PS 635 
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 Copy 1 
 
 ERSACRmCE 
 
 
 DRAMA 
 
 BY EDMUND MITCHELL 
 
HER SACRIFICE 
 
 Drama in Prologrue and Three Acts 
 
 By EDMUND MITCHELL , , i yrs 
 
 K^ 
 
 CA>(,^utu 
 
 COPYRIGHT 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 ^ 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1909, by 
 Edmund Mitchell, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, 
 at Washingotn, D. C, Entered at Stationers* Hall, London. 
 
 GRAFTON PUBLISHING COMPANY PRESS 
 Los Angeles, California 
 
LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 MAY 8 ll>09 
 
 Copyritrftt entry 
 
 XXc. No 
 
 THov 
 
 LASS(f' 
 
 ^; 
 
HER SACRIFICE 
 
 DRAMA IN PROLOGUE AND THREE ACTS 
 BY EDMUND MITCHELL 
 
 CHARACTERS OF THE PROLOGUE: 
 
 Henry James Garrison A rich New Yorker. 
 
 Peter His colored servant. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison Wife of Mr. Garrison. 
 
 DoNNA Peralta From Valparaiso, Chile. 
 
 Mary Carew Her protegee. 
 
 CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY: 
 
 John Singleton Man of wealth and social reformer. 
 
 Count Gaston de Faye An adventurer. 
 
 Dr. Bridges A scientist. 
 
 Brown The Count's valet 
 
 Baeette A lady's maid. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton Wife of Mr. Singleton. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox Her friend. 
 
 Maria Peralta, "La Stella" Mary Carew of the Prologue. 
 
 Promenaders at the Charity Bazaar. 
 
 PLACE: NEW YORK. TIME: THE PRESENT. 
 
 SCENES : 
 
 Prologue Abnegation. 
 
 Reception Chamber in the Garrison Home. 
 Ten Years Before the Play. 
 
 Act I Temptation. 
 
 The Charity Bazaar. Madison Gardens. 
 Afternoon. 
 
 Act II Hallucination. 
 
 Boudoir in La Stella's Hotel. 
 
 Evening of the Same Day. 
 
 Act III Reparation. 
 
 Apartment in Count de Faye's Bachelor Flat. 
 * Later in the Same Night. 
 
THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 ABNEGATION. 
 
 Scene: Reception Hali. in the Garrison Home. 
 Donna Peralta and Peter arc disclosed, the latter with a card tray in his 
 hand. The Senora speaks with the slow deliberation of an educated 
 foreigner, Peter with a flavor of negro dialect. 
 
 Donna. I can take no refusal. Mr. Garrison must see me. 
 
 Peter. I've told you, ma'am, Mr. Garrison is too sick to see anybody. 
 
 Donna {taking her card from the tray, and penciling some zvords on it). 
 Oh, he will make an effort when he reads this message. 
 
 Peter. I dasn't disturb him. I have my orders, ma'am. 
 
 Donna {significantly showing her pocketbook). No orders need prevent 
 your taking my card to him. 
 
 Peter. He'll be mad clean through, ma'am, if I wake him up. Always 
 sleeps after his drive — doctor's orders. And Mr. Garrison, he ain't the most 
 good-tempered man when things go contrary. 
 
 Donna {slipping a bill into his hand). Perhaps this will pay you for 
 the risk of his ill-temper. 
 
 Peter {looking dubiously at the money). Well, I'd like to oblige you, 
 ma'am, gospel truth. 
 
 Donna. Then take my message. 
 
 Peter {pocketing the money). Ther'll be trouble. He'll fly clean off 
 the handle sure. 
 
 Donna. But first, please, go out to my carriage, and ask the lady to 
 come here. Tell her that Mr. Garrison is at home. 
 
 Peter. But I've just been saying, ma'am, that he ain't at home to visitors. 
 
 Donna. Nonsense. He will receive us. Do as you are told. 
 {Exit Peter, reluctantly.) 
 
 Donna. A pretty idea, indeed, that we should be turned away with that 
 absurd formula, that polite society fiction, "Not at home," after traveling 
 thousands of miles for the very object of this interview. The American 
 senor is ill, has been very ill, so everyone says. But he is well enough now 
 to take his daily drive, and will assuredly be well enough to see us when he 
 reads that message on my card. 
 
 (Mary Carew is ushered in by Peter, zvho bozvs, hesitating, tray still 
 in hand.) 
 
 Donna. Ah, Mary, my dear, come along. {To Peter.) My card, now. 
 
 Peter. I guess I'll have to. She's a bit too bossy for me. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Mary {pale, agitated, but determined). He is at home? 
 
 Donna {zvith a little laugh). Well, he is "Not at Home," but that 
 means he is here all the same. 
 
 Mary. And he will see us? 
 
 Donna. I for one don't leave this house until he does. 
 
 Mary. What is the message you have sent? 
 
 Donna. My card. 
 
 Mary. But he will not know your name. 
 
 Donna. I have written my address. 
 
 Mary. Our hotel in New York? 
 
 Donna. No, my home address in Valparaiso. He will not know my 
 name, but he will realize quickly enough that a lady has not come all the 
 way from Chile for the pleasure of talking to him about the weather or the 
 flower show. 
 
 Mary. Yes, the very mention of Chile should strike terror into his 
 soul. But he may show himself too much of a coward, too utterly ashamed, 
 to face — here — anyone from down there. 
 
 Donna. He will have to get over his cowardice and his shame, then, 
 
for this day he has to face me. 
 
 Mary. Hush ! I hear someone coming. 
 
 Donna. Yes. Now, my dear, be brave. This is the hour for which 
 we have waited so long. 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Garrison, ushered in by Peter. Mary turns azvay to 
 the zvindozv, to conceal her agitation.) 
 Peter (m formal announcement) . Mrs, Henry James Garrison 
 
 (Exit.) 
 Mrs. Garrison (holding Donna Peralta's card in her hand). Senora 
 Peralta, I presume? 
 
 Donna (bowing). That is my name, madame. 
 Mrs. Garrison. And your companion? 
 Donna. Is my friend. 
 Mrs. Garrison. Won't you sit down? 
 
 Donna. Pardon me, there is a misunderstanding — some mistake. We 
 have called to see Mr. Garrison. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. So I have been informed. But please allow me a few 
 words first. Be seated. 
 
 (Mrs. Garrison and Donna Peralta sit dozvn. Mary continues to 
 stand at the zvindozv, zvith face averted.) 
 Your card says you come from Valparaiso. 
 Donna. That is so. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Mr. Garrison, I believe, spent several months in Chile, 
 some three or four years ago — before we were married. But he never cares 
 to speak about it now. 
 
 (Mary shrugs her shoulders signiiicantly but Mrs. Garrison, without 
 n ot icing, continues.) 
 Still I know he has been in South America. 
 
 Donna (gravely). And for that reason, madame, we are here today. 
 Mrs. Garrison (nervously). I hope you don't bring bad news. 
 Donna. When trouble is left behind, bad news usually follows — sooner 
 or later. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison, Trouble? (Glancing at Mary.) I trust no serious 
 trouble. You have been told that Mr. Garrison has been sick — sick almost 
 to death. 
 
 Donna. So we have heard, 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. And the doctors are still very anxious about him. In 
 his shattered state of health he is hardly fit to receive bad news. That is 
 why I intercepted your card, and came here myself. 
 
 Donna. I am afraid Mr. Garrison must see us, however unpleasant the 
 ordeal. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. The unexpected announcement of visitors from Valpa- 
 raiso — from that part of the world of all places — will come to him as a shock. 
 Donna. We cannot help that. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. But can't I prepare my husband in any way for this 
 interview ? '* 
 
 Donna. I am truly sorry, madame, to seem to insist. But we must see 
 Mr. Garrison before we can speak to anyone on the painful business that 
 brings us here, 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Painful business? Oh, forgive what may look to you 
 like intrusion into my husband's private affairs. But I am a woman — a 
 woman who has seen much of sorrow and trouble — (in lozver voice) — whose 
 own life has not been without sorrow and trouble. (Tremulously.) Alas! 
 it is my misfortune that I can guess something of what this painful story 
 is going to be. 
 
 Mary (observing her emotion, aside). Ah, then, she too knows the 
 man — the true character of the man. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. But he is ill. Whatever has happened in the past, we 
 must all remember that he is now ill, and that any sudden shock might 
 mean — might have very serious consequences. 
 
Donna. All the same, he has got to hear the truth. What you say about 
 his state of health only makes it the more urgent that there should be no 
 delay. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. But cannot I break the news to him-? Cannot the blow 
 first fall on me? See, I do not spare myself, however much I may shrink 
 from it all. My only wish is to prevent needless misery for those who are 
 innocent of all wrong. 
 
 Mary (turning round, and passionately). No, no; you must not inter- 
 fere. You must not mix yourself up in this affair. It is mine, and mine alone. 
 Mrs, Garrison, Poor girl. You have been — you are in trouble. 
 Mary (to herself, bitterly). Trouble! Oh poverty-stricken word! 
 Mrs. Garrison, Cannot I help you in any way? 
 
 Mary. Help me? You help me? No, no. You are the last of all 
 from whom to think of help. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. But a woman's sympathy may sometimes soften a 
 woman's sorrow, 
 
 Mary. Sympathy ! From you ? That is impossible. I would not ask 
 it; you must not offer it. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. You do not know, perhaps, my poor child, that I am 
 accustomed to hear pitiful stories. A great deal of my time is spent among 
 those who have been unfortunate in the hard battle of the world and require 
 a kindh'^ word of encouragement on their way. 
 
 Mary (affected). Yes, yes, I knovv\ All New York speaks of how your 
 life is devoted to good works of every kind. But that is the more reason 
 why you should keep yourself apart from me. (She covers her face ivith her 
 hands, and sobs.) 
 
 Mrs. Garrison (to Donna Peralta). Her words frighten me. You 
 have come to see my husband. Tell me this : is it at his hands that this 
 unhappy girl has suffered ? 
 
 Donna (rising). I cannot answer you, madame. I assure you it is 
 with Mr. Garrison, and not with you, that we must speak. (Going to Mary.) 
 Courage, dear ; patience. Yet a little longer now, and the wrong will be set 
 right. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison (to herself). Oh, what am I to do? I dread this inter- 
 view. God help me, I dread it. (Leans over her chair, zvith her hand to 
 her forehead.) 
 
 Mary (to Donna Peralta). Yes, wrong may be set right. But think. 
 Right for me will mean dishonor and shame — for her. 
 
 Donna. You have to consider your own honor and your own good 
 name, my child. 
 
 Mary (musingly). There may be others to consider — the others she 
 referred to, who are innocent of all wrong. 
 
 Donna. Since time began, the innocent have always had to suffer with 
 the guilty. 
 
 Mary. She has a child. 
 
 Donna. But a child must not stand between you and your good name. 
 Mary (glancing pityingly at Mrs. Garrison). She may have been 
 thinking of her little child. 
 
 Donna. Don't, I beg of you, reopen the painful conversation with her. 
 It can do no good. Reserve your strength for the interview with him. 
 
 Mary. No, no ; you, must not prevent me. I must hear somethnig of 
 her story from her own lips — my fellow victim at his hands. 
 Donna. It is unwise. 
 
 Mary (to Mrs. Garrison). Mrs. Gar (falters in pronouncing the 
 
 name). 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Well? Are you better now? 
 
 Mary (with forced composure). Yes, thank you; I am better— a little 
 more composed. Excuse my having broken down. But you see I have 
 suffered a great cteal. 
 
Mrs. Garrison. Poor girl, I am sorry for you, I am indeed, from the 
 bottom of my heart 
 
 Mary (with an attempt at cheerfulness). But there, I am myself again, 
 and with your permission I would ask you some questions. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Questions? 
 
 Mary. Yes. Rest assured, it is not mere idle curiosity that prompts 
 me. But I do wish you to tell me one or two things. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. And what may these be? 
 
 Mary. You were married to Mr. Garrison, I believe, three years ago. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison (ivith a faint sigh). Yes, nearly three years ago. 
 
 Mary. And your marriage has been an unhappy one. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison (indignantly). How dare you say such a thing — to me — 
 here — in my own home? 
 
 Mary. The world says so. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. The world has too often a malicious tongue. 
 
 Mary. But forgive rhe if I tell you that your own words, your manner, 
 your looks, have revealed to me the truth about your married life. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison (haughtily). You are pretty sharp-sighted then. But 1 
 must ask you to leave the subject alone. My private life is my own. 
 
 Mary. And your public life? 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. That's another matter. 
 
 Mary. Well, the world says that you are good, that you devote yourself 
 to works of charity and deeds of self-sacrifice — that your days are spent in 
 succoring the poor, rescuing the fallen, tending the sick, comforting the 
 dying. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. The world is very generous. It speaks too kindly of my 
 poor efforts to mitigate the misery I see around me. 
 
 Mary. In good works abroad there may be consolation — for unhappiness 
 at home. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison (coldly). Are you not returning to a forbidden subject? 
 
