nelle. Not going! Why not? Margaket. Because I could not endure such a scene of gavety. I am a miserable wretched woman. 80 IN DA YS OF OLD. Nelle. Wretched! You have no right to be. You should be supremely happy in the conquests you have made during the past six months. Margaket. Perhaps I should be; but I am not. Driven by despair, I plunged recklessly into the Jif'e of a social butterfly ; "but in the very moments of my triumph, the past like a grim spectre confronts me, and I am no longer able to hide my misery. Lady- hood is only a veneer. Under it are all the passions of womanhood: the love that can be betrayed, the hate that can plan and the fury that can execute re- venge. Nelle. Poor sister. Cheer up and all will end right yet — get ready and accompany us to the Em- bassy ball to-night. Margaret All my life, like a bird, I have been beating my wings against the bars of a gilded cage. I have sinned enough. I will sin no more. Nelle. Sinned, Margaret! Margaret. Yes, my life is a daily lie; striving to prove to the world that I am a happy, joyous woman, when I am suffering the keenest misery for my perfidy to my husband. 1 am not going to live so, longer. What is a woman without the man she loves? I am going to seek Harold, and when I find him, I will cast myself at his feet and implore his forgiveness. Nelle. You love him, Margaret, as in days of old. Margaret. I w T as in love; I have not forgotten. jOne tires of an empty life; of a vain stretching forth IN DA YS OF OLD. 81 of hands. Tomorrow I shall make arrangements to leave London forever, and I pray that in dear old America, we may meet again, never more to part. Nelle. Perhaps he will not grant the forgive- ness you crave. Margaret. Whether he will or not, it is my dut y to go to him and ask pardon for the past. Is it not written "those whom He hath joined together, let no man divide." I acknowledge the infinity of a Wisdom beyond the power of poor humanity to dem- and with the aid of a Providence, that never deserts you in your hour of need. I will seek for my husband -praying trustfully for the pardon accorded when truly sought (looking upward) and for a home here- after. Nelle. You are a noble woman, Margaret, and dt serve much happiness in return for the misery you have endured in the past. A man's friendship may reach far into one's nature: but. it has been willed, greater is the love between man and woman, and the greatest of all is the love of a good woman for a, man. Margaret. Hut I am not a good woman — in my weakness I have sinned, but I have repented that sin. I have read somewhere that "adversity is the emery wheel of the soul. '"and surely all traces of my sin have been effaced by my sufferings. Nelle. There are brighter days in store for you so cheer up. Forget your sorrows for the present, and go to the ball with Jack and I. Enter John, r. 2. k. 82 IN PAYS OF OLD. John, (announcing) Mr. John Q. Reynolds. Nelle. Bid him enter. Exit John, r. 2. e. Margaret. I will go to my room: I am in no mood to see visitors; not even dear old Jack. Enter Jack, r. 2. u., as Margaret is leaving, l. Jack. Ah, Mrs. Peyton, don't let me drive you away. Margaret. You are not driving me away. I would be delighted to remain, but I am ill tonight, and am better alone. Exit L. 2. E. Nelle. Jack, dear; do you know what ails Mar- garet'? Jack. No. Mow should I know? Nelle. You don't know anything. Jack. Do you? Nelle. I know this much. Margaret is slowly grieving her life away. The news of her father's 1 ragic death, was a terrible shock to her. And, at last, she realizes how good and true Harold was: and her love for him has mastered all else. Her only de- sire is to find him and beg his forgiveness. She vvill leave for America tomorrow. Jack. Tomorrow! Let us go with her. I am tired of this English, society anyway. Let's go home, get married, settle down and raise— Nelle. Ah, ah! Jack. Lots of pretty flowers, and so forth. Nelle. Oh, I don't want to get married. Jack. Why not: Nelle. It's nothing" but a life of misery. IN DA YS OF OLD. 83 Jack. Don't you think that marriage ever brings happiness? Nelle. To a man. perhaps; to a woman, never. JACK. Every woman lias but one faithful attach- ment in life —love. Nelle. True. Jack. Yes. love— with herself. NELLE. That's unkind. You always said you loved me dearly— truly. Jack. I do. In spite of our long separation, I love you more and more, each day. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Nelle. Yes — of some one else! When did you first Jove me! Jack, (.solemnlt/) If — if I tell you. you will never tell anyone"? Nelle. Never — never. Jack. Then — I — don't know. Nelle. You don't know? Jack. No. I really don't. Love at first sight is a curious thing: one that a person can't describe, you know. The fact is, a pretty girl with dreamy blue eyes can teach a man anything else in the world, but common sense. NELLE. I don't believe in love at first sight — I believe in taking the second look. Say. Jack, do you believe that marriages are made in Heaven? Jack. Not by men who experimented on earth. Nelle. If you think so; why are you so anxious to marry. Tne ancient Greeks claimed that love and (jeath were sisters, and that, he or she who loves 84 IN DA YS OF OLD. deeply, may in one short life-time suffer the agonies of death many times. And my own sister's misery has proven their theory true. Jack. Margaret's life has indeed been a sorrow- ful one. Still there are many happy marriages. It is the command of Holy Writ that man shall not live alone. Nelle. • How should I look if I married you? Jack. Charming, I am sure. Nelle. Well, 111 give you my promise. The day Harold and Margaret are reconciled, shall be our wedding day. Now ain't you happy? Jack, (dejected) Oh, yes: but I was wondering if that will ever be. My dear Nelle. Don't call me "my dear" — call me sweet- heart. A husband always calls his wife "my dear," when there is company present, (sighs) J uk. What's the matter? Nelle. I was just thinking of the great chances a girl takes on her first proposal of marriage. Jack. Do you mean if she accepts or declines it? Nelle. Either way. Jack. Oh! (pause) Say, I was awful afraid to ask you for the first kiss. Nelle. Afraid of what Jack. Afraid you would let me have it without protest. But, Nelle. in spite of all. you are a dear, dear girl. NELLE. Well, I hope you do think so. Jack dear, it would be hard to know that you didn't, when w<- have grown up together. IN DAYS OF OLD. 85 Enter John, r. 2. e. John. The carriage is at the door. Exit R. 2. e. Nelle. Let us go at once. I do so dread < eing among the late arrivals, {crosses to door, L. 2. E.) Margaret! We are going, dear. Margaret, {entering) I hope both of you will have a pleasant evening. Take care of her, Jack, and don't let her catch cold, (kisses Nelle) Good night, sister: good night. Jack. Jack and Nelle. Good night! Exeunt R. 2. e. Margaret. Flow I wish they had remained at home, tonight, {crosses and lochs door, R. 2. e.) My nerves and brain feel strangely overwrought. A few moments ago I fancied I saw a face looking in at my window — the face of the fiend who lured me from my home and husband — the face of the man for whose sake 1 became the miserable w,;etch that I am — the cruel smiling face of Sidney Wolfe. I thought that I had forever rid myself of his presence — but he is my Nemesis. As soon as I had sufficiently recovered from the shock, I rushed to the window and flung it open — no one was there. 1 feel a foreboding of im- pending evil. This room is stifling. I must have air. Margaret crosses to l. 2. e., and throws back the cur- tain*. As she does so. she utters a scream and staggers back. Enter Sidney, hurriedly. Margaret. Ah! you here. Sidney. At last. Margaret, at last! For weeks I have been searching for you; peering into every face on the streets — craving to see your beautiful image. 