 Mary. Then let us speak of something else. You have a child. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison (with a smile). That is better. Yes, I have a child — 
 a baby boy, just two years old. 
 
 Mary. And you love him? 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. What a question to ask a mother ! Love him ? He is 
 the darling of my heart, the joy of my life — (sotta voce, sadly) the one 
 great gift my marriage has bestowed on me. (Changing her tone, and moving 
 tozvards a side cabinet.) Let me show you the photograph of my little son. 
 
 Mary (to Donna Peralta). And this, senora, is the woman I would 
 crush, whose heart is so full of goodness and love. Can I bring her shame 
 and sorrow? Can I rob her of her name? Can I rob her innocent little 
 child of his? 
 
 Donna. But, Mary, you owe a duty to yourself. 
 
 Mary. Yes, and that duty may be — selfrsacrifice and self-effacement. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison (advancing, with photo in hand). Here is the picture of 
 my boy. Isn't he a darli«g? 
 
 Mary (to herself). His child! (She turns away with repugnance.) 
 
 Donna. He is certainly a beautiful boy. And so like his mother. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Yes. Everyone notices the resemblance. I am glad 
 he is like me. But his father, I must say, is very proud of his little lad, and 
 devotedly attached to him. Have you ever observed how love for a child may 
 develop in man or woman hidden traits of goodness? 
 
 Mary. And give one touch of redemption, perhaps, to a character that 
 is otherwise wholly vile. 
 
 (Mrs. Garrison turns away in confusion, dropping to her side the 
 hand that holds the photo.) 
 
 Donna (to Mary). See, now, you have hurt her feelings again. 
 
 Mary. Forgive me, oh, forgive me. I did not mean to wound you like 
 that. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. You have no right to make such insinuations. Certainly 
 
I don't wish to listen to them. {To Donna Peralta.) There, I'll take 
 your card to my husband. 
 
 Mary. Oh, don't go away like this. I know I have been cruel and 
 unkind. But my mind is distracted— I am not myself— I'm so utterly 
 miserable. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. I pity you with all my heart. I would comfort you if 
 you would only give me your confidence and let me try. 
 
 Mary. May I look at the picture of your son? {Examines photo 
 fixedly, then points to a name zvritfen on it, in great surpiise.) But what is 
 this? How does this name come to be here? 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. John Singleton? Why, of course, these are my little 
 boy's Christian names. 
 
 Mary. Your boy's names? 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Yes ; he is called after his uncle, my brother. 
 
 Mary. Your brother? Then before your marriage you were 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Grace Singleton. 
 
 Mary {aside). God above! His sister Grace! 
 
 Mrs. Garrison {to Donna Peralta). She is turning faint again, I am 
 afraid. 
 
 Mary {aside). John Singleton — his sister, the wife of this man. {Sinks 
 in chair, overcome.) 
 
 Donna. You are unwell, dear. All this is too much for you. 
 
 Mary. Oh, let us go away from this house, for Heaven's sake, let us 
 go away. Did you hear that name? 
 
 Donna. What name? 
 
 Mary. I told you the whole story of my life. Do you not remember 
 that name — John Singleton? 
 
 Donna. What? Your former betrothed? 
 
 Mary. Yes, yes. She is his sister. She used to be abroad at school, 
 in Germany, and we never met. 
 
 Donna. Oh, what a complication. 
 
 Mary. Take me away, I beg of you, take me away. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison {advancing) . You are really suffering. Can I get you a 
 glass of wine? 
 
 Mary {shuddering). No, no. Do not come near me. Let me leave 
 this house. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison {to Donna Peraeta). Poor, poor girl. She must have 
 endured much unhappiness. 
 
 Donna. Few sadder stories than hers. And the worst of it all is that 
 one broken heart, one shattered life, always breaks other hearts, shatters other 
 lives as well. 
 
 Mary {endeavoring to control herself). Before I go, will you be good 
 enough to tell me something — about — your brother? 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. My brother? Mr. Singleton? Then you know him? 
 You have met him? 
 
 jMary {faintly). I have heard his name. Wliere is he now? 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. In Switzerland. He is on his honeymoon. He was 
 married only last month. 
 
 Mary {agitated). Married! On his honeymoon ! {To herself.) Tush! 
 how could I have expected anything else? {'1 o Mrs. Garrison.) And is he 
 happy ? 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. You certainly ask strange questions. Happy? Yes, 
 I think he is very happy — happy in his marriage with a very lovely girl. 
 Dear fellow, he deserves all the happiness coming to him ; for he too, like all 
 of us, has had his disappointments in life — and his disillusionments. 
 
 Mary. Disillusionments ? 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Yes, disillusionments and disappointments — or perhaps 
 I should rather say, he had one great sorrow that clouded his life for years. 
 
 Mary. And wtiat was that? 
 
Mrs. Garrison. Well, you touch on a painful story. I hardly know 
 why I should speak about it now, and to you. 
 
 Mary. Sorrow brings all who sorrow very close together. What was 
 his misfortune? 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Really, now 
 
 Donna. I think, madame, you should answer her question, strange 
 although it may seem. Later on you will doubtless understand. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Well, my brother is happily married now, I am thank- 
 ful to say. But some years ago he was engaged to somebody else. 
 
 Mary. Yes, yes. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. One whom he loved devotedly. I never saw her, for 
 I was away then, at school in Dresden. But I believe she was very beautiful, 
 and we all thought her good. However — it was a miserable affair — she 
 proved to be worthless. 
 
 Mary. Worthless ! 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Yes, she did worse than merely break her engagement 
 almost on the eve of the wedding day. She ran away to become the mistress 
 of some rich man. 
 
 Mary (aside, hissing the zvord). Mistress! Good heavens! That is 
 what he believed of me. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. We never heard much about the story — we never cared 
 to enquire. But the blow nearly killed poor John; for months he was in a 
 hospital. (To Donna Peralta). Time, however, heals most sorrows, as 
 your experience of life doubtless tells. 
 
 Mary (turning aside). And that is what I lost, that is the love I 
 threw away. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison (to Donna Peralta). But why should I have been 
 asked for this story? Ha<= this girl ever met my brother? What is her 
 name? You have not yet told me her name. 
 
 Donna (moving away). I must not tell you. (To Mary, zvho is sobbing.) 
 Mary, don't cry like that. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison, (to herself). Why does she come here, to see my hus- 
 band, speaking about my brother? \yhat does it all mean? In Heaven's 
 name, what does it mean? 
 
 (Enter Mr. Garrison, a feeble ureck of a man, walking with the 
 aid of a cane.) 
 
 Garrison (testily). Oh, you are not alone, Grace? 
 
 Donna (to Mary). Mr. Garrison. 
 
 Mary (becoming instantly erect, but continuing to keep her face avert- 
 ed). At last! 
 
 Garrison. Visitors here? I was not told of this. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Visitors for you, Mr. Garrison. I was coming to pre- 
 pare you for this interview. Are you well enough to receive these ladies?- 
 (She hands him Donna Peraeta's card.) 
 
 Garrison (aside, reading card, in great agitation). From Valparaiso! 
 Good God! (To Mrs-* Garrison). Grace, my dear, I am well enough to 
 attend to this — ahem — little matter of business. Please leave us alone. 
 (Mrs. Garrison hesitates.) 
 
 Donna (her arm around Mary). Yes, yes, go, for goodness sake go. 
 You will know everything soon enough. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison (to Donna Peralta). Then, for the present, madame, 
 good-bye. (To Mary.) Poor child, God pity you. Remember, whatever your 
 story, I shall be your friend. (Goes to door.) 
 
 Mary (to herself). God pity you. Perhaps it is you who need a friend 
 in me. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison (at door). There is some frightful mystery in all this. 
 (Bxit.) 
 
 Garrison (coldly, to Donna Peralta). Your card informs me, senora, 
 that you come from Valparaiso. To what do I owe the — ah — pleasure of 
 your visit here? 
 
Donna. In Chile the rich Americano, Henry James Garrison, was 
 known as plam Senor Smith. ' 
 
 Garrison. Well, and what of that? 
 
 Donna I shall come to the point at once, sir. You had a lady with 
 you m Chile— your wife, your then wife, not the lady who now bears your 
 name. •' 
 
 Garrison. What right have you to interfere in such matters^ The ladv 
 you speak of died. Moreover, (brutally) she was not my wife. 
 
 Donna. Before the world she passed as such. 
 
 Garrison. Pshaw! South American morality, my dear lady. 
 
 Donna. Not at all, sir. You married that young woman and in your 
 proper name, although, for some plausible pretext you devised, she consented 
 to share with you while in South America the incognito of Smith 
 
 Garrison (agifafed). This is nonsense. Where^did vou pick up such an 
 absurd tale? 
 
 Donna. Nonsense? An absurd tale? We shall see presently about 
 that. You left that lady, your wife, to die in an obscure little village in 
 Chile. 
 
 Garrison. She was dead when I went away. 
 
 Donna. That is false. She was basely deserted by you, when ill and 
 apparently at death's door. She was abandoned by her husband— to die 
 among strangers. 
 
 Garrison (zvith a grim smile). Well, be it so. She died among stran- 
 gers. 
 
 Donna. She did not. She lived. She lives now. She is here. 
 (Mary confronts him.) 
 
 Garrison (tottering, and grasping back of chair). My God, Mary! 
 
 Mary. Yes. Mary. Risen from the dead — to avenge her wrongs, to 
 punish your crimes. 
 
 Dcnna. Let rne finish, senor. I am the widow of General Peralta, and 
 it was to my home in Valparaiso that your poor, deserted, fever-stricken wife, 
 after two years of poverty and suffering, found her way. 
 
 Garrison (zvith hand to face). Then she did not die, she did not die. 
 
 Donna. I heard her story, I proved her worthy, and I have brought 
 her here to claim her own. 
 
 Mary. And I have come, sir, to find you married to another woman. 
 
 Donna. A bigamist, a felon in the eye of the law, a man who should 
 be housed, not in this splendid mansion, but in a prison cell. 
 
 Garrison. Oh, don't speak like that. Mary, spare me. I am sick and ill. 
 
 Mary. / was sick and ill, and you did not spare me. I was young and 
 innocent, engaged to a truly noble man, when I first saw your accursed face. 
 I should have been a happy woman now had you never crossed my path. 
 
 Garrison. Spare me. At sight of you I am already punished. I thought 
 you were dead. 
 
 Mary. Dead, in circumstances that should have haunted you for the 
 rest of your days. In thought, if not in deed, you were my murderer. 
 
 Garrison. No, no, not that. 
 
 Mary. Yes, my murderer. When you left me to die— left me honing 
 that I should die — you were as guilty of murder in the sight of God as if you 
 had strangled the breath out of my body with your own hands. 
 
 Garrison. Mary, Mary, do not speak like that. 
 
 Mary. But you have not suffered even a day's remorse. You have 
 gone on in your callous career of crime. You have seized upon another 
 unsuspecting, helpless victim. 
 
 Garrison. What is that you say? 
 
 Mary. You have dragged down another innocent woman to infamy. 
 You have married again. 
 
 Garrison (unth some dignity). Silence. If you will not spare my 
 name, spare at le^st that of my wife. 
 
 Mary. Your wife? Am not / your wife? 
 
Garrison. But Mrs. Garrison? 
 
 Mary. Am not I Mrs. Garrison? 
 
 Garrison (pressing hands to broiv). Good God, it is true! If this story 
 goes out to the world, Grace will be dishonored, and my boy — 
 
 Mary. Yes, your boy. 
 
 Garrison. My son, my heir! 
 
 Donna. An illegitimate. 
 
 Garrison {distracted). Don't utter such a word. Oh, there must be no 
 scandal of this kind. Mary, listen to me. I know I treated you badly — 
 shamefully, no doubt. But as there is a God above, I believed you to be 
 dead. And I have suffered — ah, how I have sufifered — since those days in 
 South America. Look at the wreck of a man I am. 
 
 Mary. You are the wreck your own wicked life has made you. 
 
 Garrison. But there is one thing left to me in this world — one thing 
 to which I cling. 
 
 Mary. Your love of self. 
 
 Garrison. My boy, my little boy. I may not have his mother's love — 
 I am unworthy of that. But I have the love of my innocent child. 
 
 Mary. And are you worthy of the love of an innocent child? 
 
 Garrison. Pity my son, if you will not pity me. 
 
 Donna. It may be truest pity for the son to save him from the evil 
 influence of such a father. 
 
 Mary. You did not pity me. 
 
 Garrison. Oh, you are hard and cruel. You wring my very soul. 
 
 Mary. It is what you deserve. It is what my just vengeance demands. 
 
 Garrison. Your vengeance? Mary, for the sake of old days you can 
 not do this. You will spare my child. 
 
 Mary. What is your child to me? 
 
 Garrison. And you will spare the mother of my child? She has done 
 no wrong. Poor, poor Grace ! 
 
 Mary {to herself). Grace — Singleton; John Singleton's sister. Yes, 
 perhaps, Grace Singleton should be spared. 
 
 Donna {intervening) . You will b'e true to yourself, Mary. He pleads 
 with you to spare others, only that you may spare his cowardly, guilty self. 
 
 Garrison. Do not interfere between us, woman. Get away from this. 
 
 Donna. Mary, reflect well. 
 
 Garrison. Silence, you cruel-hearted wretch. But for you, she would 
 be merciful. 
 
 Donna {disregarding him). Does a good woman like Mrs. Garrison 
 lose anything by being rid of such a husband as — this? Have we not found 
 it easy to see for ourselves that any love she ever had for — the creature, is 
 gone ? 
 
 Garrison {savagely). Creature! You withered hag! I will thrust you 
 out of the house with my own hands. 
 
 Donna. Mary, in justice, and in justice alone, will lie the greatest good 
 for all — right for you, rescue for them, punishment for him. 
 
 Garrison. You damned — 
 
 Mary {after a pause). So let it be! Justice! 
 
 Garrison {in frenzy). Exposure, shame for my wife before all the 
 world, shame for my child? 
 
 Donna. Justice ! 
 
 Garrison {to Donna Peralta). Curse you — a thousand curses on your 
 head! {He clutches at his heart, and gasps for breath.) 
 
 Mary. He is ill. Look, look. He is ill. 
 
 Garrison {faintly). Get me brandy. 
 
 Donna. Help, help! {Re-enter Mrs. Garrison.) Help! See; Mr. Gar- 
 rison. 
 
 Garrison. Brandy, brandy. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Oh, oh ! These spasms again. Henry, Henry, what 
 has happened? 
 
Garrison. I am dying. 
 
 (Mrs. Garrison rings bell. Re-enter Peter ) 
 Mrs. Garrison. Quick. Bring brandy 
 
 {Exit Peter.) 
 
 pfovf'fSal!""' '"""''■^ '^'" '^°''°''' '^'^ "'' "^"^ "'^"^l' "'°"'d ^"roly 
 
 Garrison (77^r3; faintly). Brandy. 
 
 Mrs. Garrison. Oh, will Peter never come? 
 
 {Exit by the same door as Peter.) 
 Garrison. Mary-pity-mercy. Spare her. She is a noble woman 
 I am dymg. Spare her— spare my boy. ^^oman. 
 
 {Re-enter Mrs. Garrison, ^t'lY/i o decanter and glass ) 
 .r. wf- ^^^^^'^^- 'There; drink a little. (Garrison drinks.) Now you 
 lie down"' "' '"" "''• ^°"'' ^'' "^^ ^^^P ^°" ^° ^°- ^-- You m'us" 
 Garrison. Spare !— spare ! 
 
 {Exit with Mrs. Garrison, his hand raised in invocation over her 
 head. An instant later a great groan is heard outside, the fall 
 of a body, and then a zvoman's scream.) 
 Mary {altera solemn pause) . You know what that means? Retribution 
 nas come. I he debt is paid. 
 
 clainfX"^? "^"""^ "^"'^" '^''"'' P^^""^ '" society? You will still, of course, 
 
 T •n^T'^" ^/ "''^^; "'^ f^^""^ ^" society? No. I will never claim them. 
 1 will leave them both with her. 
 
 Donna. And she is to know nothing of the truth? 
 
 Mary. Let the truth be buried with the unhappy man who is dying 
 there, or is already dead. Let her remain-Mrs. Henry James Garrison- 
 New York s charity queen. 
 
 Donna. You wrong yourself. 
 
 Mary Because I must not wrong her. Nothing of my misery is her 
 doing, bhe is good. She has her noble work among the poor. She has her 
 little son. And then {slowly) she is the sister of the man who suffered 
 at my hands. Come, my kind, good friend, let us leave this house— New 
 York — the States. Take me back with you to your own land. 
 
 {Her arms outstretched to the Senora, who gives assent by a 
 loving embrace.) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 END OF PROLOGUE. 
 
Ten Years elapse between Prologue and Play 
 
 ACT I. 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 ScUNE : Afternoon at the Charity Bazaar, Madison Gardens. There 
 
 IS A Seat on one Side, a Rustic Summer House on the Other. 
 fashionable promenaders are disclosed. A group in front includes Count 
 
 Gaston de Fa ye. Dr. Bridges, John Singleton, and Mrs. Lennox. On 
 
 the seat is Mrs. Singleton, not participating in the conversation, hut 
 
 eagerly folloziing it. 
 
 Count. You may langh if you like, but call her hypnotist, thought read- 
 er, medium, clairvoyante, or any other name, the fact remains that La Stella is 
 gifted with the most wonderful powers of any woman in the world. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. But are not the stories of her marvelous feats absurdly 
 exaggerated? In the newspapers you read things about her which, to a 
 person of ordinary intelligence, stamp the woman as an impostor. 
 
 Count. La Stella is not responsible for what people choose to write 
 or say about her. No one who has spent ten minutes in her company would 
 ever call her an impostor. She is well named La Stella — a bright, shining 
 intellectual star. 
 
 Singleton (to Bridges). What is your opinion, doctor? You have been 
 to this woman's receptions, and have seen some of the thought-reading 
 wonders she performs. 
 
 Count. Yes, let us hear Dr. Bridges' verdict. He is a man trained to 
 observation and to the scientific weighing of evidence. 
 
 Bridges. The Count is quite right, Mrs. Lennox. La Stella is certainly 
 no impostor. She is a woman of great ability — one of the most remarkable 
 I have ever met. 
 
 Singleton. A professed believer in spiritualism — "spooks" and all that 
 sort of thing. 
 
 Bridges. Nothing of the kind. Singleton. She has simply set herself 
 to study the complex problem of the relationship subsisting between mat- 
 ter and mind. She carries on her investigations in a thoroughly scientific 
 spirit and in a scientific way. 
 
 Singleton. And where has she gained the wonderful knowledge she 
 claims to possess? 
 
 Count. She has traveled over half the world, lived for six or seven 
 years in the East, among Buddhist mahatmas, Indian fakirs, Persian der- 
 vishes, and all that sort of people. 
 
 Bridges. La Stella has certainly had remarkable adventures and unique 
 opportunities. You should hear some of her reminiscences. Singleton. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. And now she has descended upon New York to display 
 her tricks of Oriental ju^lery — to make money in the long run, you may be 
 sure. 
 
 Bridges. ^ Not at all. La Stella's wealth and refinement place her above 
 all such suspicions. 
 
 Count. And her extraordinary mental powers are acknowledged among 
 theosophists throughout the world. 
 
 Bridges. I honestly believe that her sole object in coming here is to 
 systernatize the discoveries she has made in the East by carrying out similar 
 experiments among our practical, alert, and down-to-date American folks. 
 
 Count. And she has begun her studies by mystifying every scientific 
 man in our midst, yourself included, doctor. 
 
 Bridges. Oh, I won't say she has mystified us. But some of her ex- 
 periences go beyond anything we have hitherto deemed possible, and cer- 
 tainly call for careful scientific investigation. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. To prove the woman's good faith? 
 
Bridges. No. She has, I think, satisfied us all of that. What we want 
 to find out now is the scientific explanation of phenomena that at first sight 
 seem occult and mysterious. 
 
 SiNGLKTON. Then the stories current about the woman are not mere 
 idle gossip? 
 
 Bridges. Well, I can't vouch for all the stories that are current about 
 the famous La Stella. Gossip and enterprising newspaper reporters have 
 been prett}' free with her name. Inevitable, of course, when one has made 
 such a sudden and extraordinary sensation, taking both society and the scien- 
 tific world by storm. But all exaggeration eliminated, the simple truth re- 
 mains sufficiently wonderful and difficult to explain. 
 (Mrs. Singleton joins the group.) 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. Then what is the simple truth? 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Can this lady tell, for example, what different people 
 may be doing at night away from their homes? 
 
 Mrs. Lennox (to the Count). Not so very difficult that. In New York 
 people away from their homes at night are generally doing — what they 
 shouldn't. 
 
 Count. And the others are dying to know their misdeeds, because they 
 cannot share in them. 
 
 Bridges. Well, Mrs. Singleton, if individuals have submitted themselves 
 to the suggestive power of La Stella, and been put under her hypnotic in- 
 fluence, she will certainly be able to tell what they are doing at some par- 
 ticular time however far away they may be. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Suggestive power? Hypnotic influence? What does it 
 all mean? 
 
 (Singleton and Bridges move a few paces apart, conversing. Mrs. 
 Singleton abstractedly drazvs lines on the turf zvith her parasol.) 
 
 Count. The language of scientific men is hard to understand, but Mrs. 
 Lennox knows all about it. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. Yes, sir. Dr. Bridges means that this wonderful clair- 
 voyante can find out the wicked secrets of faithless men. 
 
 Count. And the little peccadilloes of wives as well. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. For shame even to suggest that we are capable of pecca- 
 dilloes. 
 
 Count. In some cases no doubt it would be a mistake to use the dimin- 
 utive term. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (to herself). I'll do it. Tonight I will go to this mind 
 reader. My suspicions must be set at rest. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. Come, Ethel, the gentlemen had better finish their con- 
 versation alone. Dr. Bridges is incomprehensible, and Count de Faye un- 
 endurable. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton {rousing herself). All right. We'll take a stroll. {To 
 the Count). Remain here. I shall return. I wish to speak with you again — 
 and alone. 
 
 Count (bowing). As madame knows, I am always at her service. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox (to Mrs. Singleton, as they move azuay). For my part, 
 I still believe that half the stories about this woman are ridiculous exag- 
 gerations. 
 
 (Exeunt Mrs. Lennox and Mrs. Singleton.) 
 
 Count (to himself). Good. The spell is working. Her jealousy is 
 thoroughlv aroused. She will follow out my suggestions, and go to La 
 Stella's tonight. 
 
 (All the other promenaders have sauntered off gradually. Singleton 
 and Bridges approach the Count.) 
 
 Singleton. But. my dear doctor, there is a very dark side to this 
 woman's powers. That is, if report speaks true. 
 
 Bridges. And what does report say? 
 
 Singleton. That she has ruined many homes bv poisoning the minds 
 of husbands against wives, and of wives against husbands. 
 
Bridges. Pshaw! No doubt La Stella has seen much, and on occasion 
 her revelations may have shown a good deal that had better have remained 
 undisclosed. 
 
 Singleton. Yes, but she is also said to have lured foolish, jealous 
 women to act on that frightfully dangerous theory that wrong-doing on one 
 side is best paid out by wrong-doing on the other. 
 
 Bridges. That I'll never believe, Singleton. La Stella is incapable of such 
 infamous conduct. 
 
 Singleton. But rumor in this case speaks precisely. 
 
 Bridges. And falsely. I happen to know that this lady devotes both 
 time and money to acts of charity that would do honor to any of her sex. 
 
 Singleton. But even the most depraved are often disposed to charity. 
 In my work in the slums I've found that out. 
 
 Bridges. Yes; but that La Stella, whose own life, I am convinced, is 
 without reproach, ever set herself to debauch the minds of others — that I 
 shall never believe — at least on the evidence of mere rumor and tittle-tattle. 
 
 Singleton. Why, it has been represented to me by Count de Faye here — 
 
 Bridges. Count de Faye — her particular friend? 
 
 Count. Pardon me, my dear sir, but in such a matter it is as well that 
 names should not be mentioned. I was but repeating general hearsay, which 
 Dr. Bridges so properly condemns. 
 
 Singleton. Well, I've been told that this clairvoyante's reception room is 
 nothing more nor less than a place of assignation. 
 
 Bridges. A cruel and mialicious slander — an abominable falsehood. 
 
 Singleton. It has even been suggested to me to help in putting a stop 
 to the woman's infamous career. 
 
 Bridges. To suppress La Stella would be a calamity to scientific re- 
 search. 
 
 Singleton. But scientific research must not be made a cloak for im- 
 morality. 
 
 Bridges. Nor falsehood a pretext for injustice. However, I can't argue 
 longer. I've got an appointment. Good-bye. 
 
 Singleton. So long, doctor. Some other time I'd like to resume our 
 argument about the real value of this new science of hypnotism. 
 
 Bridges. With pleasure. Count Gaston de Faye, adieu. I had thought 
 that you at least would have stood by the fair fame of La Stella. 
 
 Count. T '^m one of her ii'ost devoted admirers. 
 
 Bridges (indignantly) . An admirer who gives currency to slander is 
 not himself to be admired. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Count (to himself). The learned little rooster pecks vigorously. 
 
 Singleton. Well, Count, I hardly know what to think. I have told you 
 how my sister, Mrs. Garrison, left me her fortune in trust, that I should 
 use it, as she had done, in works of charity. 
 
 Count. A noble bequest, nobly administered, as all the world knows. 
 
 Singleton. The stewardship of this fund has brought me into contact 
 with much sin and sorrow. It has made me something of an ardent social 
 reformer. If this woman La Stella's house is the piague spot you represent 
 it !o be, I feel impelled to help in clearing it away. 
 
 Count. But Dr. Bridges is right, Mr. Singleton. We must have proof 
 of those grave accusations — proof — absolute proof. 
 
 Singleton. And how is absolute proof to be obtained? Will no one 
 help me to the facts by telling exactly what they do know? 
 