86 IX DAYS OF OLD. Margaret. Why are you here? What do you ex- pect from me"? Sidney. What should I expect from one who has turned the heads of all fashionable London — the gay butterfly that has fiittea hither and thither among her many admirers, leaving nothing but heartaches in her path: yet in whose presence all other queens of society fade into oblivion: and the king himself is humbled. Still I, like a foolish moth, cannot help circling around the flame which inevitably means my destruction. Margaret, (aside) He loves me still! Sidney. I am here, Margaret, to keep my promise and claim my reward. Margaret. Keep your promise? What is your word worth, Sidney Wolfe? You were once, to me, an idol on a pinnacle; you are now a broken image in the dust. You have no claim upon me. Sidney. But, Margaret. I cannot spare you I love you. Margaret. Love me — you love me? You love yourself, you mean; your ease, your comfort, your pleasures! Love me! Recall the falsehood, Sidney Wolfe, 'tis deeds we women want, not words! Sidney. Do you not believe me? Margaret. No, not one word. Since the night that my father cast me out of his house, I have learned many bitter truths. Among them, that mei) will lie! You taught me that lesson. Sidney. What! I? /.Y DAYS OF OLD. 87 Margaret. Yes. lying is one of your clever fac- ulties. When you left me alone in that pitiable tene- ment, saying that your father was dying and that you must hasten to his side: hut that you would soon re- turn - you lied! A moment ago. you stood there and professed to love me -you lied. Tis not through love that you seek me: but for the protecting cloak of my success in which you wish to shroud the evil of your past. You have stripped the mask from your face, and at last. 1 know you as a wolf preying upon society. SIDNEY. Long before T went to America, I fell in the toils of a wicked woman, whom in my blind in- fatuation I married. When I left, promising to re- turn to make you my wife. ] believed that woman dead. When I arrived in Bristol— I found the father, whom i loved, dead: the wife, whom 1 loathed, living. 1 dared not return to tell the truth. But she is dead now. as Heaven is my witness. MAUGARET. Don't add lie to lie. or oath to oath! A woman either loves or hates, and how could I care for the vidian, who broke his faith. I once blindly believed every word yon uttered: I now as thorough- ly doubt. SIDNEY. And yet you love me! Margaret. No! (takes his ring fro in her finger) Here is the ring that you swore had never been dis honored : and with which you pledged undying love and affection, (throws ring at his feet) There it is: pick it- up and treasure it as a symbol of my undying hate. What I once thought was love for you, was 88 IN DA YS OF OLD. but a flimsy sentiment, as unlike love as a glow-worm is unlike the sun. I have no love for you. All my heart and soul is centered in but one, my wronged and suffering husband. My life is his alone, for without him all else is dead. That is the love a woman gives. Fire or flood could not keep me from his side, if he called. Sidney. And do you think he will ever bestow even one thought upon the woman who plotted to to wreck his life and who was the self-confessed par- amour of his enemy. MARGARET. You lie, Sidney Wolfe! Beware! I can hate as deeply as J have loved. I despise a liar: I detest an oath-breaker. \n the sight of (lrCi\, you are both! SIDNEY. Your protests are useless: you must and shall be mine! starts for her. Margaret. Stand back! Touch me not, 1 com- mand you. Attempt to detain me, and the hand that has caressed you. may strike! Sidney. You would not strike me, Margaret: re- member, you and 1 have an interest in common. MARGARET. The child is dead. We have nothing in common now — not even humanity. Love is hate now. Let me pass. Sidney. No! you shall not cross the threshold of this room, until you fulfill your promise. I am not playing this game of hearts for nothing. T loved you in New York, and would have fought for you there: I love you still, and will tight tor you now. The cause of King George was buried beneath the ruins L.ofC. IN DAYS OF OLD. 89 of defeat: but I will triumph. I am not going to be outwitted now. I am going to make you my wife. I swear this, in your presence, woman, by the throne of Heaven! Margaret. You have sworn to do this'.