 Count (sardonically). That is hardly likely. No one is anxious to join 
 in such a thankless crusade. If people told all they knew about La Stella, 
 who could say what reputations might not be comnromised — what fair sin- 
 ners might not be driven from the fold of respectability? 
 
 Singleton. So I can expect no assistance in my task — not even from 
 you? 
 
cate mZl ^^"^ ''" '"' ^ "" ""= ^"' '="=' "'^" '° ^'PP'y '° *" =»ch a deli- 
 Singleton. Then what am I to do? 
 Count. You must rely upon yourself. 
 Singleton. That's not saying much 
 
 her owri'ips"''' ""'• ^°" ''" ^° *° ^ ^*'""' ='"'' '"^'^^^ ^ confession from 
 Singleton. But will she make it? 
 
 Count. I think it probable-almost certain. I know her well. She is 
 a woman of wonderful mental gifts. But in presence of a stronger will 
 han her own she IS powerless. To a man like you, with your great reputa- 
 tion m the philanthropic world, she will bend like a sapling in the breeze 
 Singleton. Are you sure ? ■ 
 Count. Confident. 
 
 Singleton. But how am I to see her alone, or at least under conditions 
 that will permit of such a confession being made? 
 
 Count. Leave that to me. Be at La Stella's hotel tonight at nine o'clock 
 precisely. Ill undertake that you'll be admitted to her presence, and will 
 find her alone. 
 
 Singleton. But this is Tuesday. On Tuesday nights I always go down 
 to our social club in the Bowery. You can't make another date ?— say to-mor- 
 row ? 
 
 Count. Except for tonight I can make no certain appointment for you. 
 Take my advice, Singleton. Go tonight. Break with routine for once— in 
 such an excellent cause. 
 
 Singleton. I could, of course, leave the club for an hour. Well, I feel 
 half inclined to do as you suggest. 
 
 Count. Then I'll arrange accordingly. Nine o'clock, remember. 
 Singleton. Right you are. I'll be there. 
 (Re-enter Mrs. Singleton). 
 Hullo Ethel, my dear. I was just going to look for you. I must be oflf. 
 Mrs. Lennox tells me she will take you home in her auto. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (coldly). Everybody will be here for another hour yet. 
 Singleton. Yes, but I've business that must be attended to. Make your- 
 self happy, and enjoy the afternoon. Count de Faye will help you to find 
 your friends again. 
 Count. Delighted. 
 Mrs. Singleton. And you, John? 
 
 Count. I'll go straight from my office to the Bowery. 
 Mrs. Singleton. Won't you dine at home tonight? 
 Singleton. Impossible, dear. Tuesday, you know, I'm always expected 
 in the Bowery. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. And at what hour will you be home? 
 Singleton. Oh, as usual, about twelve o'clock. Now, Ethel, ta-ta for 
 the present. (Kisses her lightly.) Count, au revoir. 
 (Exit.) 
 Mrs. Singleton (to herself). Home at twelve o'clock!— as usual every 
 I uesday night !— down in the Bowery !— a social club ! Absurd I am being 
 deceived — being made a fool of. 
 
 Count. You wanted to speak to me alone. 
 Mrs. Singleton. Oh, I cannot talk just now. 
 CouNT_. But you are distressed, you are vexed about something. 
 Mrs. Singleton. No, no, it was only a momentary annoyance 
 Count. Forgive me, but I heard all that passed. Ah, my dear Mrs. 
 bmgleton T understand your position. Why do you not give me your com- 
 plete confidence? I could perhaps advise. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (scornfully). Advise? What advice do I require pray? 
 Count. Listen. You are not in your husband's life. He has occupa- 
 tions, pursuits, pleasures, in which vou do not share 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. •Count de Faye, how dare you say such things? 
 
Count. Ah, you think you know everything that your husband does. 
 Well, well ; there is no one so blind as the woman whose eyes have become 
 sealed by infatuated confidence. She maintains a serene countenance while 
 all her friends are laughing — behind their fans. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Oh, you insinuate horrible things. You are cruel. 
 
 Count. Cruel! I am only cruel that I may be kind. My heart has noth- 
 ing but pity for you in your misfortune. 
 
 Mrs. Singlkton. My misfortune ! What do you mean ? 
 
 Count. Mrs. Singleton, have I been vour intimate friend for all these 
 months without being able to enter into your feelings? I have met you 
 almost every day since we first became acquainted, and I can read your heart 
 like an open book. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. I have nothing to conceal. 
 
 Count. No ; but I see you struggling to hide your unhappiness. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (drawing herself up). Count! 
 
 Count. Your pride is forcing you to try and remain stoical. But you 
 suffer all the same. Ah, if you would only accept the sympathy of one who 
 is devoted to you. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. You must not say such things, Count de Faye. 
 
 Count. I can not help myself. (Tenderly.) I wish to help you in your 
 trouble. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. You have always been kind and thoughtful. 
 
 Count. And that is why I told you this morning about the wonderful 
 La Stella. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Ah, yes. La Stella. It was to speak about her that I 
 returned here. Has she really these extraordinary powers of telling what 
 people want to know? 
 
 Count. You heard what Dr. Bridges said. Why not take advantage of 
 your husband's absence to go to La Stella's tonight? I venture to predict 
 that you will there learn enough to set your doubts at rest. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Or to render me miserable for the rest of my days. 
 
 Count. No; misery is caused only by uncertainty. With sure knowl- 
 edge, a woman knows how to play hfer part. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Then, how can I secure this interview with La Stella? 
 After all you've told me, I can not run the risk of anyone knowing that I 
 have visited a woman with such a reputation. 
 
 Count. There need be no risk. I can arrange everything. You join 
 Mrs. Lennox' party at the opera tonight? 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Yes. 
 
 Count. Well, I'll meet you at the entrance to the Metropolitan, and 
 escort you to La Stella's. Her hotel is close by. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. But I am afraid. It seems so very indiscreet. What 
 if I am recognized entering her apartments? What if I find other people 
 there ? 
 
 Count. You are^only conjuring up fanciful dangers. Come in a cloak 
 and hood, and no one will by any possibility recognize you. No one will 
 see you. The secret will remain between you and me. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. And this woman La Stella? Won't she learn my 
 name? 
 
 Count. There will be no need for La Stella even to hear your name. 
 You will see there what you will see. I cannot speak more plainly. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. You say I'll have proofs of my husband's faithlessness ? 
 
 Count. You can judge of that for yourself. You'll know, for example, 
 whether or not he is at the— social club in the Bowery tonight. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Ah, yes, yes. There ; I will go. I will risk everything. 
 I can not endure this uncertainty. 
 
 Count One condition, remember, Mrs. Singleton. Whatever happens 
 at La Stella's, you will make no scene, you will come away at once, in 
 silence. I have your promise as to that. 
 
Mrs. Singleton I promise. I only want to know whether his life is 
 the living he your hints suggest. ^ ^ 
 
 Count (iruinuatmgly). And you'll be advised by me? There must be 
 no scandal? You can just rest content in the knowledge you have ganed 
 p^ea"dings?'"' "° "'" ^"'^ '" ^°"'* ^"^'^"^- ^^^ ^^^ '^^'^- then To my 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Stop ! I've forbidden you to speak like that 
 
 LouNT^ But after you have proofs of your husband's deceit^ 
 haps the' del™''- ^^' ^^''' '^''''- Who knows? (With a sluver.) Per- 
 
 CouNT. Hush then ; be careful. Here come some friends. Try and re- 
 gain your composure. You will keep our appointment? 
 Mrs. Singleton. I shall keep it. 
 
 (Enter promenadcrs, including Mrs. Lennox and La Stella the 
 latter costumed as a zvidozv.) 
 Mrs. Lennox. Ah, Count de Faye. Still conspiring? You live in an 
 atmosphere of mystery. 
 
 Count. And you, madame, in an atmosphere of charming vivacity- 
 (aside) and impertinent interference. ^ 
 
 vnn ^?f ■ ^^""^Ti-i ^^u^^'. ^';^^ ^^^" ^°°^^"S ^°^ y°" everywhere. Whv do 
 a now^""""' ^"""^ "''""'^ ^"^ ^^^ bandstand. Everything's very 
 
 stunid^'sh.'n'';''^''''K ^'^- J° "'^ '^? ^^°^^ ^^^^^ ^^ insufferably dull and 
 stupid, bhant we be going home soon? 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. You are worrying over some secret trouble, little woman, 
 and you will not confide in me, your best friend. What has the Count been 
 saying to you ? 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Count de Faye? What could he have to say to me? 
 No, 1 have a headache. Is there any chance of getting a cup of tea? 
 Mrs. Lennox. I should imagine so. Let us investigate 
 
 (Exeunt Mrs. Singleton and Mrs. Lennox. The other promen- 
 a4ers have also strolled away. La Stella approaches the 
 Count.) 
 Stella. Count de Faye. 
 
 Count (bowing, and not recognizing her). Madame, your most humble 
 servant. 
 
 Stella (raising veil). My disguise is good, when even you don't rec- 
 ognize me. 
 
 Count. You here, Stella? 
 
 Stella. Yes; as you see, I am here. 
 
 Count. And disguised? 
 
 Stella. Certainly; I wish to see, but not to be seen. I have come to 
 this society affair for a special reason. 
 
 Count. Which is? 
 
 Stella. A whim of my own. I wish you to present me to Mrs Single- 
 ton. ^ 
 
 Count. Oh, that would be the height of imprudence. It would jeopard- 
 ize all the plans I have so carefully laid. 
 
 Stella. Imprudence perhaps; but it is my will. 
 
 Count. Listen, my friend. I have accomplished everything for you. 
 This very night Singleton is coming to your hotel. 
 
 Stella. Tonight? Do you say that? This very night? 
 
 Count. It is so. I have managed it with great difficulty. He comes to 
 you at nine o'clock. Don't spoil all my arrangements by persisting in this 
 foolish fancy of the moment. 
 
 Stella (to herself). So tonighi- I shall see John Singleton again— at 
 last, after all these years. Oh, I wonder if I am acting wisely in re-opening 
 my heart's wounds. (To the Coun'»^). Look you, Count de Faye, it is really 
 you who have persuaded me to this interview with Mr. Singleton. 
 
 Count. Well, my dear Stella, don't I know your story? You will re- 
 
member how in Paris at the beginning of our friendship, you confessed that 
 despite long years of seeking after distraction you still loved— the John bin- 
 gleton of your early days. 
 
 Stella. I made that admission in a moment of weakness. 
 
 Count. And I was able to help you with advice. 1 induced you to 
 
 come to New York. t i j ^ 
 
 Stella. Yes, the New York I had avoided all these years. I had sut- 
 fered in silence till you whispered that there was still hope for me with the 
 man I loved. 
 
 Count. As I have said, there is hope. 
 
 Stella. You tell me there is no love between him and his wife. 
 Count. How could a man like that love such a little brainless doll? Pret- 
 ty, ] grant you. But they haven't a thought in common, nor an interest in life 
 in which both share. 
 
 Stella. All the same I've been told they are very devoted to each 
 other. 
 
 Count. Like many married people, they contrive to save appearances 
 before the world. I, who have had occasion to peep behind the scenes, know 
 the truth. 
 
 Stella. Then his marriage has been a mistake? 
 Count. A miserable failure. 
 Stella. And you say he thinks of me? 
 
 Count. I tell you that he still loves you. He has spoken to me about 
 his great sorrow— his lost love— the loss that nearly broke his heart a dozen 
 years ago and still leaves him a disappointed and desolate man. 
 Stella (sadly). Then his life, too, is a joyless one! 
 Count. You have only to meet each other again, to come to an under- 
 standing. 
 
 Stella (to herself). He may yet be mine. Tonight I shall know all. 
 (To the Count). You say he comes to me tonight? 
 
 Count. Yes; but remember, I have followed your instructions in still 
 concealing your identity. I have had to make things appear different to what 
 they are. You understand that? 
 Stella. Yes, yes, I understand. 
 
 Count. So tonight he comes to interview the famous mind reader, La 
 Stella, whom he believes to be an impostor and a worker of all manner of 
 mischief. 
 
 Stella (speaking more to herself than to the Count). Oh, I do not 
 mind that. I do not care how or why he comes. Only let him come. I long 
 to prove to him that the sweetheart of his youth was never the dishonored 
 woman he believes her to be. And I may even yet be able to bring him 
 consolation for his disapgointment in life. Surely a means will be found. 
 Oh, let me only learn the truth from his own lips that he still loves me — 
 that he loves ine just a little still. 
 
 Count (ztith a cynical smile). He has only to hear your story of 
 self-sacrifice, to listen to your voice again, to look into your eyes, and he will 
 be at your feet as in^he old days. But now that everything is arranged for 
 your meeting, you will let me take you quietly away from this place. 
 
 Stella. No; wait a minute. I saw Mr. Singleton drive off in his au- 
 tomobile. 
 
 Count. Yes, he has left. 
 Stella. So his wife is here alone? 
 Count. Well, what of that? 
 
 Stella. She will not know me. Yes, Count; I want to speak to her. 
 You must introduce me, under an assumed name. 
 Count. This is ridiculous. 
 
 Stella. No, no. When I have talked with his wife, I shall know better 
 how to act with him. I take your word that they do not love each other. 
 But I wish to see things for myself. 
 Count. Oh, I can't consent to this. 
 
Stella (proudly). Count Gaston de Faye, you shall do my bidding. I 
 know to my cost that for the present you hold me in your power through 
 your knowledge of the one secret of my life — my old name and my old love. 
 But do not forget, my friend, that I am in possession of a few facts about 
 yourself, the disclosure of which might prove rather unpleasant. 
 
 Count (angrily). Ah, you know too much. 
 
 Stella. And can therefore be dangerous, if I choose. So you will obey 
 me in this. I want to meet Mrs. Singleton. That is she over there, is it 
 not, just leaving the tea pavilion? 
 
 Count. Yes, that is Mrs. Singleton. 
 
 Stella. Well, see, they are coming this way. Introduce me. 
 
 Count, How can I do that without your being recognized? 
 
 Stella. Contrive some excuse to bring us together. For the occasion 
 I shall personate some mutual friend — let us say Madame Guichard of Paris. 
 
 Count. Am I to present you in that name? 
 
 Stella. Yes, and leave the rest to me. 
 
 Count. Then, it would be as well for you to drop your veil. 
 
 Stella (dropping veil). There; no one will know me now. 
 
 (Re-enter Mrs. Lennox and Mrs. Singleton. La Stella and the 
 Count draw aside, and are concealed for the moment by the 
 rustic summer house.) 
 
 Count (to himself). Confound it. It is madness. Everything may be 
 spoiled. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. Really, Ethel, you are in a queer mood this afternoon. 
 What has upset you? 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Oh, I can not tell you. I feel all on the nerves. 
 Everything grates upon my temper. 1 detest this crowd, with all its frivo- 
 lous chatter and empty laughter. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. You are thinking of other things, 
 
 Mrs, Singleton (seating herself petulantly on the seat). Yes, Mildred; 
 perhaps I am thinking of other things. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. Then, I'll go and telephone for the auto, and we'll go 
 home. I'll find you here again in ten minutes, dear? 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. I'm glad to rest quiet awhile. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox (at exit). I'm sure there's something wrong, and somehow 
 I distrust that Count Gaston de Faye. But monsieur will have to reckon 
 with me if he is up to any mischief. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Count, Mrs. Singleton, may I introduce a friend? 
 
 Mrs, Singleton. No, no, I wish to be alone. I am tired. 
 (La Stella advances.) 
 
 Count. But this lady desires most particularly to be presented to you — 
 Madame Guichard from Paris. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (rising, politely, but with evident bad grace). A coun- 
 trywoman of yours. Count de Faye? I am pleased to meet you, madame. 
 
 Stella, And I am honored in making your acquaintance. Your hus- 
 band is a social reformer, I'm told. So was the man most dear to me. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (sympathetically, noticing her ividow's costume). Ah, 
 I observe. How did you suffer your sad bereavement? 
 
 Stella. Monsieur Guichard died of .typhoid fever contracted in the 
 slums of Paris. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. How terrible. Such a grief as that would be my 
 death blow. 
 
 Stella. Then you love your husband dearly? 
 
 Mrs, Singleton (lightly). Love my husband? Well, that is a question. 
 
 Count. I don't think, however, that Mrs. Singleton loves her husband's 
 occupations. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. 'No, that is true. Frankly, I consider that actual daily 
 contact with the degraded classes is positively hateful. 
 
Stella. The work must be done that way, and the man who does it 
 surely follows a noble calling. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. To me the whole thing is repugnant. Charity is all 
 right, but the rich can afford to pay people to administer it. 
 
 Stella. Some wives would be deeply interested in such work carried on 
 by their husbands. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (laughing sarcastically) . Well, here I am at a Charity 
 Bazaar, am I not? 
 
 Stella. A mere pretence ! — a society function ! 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. More to one's taste than slumming and dying of ty- 
 phoid fever, isn't it? 
 
 Stella (shrinking azvay). That is a terrible thing to say. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Oh, pardon me if I have caused you pain. I forgot 
 for the moment to whom T was speaking — about your poor husband ; I was 
 thinking only of my own case. 
 
 Stella (coldly'). Your views certainly interest me. 
 
 Count. Mrs. Singleton would rather see a poor play than listen to the 
 best sermon. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Sure. And tonio-ht for choice — a comedv. Ah, a good 
 hour of laughter at the theatre lifts one out of oneself, does it not ? 
 
 Stella. I have more serious matters in my mind. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Now, that is just what John would say — Mr. Single- 
 ton, I mean. He is alwavs looking on the sombre side of things. T hold 
 that we are in this world to enioy ourselves — that we make others around 
 us happier by being happy ourselves. 
 
 Count. Certainly the most agreeable philosophy of life. 
 
 Stella (fuming aside). A butterfly — a frivolous butterfly! 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. This evening. Count de Faye, I am all excitement. I 
 just feel as if I would like to be breaking the record on an automobile, or 
 going up in a balloon. 
 
 CoTTNT. There is Mrs. Lennox signalling to you. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Ah yes. Then I must be off. You will excuse me, 
 Madame Guichard. I am at home on Thursdays. Goodbye. (Aside to the 
 Count.) At a quarter to nine. Count. 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Count (zvith a sardonic smile). Have you seen enough? 
 
 Stella. Enough ! Poor, unfortunate John Singleton ! 
 
 Count. He will still have you to live for. 
 
 Stella. Yes. yes. Such a frivolous creature as that has no right to rob 
 me of his love. Love justifies all things. Rightfully John Singleton is still 
 mine — and he will yet be mine. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 END OF ACT T. 
 
ACT II 
 
 HALLUCINATION. 
 
 Scene: Evening in the Boudoir of La StelIva's Suite oe Rooms. At the 
 
 Back oe Stage is a Curtained Door. Among the Furniture is an 
 
 Escritoire. 
 BabETTE is disclosed, arranging odds and ends. She speaks with a crisp 
 
 French accent. 
 
 Babette. Yes, I am pretty sure that something is going to happen 
 tonight. Home comes my mistress this evening, in a fine state of excitement. 
 Off goes the dinner tmtasted. Into this room she flounces, and walks up 
 and down for an hour, for all the world like a beautiful panther in a cage. 
 And her things are all over the place. Here are her gloves turned inside 
 out. {Picks tip gloves from floor, and straightens them.) And here's the 
 widow's bonnet she was wearing, thrown into a corner, and crumpled up as 
 if it had been run over by a taxicab. (Picks up bonnet from floor.) And 
 here is her bottle of smelling salts on the hearth-rug, I declare. (Picks up 
 bottle.) I'll put that handy; she will be needing it again this evening, I 
 guess, as the Americans say. (Puts bottle on table, and then pauses in a re- 
 flective mood.) Now, I wonder what is going to happen. No visitors are 
 to be admitted tonight — except just one. And here is his name written down 
 on a card, so that there will be no mistake. (Takes card from pocket, and 
 reads.) John Singleton! Mon Dieu, is it a love affair at last? Is madame 
 going to have a lover after all? 
 
 (Enter Count Gaston de Fa ye.) 
 
 Count. Ah, Babette, are you alone? 
 
 Babette. You here, monsieur? 
 
 Count. You see I am. 
 
 Babette. How did you get in? 
 
 Count. Oh, the boy knows, of course, that I am not included in the 
 general veto. A dollar brought that to his comprehension. 
 
 Babette. You are always bribing people to do what is wrong. 
 
 Count. Well, my dear, everyone seems very willing to be bribed. 
 
 Babette. You want to see madame? 
 
 Count. Yes. 
 
 Babette. She is resting. 
 
 Count. Just as I anticipated. And meanwhile, Babette, I want a few 
 words with you. 
 
 Babette. No. no, monsieur, don't come tempting me any more, please. 
 
 Count. There is just one little service, Babette — the last I shall require 
 of you, my little countrywoman. 
 
 Babette. It is always a case of being the last. 
 
 Count. Ah, but this is the very last — and a very slight service indeed. 
 A twenty dollar bill was never more easily earned. 
 
 Babette (tzvirling her apron dubiously). I don't want your money. I 
 am beginning to hate myself for the things you have made me do. 
 
 Count. Oh, in work of this kind, that's the feeling that always comes 
 over the young beginner. It is like seasickness on a first voyage — inevitable, 
 but soon over. Then you laugh at the qualms that seemed so unendurable a 
 little time ago. 
 
 Babette. I have been false to my mistress — my good, kind mistress. 
 She would despise me, she would turn me out of doors, if she knew the 
 mean things I had done. 
 
 Count. Exactly, my dear; which makes it all the more necessary 
 
to keep matters quiet by doing my bidding now. As I said a moment ago, 
 this is the last service I'll require. Tomorrow, if the qualms still continue, 
 you may make a fresh start, and— forget the whole thing. 
 
 BabETTS (sullenly). What do you want of me now? 
 
 Count. Just this. A gentleman named Mr. John Singleton comes here 
 tonight at nine o'clock. 
 
 Babette. You always know everything. 
 
 Count. That is my business, dear girl. Well, just a few minutes be- 
 fore, I shall myself arrive. 
 
 Babette. But madame is to receive no one but this Mr. Singleton. 
 
 Count. I understand all that. But you will admit me privately, to the 
 little parlor off the hall. 
 
 Babette (in surprise). Ma foi ! 
 
 Count. No one else in the house must know that I am here. And there 
 will be a lady with me as well. 
 
 Babette. A lady? 
 
 Count. Madame Peralta will receive her visitor in this room, and I 
 require you to see that the door here— (pointing to the curtained door) — 
 is left open. Let the curtains be drawn, but the door must be left open. 
 You understand? 
 
 Babette. That you may play the — what you call? — the eavesdropper? 
 
 Count. Well, the open door is not precisely required for ventilation. See 
 here are forty dollars. (Hands her the bills.) I double my fee, as this is 
 the last time. 
 
 Babette. I hate this money. 
 
 Count. It rustles pleasantly all the same. You will be able to get 
 yourself that Merry Widow hat now. 
 
 Babette. Bother the hat. 
 
 Count (persuasively). But you will oblige me, Babette. 
 (Touches her under the chin.) 
 
 Babette (smiling). Oh, you can persuade a woman to do anything, 
 monsieur. 
 
 Count. One of the secrets of success in life, my dear. Now, Babette, 
 go to your mistress. 
 
 Babette. To say you are here? 
 
 Count. Yes; ask her to be so good as to see me, just for five minutes. 
 
 Babette. She won't be pleased. 
 Count. Don't worry about that, 
 (Exit Babette). 
 
 I must close accounts with La Stella before this interview. Any one 
 of several contingencies is on the cards tonight. She may leave New 
 York, / may leave New York ; or matters may arrange themselves exactly 
 as I wish, and there will be no bother and fuss at all. In that last event 
 my triumph indeed will be complete; I'll still be able to hold on here, and 
 Ethel will be mine. (Taking up and sniffing at smelling salts bottle.) Pshaw! 
 I know it is folly to tsomplicate business with love. But, there, the fact re- 
 mains. I made friends with her, set myself out to be agreeable, pretended 
 to be her devoted admirer, with one object in view, to gain the secrets her 
 husband holds — secrets about men and women here in New York that can 
 make me enough money for the rest of my days. And it has ended by 
 my loving her — in real earnest. The stakes are high ; but even if I fail to 
 rake in the cash, I may at least have Ethel for a consolation prize. Yes, by 
 heavens, if there is no other way, I would sacrifice everything else, and take 
 her away from New York tonight. 
 (Enter La Stella). 
 
 Stella (coldly). Why do you come here. Count de Faye? You know I 
 wished to be alone. 
 
 Count. I have come to say goodbye, Stella. After tonight, of course, 
 there is every chance that we may not meet again. 
 Stella. What has happened? 
 
Count. Oh, nothing special has happened. But events are reaching a 
 climax, and we don't know what may follow next. Perhaps you may be 
 taking your departure from New York tonight, who knows — and not alone? 
 
 Stella. Ah! 
 
 Count. But in any case there is the likelihood that I shall be absent 
 from the city for a time. So it is au revoir, my dear Stella. I have fin- 
 ished the work for you which I took in hand. 
 
 Stella (with slight contempt). Oh, now I begin to comprehend. Your 
 task is done ; your contract is completed. 
 
 Count. It is completed. I have guarded your secret with scrupulous 
 care, and without disclosing it have arranged that John Singleton comes to 
 your rooms tonight. In bringing this about, I may have said one of two 
 things in regard to yourself which may seem unkind as they are untrue. 
 But if any tittle-tattle of this sort reaches your ears you will readily under- 
 stand that such statements were made only with a view to effect the object 
 you had at heart. 
 
 Stella. Yes, yes, I shall understand. What does it matter? A few 
 light words spoken about the clairvoyante. La Stella, are of little consequence 
 when the character of Mary Carew still remains unredeemed. 
 