- Sidney. I have! Margaret. At the feet of fate, one of these days \<>u will be compelled to east a broken oath! Sidney. Never! You shall be my wife? Margaret. Your wife — your wife! Sooner than stand at the altar with you. I would kill myself. I tell you proudly, that I will yet kneel at my hus- band's feet and implore his pardon for the past. Sidney. And 1 say that you never shall. You fancy there is a barrier that I cannot break — you are mistaken; I will shatter it to the winds, and living or dead, you shall be mine. Start* toward her. Margaret. Approach another step and T will cry for help. Sidney. You dare not! Margaret. Dare not! SIDNEY. No, you might alarm the household, 'tis true: but how will you explain my presence here. Margaret, (kneeling) Oh! in mercy's name, have pity on me, and leave this room at once. Grievously I have erred in the past, but now T beo- of you to go! If you ever cared for me, I pray you. go! Sidney, (lifting her up) Care for you: I always have, and shall until eternity! Enter Harold, l. 2. e. 90 IN DAYS OF OLD. Harold. Pardon my intrusion. Margaret. Great Heavens! Harold. Margaret, do I disturb an assignation V Sidney. Who is this man, Margaret, and by what right does he so address you"? Harold. It is for me to demand an answer to that question. Margaret. For mercy's sake, Sidney — speak— Harold. Margaret, is this man your lover? Sidney. And if I am her lover and dare avow it— who, sir. are you'? Harold, (c.) Her husband! Sidney. Harold Peyton! Harold. 1 am Captain Harold Peyton and you are Major Sidney Wolfe. We have been enemies in time of war; we are now enemies in time of peace. My flag is not your flag, but under your banner and be- neath this roof, we are going to settle our hates for- ever, (leads Margaret off l. 2.) Draw and defend yourself. Major. I am here to tight! Sidney. Let us at it then, and may fortune crown her favorite, {they fight — Harold is disarmed) Vic- tory! Victory! Ned watches duel from outside window -when Harold is disarmed he (joes to door, R. 2. e., and finds it locked,. At Sidney's cry o/" Victory"-— Margaret enters and throws herself in front of Harold, foiling Sidney's attempt to /,■/'// her husband. Margaret. Hold! Thou shaft not kill! Ned bursts open the door— picks n/> Harold's sword. IN DAYS OF OLD. ill Xkd. Not yet! I am here to avenge my brother's murder. Sidney. Ned Prescott, the devil! Xkd. Aye: Ned Prescottj the out-east, ex-thief. ex-traitor, or what you will, but your superior never- theless. Defend yourself. They fight- Xkd slowly forcing Sidney up stage to the balcony window. Finally, Ned disarm* Sidney and runs him through. Sidney staggers back 'through win- dow and falls niton the balustrade, which breaks: hurl- ing him to the street below. Xkd. Margaret, that man will trouble you no more! To you arid your husband. I now kneel for forgiveness for the past. Wild and sinful I have been in my youthful days, but at last. I have con- quered myself and wish to make repartion for the evil 1 have committed. Margaret. Brother, you are freely forgiven. Xkd. Harold Peyton, dark clouds have hung over you for many years. Margaret, like many a weak woman, has erred: but she was not wholly to blame. Sympathy saves more souls than curses. Many of the accusations, which have been made, were false and I trust to see you reunited. Harold. I too wish for a reconciliation: but as 3 ei I am not forgiven. Margaret, (aside) T cannot play this double part, longer. My heart will break, (on her knees— aloud passionately) Listen. Harry ;you have long ago been forgiven, but my proud heart would not humble 92 IN DAYS OF OLD. itself to extend that pardon. You have much to for- give; when I have told you all— Harold. Hush! (lifts her up) I am still your husband, Margaret, and even when I seemed to wrong you most, you were and ever have remained tor me, the world's one woman! Margaret. Oh, Harold! in spite of all? Harold. Many times rebellion arose within my heart, fermented by the love that smouldered there, and could only be put down with with an iron hand. Margaret. And I only deserve your curses and and reproaches. How I have wronged you. Harold. Your love is life to me. I have hoped all through these gloomy years — hoped that you might learn how cruel, how unjust, you had been and return to me. I have tried to meet the worries and sorrows of life with a brave face — but, during the long and dreary months since last we met, Margaret, 1 have lived ages. Love is not the whole duty of of mankind — sacrifice is sometimes better than fulfil- ment—it brings its own peace: a peace nothing else can give. Enter Jack and Nelle, r. 2. e. Margaret. And you forgive me, Harold? HAROLD, {taking her in his arms) Yes. and love you as in days of old. THE END. DEC 231902 iih'imS^f Y 0F CONGRESS 016 102 686 4