 Count. Well, tonight everything will be put right, and Mary Carew will 
 have justice done to her at last. You have the opportunity for which you 
 have longed, the opportunity I promised to secure. The rest lies with your- 
 self. My work is done. 
 
 Stella (rising). Except in one matter. I am your debtor. 
 (She goes to the escritoir.) 
 
 Count. Oh, the few thousand dollars as arranged. I am sorry, my 
 dear Stella, that such a matter should be mentioned between us. But you 
 know that my family fortunes are impaired, that — 
 
 Stella (with cold dignity, handing him a packet of notes). Make no 
 apologies, pray. Here is the money. I had it ready for you. 
 
 Count (attempting to kiss her hand, but she treating him with disdain). 
 Thank you. Perhaps at some future time I may again be of service. 
 
 Stella. Leave me now, please. 
 
 Count. Then au revoir. 
 
 Stella. We shall not meet again. Adieu. 
 
 (Exit Count. Stella slozdy paces the room). 
 
 Yes, tonight everything relating to the present ends — how 
 exactly, God alone knows. But it ends, it ends. I first sought peace of mind 
 in travel, but wherever I moved the shadow of my sorrow followed me. 
 I have tried to gain distraction in the excitement of the life I have recently 
 led. But there remains always in my heart the same dull, aching void. I 
 long for rest. 
 
 Rest with him? Yes; if he still loves me, if it will bring him happiness, 
 too. Why should the mere conventions of the world keep us apart — bind him 
 to a women who does not love him, whom he cannot love? I have suffered 
 — oh, how I have suffered — during ten long years. And for his sake, as I 
 imagined. 
 
 All this time I have kept away from New York. But when I do return 
 it is to find him miserable — his life as empty and unendurable as my own. 
 Why should the useless self-sacrifice endure for another day? Why? Why? 
 And yet I tremble at the thought of what is coming next. 
 (The clock chimes nine. Stella shivers.) 
 
 I am not myself tonight. I feel the old fever back again — the fever 
 from which I nearly died in Chile. (Shudders.) It grows so cold. 
 (Enter Babette.) 
 
 Babette. Mr. John Singleton! 
 (Enter Singleton.) 
 
 Babette (at door). La! la! It cannot be a love affair after all. They 
 would have rushed, into each other's arms. 
 (Exit, drawing curtains at door.) 
 
Singleton. Madame Stella, I believe — or Madame Peralta, should I 
 
 say 
 
 (La Stella bows, but remains silent and with face averted.) 
 
 So you have been prepared for my coming? Perhaps you even know 
 the object for which I seek an interview with the far famed clairvoyante 
 and hypnotist, La Stella? 
 
 (La Stella sobs audibly.) 
 
 Ah ! La Stella is overcome. So it needs no words from me to awaken 
 in her a sense of her responsibilities. That is well. My task is half ac- 
 complished. 
 
 (Lays his hat on table.) 
 
 Please be seated, madame. I wish to tell you a story; I wish to make 
 an appeal to the better feelings which I recognize you possess. 
 
 (La Stella sinks on sofa, burying her face in her arm. Singleton 
 sits at some distance.) 
 
 I had a sister once. Perhaps you may have heard her name, for it is 
 associated to this day with many acts of charity in New York — Mrs. Henry 
 James Garrison. About her husband I need not speak, except to say that he 
 died three years after his marriage, and by the event my sister came into a 
 large inheritance. Before then she had worked a great deal for the poor 
 and unfortunate in this city. But in her widowhood she became still more 
 devoted and assiduous in every kindly deed. Six months later, however, 
 her only child, a little boy, was also taken. 
 (Stella gives a smothered cry.) 
 
 That broke her heart. She, too, died. Poor, dear Grace ! 
 (He rises and paces the room thoughtfully.) 
 
 But on her death bed she gave me a solemn charge. She told me, for 
 the first time, a circumstance connected with her husband's death. On the 
 day that Mr. Garrison died, a girl in great distress came mysteriously to his 
 house. But she as mysteriously disappeared, and my sister could never get 
 track of her again. She never heard her story ; but she could guess it 
 was a story of shame and sorrow, and of heartless cruelty on the part of 
 sorne one — no matter whom. And that girl's face haunted my sister, the story 
 which she reconstructed in her own mind was ever with her. It was the 
 face and the story, real or imaginary, that prompted her to fresh acts of 
 benevolence. She hoped, if God had spared her, to have devoted her life to 
 succoring her sisters in misfortune. But, as I have said — she died. 
 (Stella sobs quietly.) 
 
 She left me her fortune, unreservedly, but with the injunction that its 
 income should be applied to the good work which lay next her heart. That 
 trust T have ever since sought honorably to discharge. You have heard and 
 understood this sad story? 
 
 Stella. I hear, I understand. 
 
 Singleton (in somezchat lighter tone). Well, the spending of this 
 money has naturally brought me into close contact with misfortune and 
 suffering of every kind. And I have come to realize that the only effective 
 remedy for the misery we see around us lies, not in giving relief in individ- 
 ual cases — although that is necessary, and humane, and wise — but in elevating 
 the general standard of our social system, in making the example of good 
 living spread its beneficent influences all around. Prevention is always bet- 
 ter than cure. To save people from falling is better far than merely to assist 
 those that are down. 
 
 (Stella has raised her face, but still keeps it averted.) 
 
 And that is why, Madame Stella, I take the liberty of coming to you 
 tonight to make an appeal to your better nature— to plead with you to help 
 me in the good cause of making the world better than it is. Will you give 
 that help? 
 
 Stella (rising and facing him). In what way can I help you, John 
 Singleton ? 
 
 Singleton. God in heaven, Mary— it is you — you? 
 
Stella. Yes, John, it is I— it is Mary Carew. 
 
 Singleton (shrinking from her). Why do you cross my path again > 
 After all these years, and under this name— La Stella— this notorious name ! 
 My God, I was not prepared for this. 
 
 Stella. John, do not spurn me, do not shrink from me. Hear me, I be- 
 seech you; hear at least a part of my story. 
 
 Singleton. Your story of infamy. 
 
 Stella. You shudder at the name of La Stella, the hypnotist whom 
 many no doubt, m their ignorance of a new science, call an impostor. 
 
 Singleton. Or worse. 
 
 Stella. Oh, the idle gossip that may be told about La Stella, you need 
 not heed that. You cannot believe such things of the woman you once 
 loved ? 
 
 Singleton. The woman I once loved ! And what is her memory to me 
 but a memory of shame? That story was bad enough, but this one is in- 
 finitely worse. Oh God, that you should have come to this. (With a szveep 
 of his arm.) The sight of you here, amidst these trappings of ill-gotten 
 luxury— your identity with that La Stella, the adventuress whose verv name 
 fills the breast of every honest man with loathing— Oh ! it is terrible terrible 
 that you should have descended to— this. 
 
 Stella. John, you will not pre-judge me, vou will not be harsh and 
 cruel. You have still a little love for the sweetheart of old times? 
 
 Singleton. Love for you, for the sweetheart of old times! Do not 
 speak such words. The old times are dead— for me Mary Carew is dead. I 
 address myself to you as Madame Stella. 
 
 Stella (proudly). And you come to pronounce judgment on the 
 woman you once loved, but whom you now call an adventuress, an object 
 of loathing to honest minded men, without being honorable enough to give 
 her the chance to defend her good name. Oh, the cruel injustice of this 
 world, and you, the champion of morality, most cruelly unjust of all ! 
 
 Singleton. I am not unjust. Your name has been on everyone's lips. 
 
 Stella. And what is that to me? The lips may be foul, when the name 
 they seek to besmirch is pure. 
 
 Singleton. Pure! Can such a word be spoken by you— by Mary Carew? 
 
 Stella. Yes— fearlessly, both by Mary Carew and by La Stella. 
 
 Singleton. You are trifling with me. You broke your troth. 
 
 Stella. Therein judgment erred. But honor remained. 
 
 Singleton. You ran away with a wealthy seducer. 
 
 Stella (quietly). A worthless man, an utterly worthless man. 
 
 Singleton. To become his mistress. 
 
 Stella. That is false! I was his wife, his lawful wife. 
 
 Singleton. His wife ! Whose wife ? The world has never heard. 
 
 Stella. Because I chose to keep my secret from the world 
 
 Singleton. Tush ! 
 
 Stella. To keep my secret, so that I might save from shame, from the 
 horrible knowledge of her true position, the lady the world spoke of, and 
 now gratefully remembers as— Mrs. Henry James Garrison. 
 
 Singleton. My sister Grace! 
 
 Stella. Your sister Grace ! She was no wife, for Henry James Garri- 
 son was my husband. 
 
 Singleton. Your husband ! 
 
 Stella. Yes. But I spared your sister this revelation for her own sake, 
 for her child's, but most of all for yours. 
 
 Singleton. What is this you tell me? 
 
 Stella. I sacrificed myself so that the name of Singleton might suffer no 
 dishonor— that you might be saved from humiliation and pain. 
 
 Singleton. Can this be true? 
 
 Stella. It is 4rue. Here is the proof — (taking a paper from her bosom) 
 —the certificate of my marriage. 
 
Singleton. Alas! Poor Grace! {Reading the paper, and letting it flut- 
 ter on the floor.) 
 
 StkIvLA.. It was with Henry James Garrison that I eloped in a moment 
 of infatuation. We were married. 
 Singleton. Ah, married. 
 
 Stella. We traveled in South America, but a few months later the 
 heartless villain deserted me among strangers in a little village near Valpar- 
 aiso, sick unto the point of death — so ill that it was only a miracle that 
 snatched me from the grave. 
 
 Singleton. So retribution followed swift upon your folly, Mary, 
 Stella, My punishment was deserved. 
 Singleton. The punishment was heavy. 
 
 Stella, It was a year before I could drag my wasted form to Valparaiso. 
 There I gained the friendship of a noble lady, Donna Peralta, and with her 
 help, and in her company, nearly two years later, I succeeded in reaching 
 New York, I saw my husband. 
 Singleton, When ? 
 
 Stella, On the day he died — within the very hour he died. 
 Singleton. Then you were the girl about whom my sister spoke? 
 Stella. I was that girl. I conversed with your sister. 
 Singleton. And you did not disclose your name? 
 
 Stella, No. As I have said, I preferred to bury my secret, for her 
 sake and for your sake. 
 
 Singleton, Mary, this is a story of true heroism. Yours indeed has 
 been a life-sacrifice, 
 
 Stella {in a voice of emotion). After Mr, Garrison died, John, I 
 fell ill again in New York, and when I recovered I fled away in dread of 
 meeting you. Donna Peralta took me home with her again. 
 Singleton, Your protectress? To Valparaiso? 
 
 Stella. Where she died a year later, my dear, noble, generous friend. 
 And she left me all her wealth — her very name. Hence these "trappings of 
 ill-gotten luxury" you so scathingly denounced. 
 
 Singleton, Forgive me, Mary. I spoke in ignorance, 
 Stella. There is no need to tell you more of my story. You had mar- 
 ried, and had gone out of my life, as I thought, forever, I wandered for 
 years in the far East, from country to country, from city to city. I became 
 interested in hypnotism as practised in that part of the world. I made it a 
 study — a hobby — just to drown out the love and thought of you that still 
 burned in my heart. 
 
 Singleton, My poor, unfortunate Mary. 
 
 Stella. And, oh, John, I have fought so hard to stay away from New 
 York — from you. Though we were parted, you continued to be all the world 
 for me. I loved you ever, I longed for you again from the first hour of my 
 repentance after committing the awful folly of my marriage. 
 
 Singleton, But yov owed it to yourself to disclose this story to me 
 long ago. 
 
 Stella, No, no. There were other reasons. I was afraid to come near 
 you, I thought you were happily married — your sister told me so that day we 
 met. 
 
 Singleton. Well ? 
 
 Stella, I thought that any sign from me would only bring trouble into 
 your life. So I kept far away from you — till now. 
 
 Singleton. I should have been glad to know that Mary Carew was not 
 the worthless woman I believed her to be. 
 
 Stella. Yes, but that knowledge might have brought regret to your 
 mind. {Pleadingly.) You have sometimes thought of me, John, with feelings 
 of regret? 
 
 Singleton. When I lost you, Mary, I was broken down with grief. 
 Three years later, when I married, I admit that, even in spite of the wrong 
 you had done me, you still had a place in my heart. 
 
Stella (eagerly). Yes, yes. 
 
 Singleton. I might not have married at all, perhaps, had not my 
 friends urged me. They saw, they understood, that I was still brooding over 
 the memory of the woman I had lost. In marriage they thought I would find 
 happiness and consolation. 
 
 Stella. And you have not found them, John. 
 
 Singleton (frankly, looking her in the face). On the contrary, I have 
 been very happy. 
 
 Stella (in surprise). Happy! 
 
 Singleton. The administration of my sister's bequest has given me a 
 serious object in life. 
 
 Stella. But love — love? 
 
 Singleton. Yes, my life has been rich in love. My sweet Httle wife has 
 brought the sunshine into my days. But for her, I think, I should have 
 turned into a gloomy-minded misanthrope. 
 
 Stella. Your work in the slums — does she approve of that? 
 Singleton. Well, you have hit upon the one point about which we have 
 agreed to differ. Ethel would have me keep out of the worst places — send 
 relief, but at the hands of those accustomed to the crowded tenements 
 of the poor. However, it is only her love and anxiety for me 
 that make her feel that way. 
 
 Stella. Then does she give any thought to the serious things of life? 
 Singleton. Ethel! Why, she is forever thinking of others — working for 
 others' happiness, and always with an encouraging and hopeful smile. She 
 carries brightness and joy wherever she goes. 
 
 Stella (aside). He loves her — his face shows that he loves her. 
 Singleton. Ah, my dear little wife ! — I often think I am far too dull and 
 sober-minded a fellow for a gay and happy spirit like hers. 
 Stella (aside). Thank God I learn all this — in time. 
 Singleton. But you shall know her, Mary. She will hear your story 
 with deepest interest and sympathy. She will be your friend. She will 
 try to bring to you some consolaton for all the sorrows you have suffered. 
 Stella. No, no, that cannot be. 
 
 Singleton. Your noble self sacrifice for my sake, for my sister's sake, 
 will move her greatly. But — wait — Mary ; that brings a thought into my mind. 
 You are Mrs. Garrison. 
 
 Stella. Do not call me by that name. 
 
 Singleton. Henry James Garrison died without a will. Therefore the 
 fortune that Grace inherited, rightfully belonged, not to her, but to you. 
 Stella. That question must never be reopened now. 
 Singleton. But I cannot consent to leave matters in this position. The 
 funds I am distributing in accordance with my dead sister's wishes are 
 yours. 
 
 Stella (zveeping). Continue to administer them, John. Be my be- 
 stower of bounty as you have been hers. Oh, my heart will break. 
 Singleton. Why do you cry like this? 
 
 Stella. Oh, John, John, you cannot know, you shall never know what 
 I suffer. But this night another dream, a vaguely whispered dream, has 
 gone from me. 
 
 Singleton. What do you mean? 
 
 Stella. Do not ask me any more. I thought your married life was 
 other than it is. 
 
 (She rises to her feet, looking faint.) 
 John, I feel ill. Oh, God, why do I not die? 
 Sij^gleton. Mary, Mary, you are faint. 
 
 Stella. It is the old fever I suffered from in South America. It comes 
 back to me at times. I feel my head swimming — my brain giving away. 
 Singleton. Can I do anything for you? 
 
 Stella. Nothing, nothing. Tonight we part forever. But, oh, it is very 
 hard. John, I hav^ loved you so. I love you still. 
 
SiNGivETON (softly). You must not say that any more. 
 Stella (faintly). Sometimes I think I could share your love with an- 
 other, if there was only a little bit for me. 
 
 Singleton. You are not yourself when you speak like that. 
 Stella. Pity me, John, pity me. Think of all I have lost. 
 Singleton. God knows I pity you, from the bottom of my heart. 
 Stella. Then let me kiss you once, just once, my dear one, for the last 
 time. 
 
 (They embrace; he bends tenderly over her, and she clings to him, 
 gently sobbing on his breast.) 
 Singleton (kissing her hair). Mary, my poor, poor girl. 
 
 (Singleton'.? back is to the curtained door. The curtains part. Mrs. 
 Singleton's -figure is seen, for an instant, her face transfixed zvith 
 horror. Then Count de Faye also appears in the background, as 
 he stretches forward a hand to drag Mrs. Singleton away. The 
 curtains close. Stella has raised her face.) 
 Stella. What was that? 
 Singleton. Nothing. I heard nothing. 
 Stella. But I saw a face there — between these curtains. 
 Singleton. You are fancying things. (To himself.) It is the hallucina- 
 tion of fever ; she is wandering in her mind. 
 
 Stella (who has gone to the door, parted the curtains, and returns). 
 It was the face of — your wife. 
 
 Singleton. My wife here? Oh, Mary, dear, you are certainly not 
 yourself. Let me ring for your maid. Let me send for a doctor. 
 Stella. I saw your wife, John. And I saw his face, too. 
 Singleton. Whose face? 
 Stella. Count Gaston de Faye's. 
 
 Singleton. Nonsense, nonsense! My wife with Count de Faye? 
 Stella. Wait. Let me try to think. My mind is in a whirl. 
 (Sinks in a chair, burying her face in her hands.) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 END OF ACT IL 
 
ACT III 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 REPARATION. 
 
 Scene : Night in Count Gaston de Faye's Bachelor Flat, the Uphol- 
 stery, Curtains, etc., oe Which are in Pink. 
 The Count and Mrs. Singleton are disclosed, the latter still zvearing opera 
 
 cloak, gloves, etc., just as she had been momentarily seen in the preceding 
 
 act. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Where have you brought me? 
 
 Count. Well, after what you saw, Mrs. Singleton, it was impossible for 
 you to go home. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Home ! I have no home now. 
 
 Count. And, naturally, you were not equal to the ordeal of joining Mrs. 
 Lennox's party at the opera. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. No ; but I wish you to take me to Mrs. Lennox now, 
 please, at once. 
 
 Count. But as Tannhauser won't be over for another hour yet, you 
 must have patience a little while. I would advise you to make yourself 
 comfortable here. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. And where is — here? 
 
 Count. May I help you ofT with your cloak? {She draws hack.) No? 
 Well, in any case, sit down. Let me give you a glass of wine. Your nerves 
 are unstrung. {He opens a small bottle of champagne.) There! This will 
 put new life into you. Nothing like a glass of dry champagne to pick one 
 up when a nasty knock has come one's way. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton {pushing glass away, and her handkerchief falling he- 
 side it). Whose house am I in? 
 
 Count. Well, my dear Mrs. Singleton, where would I have brought you 
 for refuge — but to my own? 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. These are your rooms? How dared you take this lib- 
 erty with me, sir? 
 
 Count {quietly). Yes, these are my rooms. Do you like them? I 
 chose those curtains because I know you are fond of pink. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. What do you mean? Oh, what have I done, what 
 have I done — coming here — even for a minute? 
 
 Count {tenderly). You must rest. You are safe under my care. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Count Gaston de Faye, you have taken advantage of 
 my confusion of mind to bring me where I had no thought or intention of 
 coming. 
 
 Count. After we left La Stella's, you told me to take you — anywhere. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton {bitterly). After we left La Stella's. 
 
 Count. So I brought you here, Ethel. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. What right have you, sir, to call me by that name? 
 
 Count. Here to my home — to the home which may be — 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Oh, I am beginning to understand. You would make 
 this despicable use of my great sorrow. Let me go from this house. 
 
 Q)UNT. No, Ethel, no. You shall not go till I have told you— that I 
 love you. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Love— love — you speak of love to mef 
 
 Count. Yes, I love you — with all my heart and soul. I have loved you 
 for months past. J first thought you to be forever beyond my reach. But 
 latterly I have begun to hope — because — because — 
 
Mrs. Singleton. Oh, I did nothing to deserve this shame. 
 
 Count. Because I knew your husband to be faithless. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton {-fiercely). My husband faithless! No, no, no! A thou- 
 sand times no I 
 
 Count. You saw with your own eyes tonight. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. I cannot believe what I saw — what you suggest. There 
 is some mystery — some horrible deception. Mr. Singleton will explain 
 everything. Let me go away at once. 
 
 Count. Where ? 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. To my husband. 
 
 Count {with a slight sneer). At La Stella's? 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Yes, even at La Stella's. Only let me see him. Let 
 me ask the explanation I should have asked there and then — which you pre- 
 vented me from getting by dragging me away. 
 
 Count. I only wanted to save you from humiliation before her, and 
 to avoid a scene. What is the use of having scenes, Ethel? (He approaches 
 her.) 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Don't come near me. Oh, how foolish I have been. 
 
 Count. You followed the only course left open to you. Dear one, will 
 you not listen to me? What is your husband's love as compared with mine? 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Do not presume to put yourself in comparison with 
 him. 
 
 Count. Your cold and unemotional husband — to you, at least. With La 
 Stella, of course, it is different. In her case the passion latent within his 
 breast shows itself. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Do you call yourself a man to torture me like this? 
 
 Count. Oh, you'll understand better when I tell you one thing more. 
 Do you know who La Stella really is? 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Don't let me hear that woman's name again. 
 
 Count. You will still more dislike hearing it when you know the whole 
 truth. La Stella is his old sweetheart. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. What? 
 
 Count. The girl to whom he was engaged before he married you. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Mary Carew ! 
 
 Count. Yes, Mary Carew, who betrayed him once, but returns to him 
 when the chance of a piquant intrigue comes her way. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Ah, she was false then; she will be capable of anything 
 now. 
 
 Count. So you see the lovers resume their old billing and cooing, and 
 you — are left out in the cold. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Oh, who could have believed such a thing possible? 
 
 Count. Therefore, to return to your question, why shouldn't I place my- 
 self in comparison with a husband who treats you so? Why do you repulse 
 me, when I offer you «iy passionate love? Be proud and iDrave, keep your 
 own knowledge and your own counsel, and let us love each other in secret. 
 Pay your faithless husband out in his own coin; let him have a taste of 
 the hoodwinking he practices and which he himself so richly deserves. 
 Leave him to go his own way— to follow his own devices. Let us follow 
 ours. And neither your husband nor the world need be one penny the 
 wiser. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Oh, what an abominable suggestion! 
 
 Count. Well, if you won't have it that way, we'll fling prudence to the 
 four wmds of heaven. Come with me tonight. Ethel. Let us go far away 
 from New York to California, Japan. I'll shield you from all the 
 world, my darlmg— sacrifice everything for your sake. Ah, you do not know 
 now madly I love you. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Silence, sir, now and forever. After the loathsome 
 thmgs you have just spoken, I wish never to see your face again. 
 Count. Do not trample on my love. 
 
Mrs. Singleton. Your love ! Don't degrade the word by letting it pass 
 your lips. 
 
 Count. You despise me? 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Yes, I despise you, as I would the meanest pickpocket 
 in a jail. My husband treated you as an honorable man, trusted you by 
 admitting you to the intimacy of our home. You ate at his table, you were 
 introduced to his friends. And you would repay him now with the most 
 despicable act of treachery possible for one friend to commit against an- 
 other. You cur ! — you miserable cur ! 
 
 CoLTNT. Ah, when love consumes a man's heart, he does many things 
 he mieht not otherwise do. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. The meanest of mean excuses — a coward's plea ! But 
 enough. There can be no more talk between us. Understand me, Count 
 Gaston de Faye, I am going from this house — now — instantly. And no 
 one must ever know that I have crossed your door. 
 
 Count. That depends. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Depends? What do you mean? 
 
 Count. I have told you that I am devoted to you. I have laid my 
 heart and my life at your feet. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. I have forbidden you to speak on that subject. 
 
 Count. But since you fling my love back in my face 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Well? 
 
 Count (coolly). Well, you see, I must try and find something to com- 
 pensate me for my disappoinment. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. I fail to grasp your meaning. 
 
 Count. You know quite well that I hold a secret affecting your 
 husband's reputation. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. His reputation is not in your hands. 
 
 Count. No, it will pass out of my hands, when all the world comes 
 to talk about his intrigue — the vulgar intrigue of this great moral reformer — 
 with the notorious La Stella. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Intrigue? I cannot yet believe it. There is some 
 hideous mistake. 
 
 Count. Perhaps; perhaps not. But I am also now in possession of an 
 important secret of yours — a secret that can decide your whole future. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. What insinuations will you be making next? What 
 secret of mine have you ever possessed? 
 
 Count. The secret of the honor you now confer upon me 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. What? What? 
 
 Count. In visiting me in my apartments, Mrs. Singleton. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Oh, horror, what have I done in coming here? 
 
 Count. In plain language, you have compromised yourself, 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Compromised myself? 
 
 Count. That is the word. But don't get agitated, don't give way. 
 Everything can be pleasantly arranged. Come; I'll be perfectly frank. I 
 had begun to hope that your life might have entered into mine ; that 
 secretly we might have loved each other; that my interests might have 
 become your interests; that you might have performed important services 
 for the man you loved. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (shrinking away in dismay). Wretch! 
 
 Count. But since I have misjudged your feelings toward me, all that 
 must, I suppose, be dismissed as an idle dream. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. A wicked revolting dream. Oh, dear God, dear God. 
 that any one could have ever thought such things of me. 
 
 Count. Well, while love takes unto itself wings and flies away, another 
 thing yet remains. You can still perform for me at least one of the im- 
 portant services I fcad in my mind. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. I loathe you. I want to have nothing whatever to do 
 with you. 
 
Count. A little service, which will be of great advantage to yourself— 
 which will save your good name. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. I do not know what you mean. 
 
 Count. Presently, you will comprehend. I shall drive you straight to 
 your home now. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (gladly). Ah! 
 
 Count. And on my word of honor no one will ever know that you 
 have visited my rooms. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Oh, that is good of you. 
 
 Count. No doubt, your husband will have some explanation about that 
 little — ahem! — episode at La Stella's — an explanation which apparently you 
 will be glad to accept and believe. Then everything will be put right 
 between you. I shall do my best to help to this happy result, by promising 
 to remain silent about the La Stella affair as well. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Now you speak like your better self. Count. 
 
 Count. Provided, Mrs. Singleton — provided — There is, you see, a con- 
 dition attached to my offer 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. A condition? 
 
 Count. I shall drive home with you. Mr. Singleton will still be — 
 shall I say, at the social club in the Bowery? You have a key, I happen to 
 know, to the strong box that lies upon Mr. Singleton's desk. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. How did you learn that? 
 
 Count. Oh, never mind. Well, in that box there is a memorandum 
 book bound in red morocco and itself fitted with a lock and key. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Where have you got all this information? 
 
 Count. Everything will be as I have said, provided you give that book 
 into my hands. I want that book. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Rob my husband, sir? 
 
 Count. Poof! It is nothing. He will never know how the thing came 
 to be lost. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. You would have me steal for you a book which I 
 myself am pledged never to open — indeed, to throw into the fire should my 
 husband die or should there be the slightest chance of its falling into other 
 hands. That is the only reason why I have a key to the box which holds 
 this book and its secrets. Yet you would have me betray the trust thus 
 reposed in me by my husband. 
 
 Count. Well, you betray him now by being in my rooms. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. How dare you say that? 
 
 Count (shrugging his shoulders). The world will say it, which comes 
 to the same thing, 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. You would let a mean, base lie like that go forth to 
 the world? 
 
 Count. That is for you to decide, Mrs. Singleton. You have been here 
 for half an hour by the^lock. If your husband chooses to make a fuss about 
 it, I cannot prevent this scandal. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. My husband will believe my story; he will know that 
 I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed. 
 
 Count. Doubtless he will credit your story, when you are so ready to 
 accept his. But what about other people? It will make a fine tale for the 
 newspaper retailers of delectable gossip— all about the philanthropic and 
 highly moral Mr. Singleton compromised with the notorious adventuress, 
 La Stella, 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Spare me, spare me. 
 
 (The faint ring of an electric bell outside is heard.) 
 
 Count. And the wronged wife making this the excuse for running 
 away with the French Count whose reputation for gallantry stands— well- 
 excuse my saying so — pretty high. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. You villain! Merciful heavens, what am I to do? 
 
Count. If you will not re-consider the whole question, and consent to 
 love me, Ethel, 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. I would die first. 
 
 Count. Then, that this unpleasant alternative may be avoided, let us 
 drive to your house, and get that harmless little book. There the whole 
 matter will end. 
 
 (Knock at the door. Brown enters timidly.) 
 
 Brown (in low tone, to Count), Please, sir. 
 
 Count. Did I tell you I was not to be disturbed? How dare you 
 disobey? 
 
 Brown. I can't help it, sir. The lady knows you are here, for the 
 elevator boy let it out that you had come home. 
 
 Count. Confound him ! Who is the lady ? 
 
 Brown. Madame Peralta, sir. 
 
 Count. La Stella! 
 
 Brown. Yes, sir. I have almost had to force her to wait outside, till 
 I could bring you warning that she is here. 
 
 Count. What does she want? 
 
 Brown. She says she will bring men to break in the door, sir; she will 
 call the police, if you don't see her immediately. 
 
 Count. Good God ! She must have guessed something. There is going 
 to be a scene. 
 
 (The electric bell outside rings long and peremptorily, and louder 
 now that the room door is open.) 
 
 Mrs. SingIvETon (frightened). What is that? 
 
 Count. It is all right; don't be alarmed. (Aside to Brown.) Take 
 this lady to my writing room. Lock the door, and bring me the key. 
 
 Brown (surprised). Lock her in, sir? 
 
 Count. Yes, man. Obey my orders. Quick. 
 
 Brown (zfith a smile). All right, sir. I understand. 
 
 Count (to Mrs. Singleton). There is a little complication. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. I only want to get away from here. 
 
 Count. Unfortunately you cannot, just for the moment. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Cannot? 
 
 Count. A friend — some friends of mine have arrived — they are on the 
 landing outside. If you leave now, you will certainly be recognized. Then, 
 of course, I shall be powerless to stop the talking, however truly willing I 
 may be to serve you. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Oh, this is cruel, this is cruel. That my thoughtless- 
 ness should have let me into all this terrible trouble ! 
 
 Count. Well, just keep a cool head. 
 (The bell outside rings again.) 
 There, you see my visitors are growing impatient. Go with my man here. 
 He will take you to my writing room. When the coast is clear, I'll smuggle 
 you away. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. I am in a false position, a horribly false position. Oh, 
 for a friend to help me. 
 
 (Bell rings once more.) 
 
 Count. Go at once. For your own sake, go. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (moving to door). Good heavens what am I committed 
 to now? 
 
 Count (aside, to Brown). Then show Madame Peralta in here. Say 
 I am alone. 
 
 (Exeunt Mrs. Singleton and Brown.) 
 (Coolly.) After all the fright may do my lady good. When I choose to 
 release her, she will have made up her mind to accept my terms. Now for 
 La Stella. What the devil can have brought her here? Something must 
 have happened. I'll need all my nerve. (Fills and drinks a glass of 
 champagne.) That's better. Now I feel fit for everyone and everything. 
 
{Re-enter Brown. La Stella folloivs. She pauses at the door, and 
 looks round the room.) 
 
 Brown. Madame Peralta. {Aside to Count.) The key, sir. 
 (Count puts key in pocket.) 
 
 Stella. You are alone, Count de Faye? 
 
 Brown {at door). Something's going to drop, that's certain. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Count. Ah, my dear Stella, to what do I owe the pleasure of this — 
 unexpected — visit ? 
 
 Stella {advancing, abruptly). Where is Mrs. Singleton? 
 
 Count. Mrs. Singleton? How should I know the whereabouts of Mrs. 
 Singleton? 
 
 Stella. Do not trifle with me, sir. I ask again — where is Mrs. Sing- 
 leton ? 
 
 Count. Really, my dear Stella, are you not a little foolish coming to 
 me in this theatrical way, and harping on a question I have already 
 answered? 
 
 Stella. You have not answered. 
 
 Count. I have given the only reply that is possible. When a man of 
 honor 
 
 Stella. A man of honor ! 
 
 Count. Is questioned in regard to the whereabouts of a lady, he main- 
 tains a discreet silence. 
 
 Stella. By speaking like that you insinuate vile things. 
 
 Count. I insinuate nothing. I am simply — dumb. 
 
 Stella. How dare you try to make me believe that there is any secret 
 between you and Mrs. Singleton? 
 
 Count. I may be interested in the lady. 
 
 Stella. You have the audacity to say that? 
 
 Count. You can hardly deny that you are also interested — in her 
 husband. 
 
 Stella. You make that retort — you fling that taunt at me? 
 
 Count. And why not? What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the 
 gander. You love your John Singleton. 
 
 Stella. Ah ! 
 
 Count. And, perhaps — I admit nothing, remember — I may love his 
 wife. 
 
 Stella. You infamous scoundrel ! 
 
 Count. Don't use strong language, my dear Stella. Such words from 
 you are like a boomerang. They come back, and hit yourself. What may be. 
 infamous in my case is just as infamous in your own. 
 
 Stella. I begin to see things. But I will not parley with you. I ask 
 again, and for the last dme — where is Mrs. Singleton? 
 
 _ Count. And again I reply — I cannot give you the information you 
 desire. 
 
 Stella. Do you pretend ignorance? Then let me tell you one thing 
 I have already learned. 
 
 Count. And what is that? 
 
 Stella. You brought Mrs. Singleton to my house tonight. 
 
 Count. Well, when you make such confident assertions, what need is 
 there for me to answer you at all? 
 
 Stella. You cannot deny facts. 
 
 Count, I deny nothing. I affirm nothing. If you choose to address 
 me in this peremptory fashion, I prefer to treat your questions with the 
 silent contempt they deserve. 
 
 Stella. Contempt ! You would treat me with contempt, sir — you who 
 have stooped to bribe a poor, misguided servant girl? 
 
 Count. What's that? 
 
 Stella. Babette, my maid, has confessed everything to me. 
 
Count (under his breath). The damned cat! 
 
 Stella. So, Count Gaston de Faye, you have been carrying your secret 
 service system so far, that you have had spies in my home — to bring you the 
 tittle-tattle of my daily life. 
 
 Count (zcith a forced laugh). Which has all redounded to your credit, 
 my dear Stella. 
 
 Stella. Don't attempt to pay me compliments, which coming from you 
 I despise. But make up your mind to this, Count de Faye,— 5^our career in 
 this city is at an end. 
 
 Count. You don't want to prevent me from doing my duty to my 
 country ? 
 
 Stella. Your country. If you are a Government spy, why should you 
 have made that the cloak for other infamy? 
 
 Count. But why not understand each other, Stella? 
 
 Stella. An understanding with you — with such a man as you? 
 
 Count (sneering). Well, you found me useful in putting in train your 
 little affair with Mr. Singleton. Is it not rather ungrateful to cast me off 
 after your own ends are served? 
 
 Stella. God forgive me ! I might have known that, when T touched 
 pitch, I should be defiled. 
 
 Count. Well, as I say, let us understand each other. You have your 
 beloved John. Leave Ethel to me. 
 
 Stella. Leave a woman like that in your villainous clutches? 
 
 Count. If it please her, what have you got to say? Listen to reason. 
 Does it not smooth the road for your own plans? 
 
 Stella. Good heavens ! You would make me your accomplice in 
 crime ! I now see the diabolical conspiracy you have worked. You have 
 brought my life again into contact with John Singleton, so that 
 
 Count. For your own happiness. 
 
 Stella. No; for the accomplishment of your own infamous designs 
 against an innocent woman. 
 
 Count. Pshaw ! Innocent women are scarce commodities in this world. 
 
 Stella. You coward ! Your sneers are only contrived to carry sugges- 
 tions that are as wicked as they are untrue. But there, I should be wronging 
 Mrs. Singleton if I believed her, for one moment, to be capable of listening 
 to your odious proposals. She has been, so far, your dupe ; but as there 
 is a God above she shall not be your victim. 
 
 Count. You should have been on the stage, Stella. 
 
 Stella (intensely). Where is Mrs. Singleton? 
 
 Count. Go back and ask that of — your friend — her husband. 
 
 Stella, I warn you. You have a chance to save yourself — by preventing 
 a miserable scandal. I came here to give you that chance. 
 
 Count. It was a pity to interrupt your own pleasant — little love scene. 
 
 Stella. Mr. Singleton has driven home to see if his wife is there. 
 
 Count. I hope he may find her. 
 
 Stella. No; I was afraid she would not go home. But listen. He 
 will then enquire for her at the Opera House. 
 
 Count. After which, I suppose, he will think it best to console himself 
 by returning to you. 
 
 Stella. No ; he will come here. If he does not find his wife, he is to 
 follow me to your address. 
 
 Count (to himself). The devil he is! 
 
 Stella. And then. Count Gaston de Faye, accounts will be settled be- 
 tween us all. And for you there will be a bitter reckoning. 
 
 Count. Chut ! 
 
 Stella. I will denounce you for what you really are — a spy in foreign 
 government employ ! 
 
 Count. Hush ! You have sworn to keep my secret. 
 
Stella. And the breaking of my word in such a case can be only 
 counted as a deed of righteousness. 
 
 Count (Hercely). You will think better of this. Even if I lie to ac- 
 complish it, I will blast your reputation for ever. 
 
 Stella. My reputation is beyond the reach of your calumnies. 
 (Sounds of a scuffle outside the door are heard.) 
 
 Count. What is that? 
 
 Stella. You have lost your opportunity. Mr. Singleton has arrived. 
 
 Count. Then, by God, let it be a fight to the bitter end. 
 CEnter Singleton, flinging Brown aside.) 
 
 Singleton. Damn it, don't try to block my way. 
 (Enter Dr. Bridges and Mrs. Lennox.) 
 
 Brown. The fat's in the fire, right enough. Skidoo for me. 
 (Bxit.) 
 
 Singleton. Ethel? — where is Ethel? — have you found her? 
 
 Stella. Not yet. But do not be afraid, Mr. Singleton. She is safe. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. Count de Faye, what has become of Mrs. Singleton? 
 
 Count. Really now, you all honor me too much by coming to me with 
 such enquiries. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. Ah, I knew there was trouble brewing. I have sus- 
 pected you for days past. 
 
 Singleton. Pardon me, Mrs. Lennox. Leave this man to me. 
 
 Count. "This man," sir! 
 
 Singleton. Yes, we shall speak plainly to each other. Count Gaston de 
 Faye. 
 
 Count. I refuse to be insulted in my own house. 
 
 Singleton. For insults there will be all necessary satisfaction, at the 
 proper time and place. Meanwhile, you have to explain certain things to me, 
 sir. First and foremost, where is my wife? 
 
 Count. Even if I could, I most assuredly would not answer any ques- 
 tion put to me in that way. 
 
 Singleton. Then T shall break every bone in your body, you miserable 
 hound. 
 
 Stella. Stop, Mr. Singleton. I think I can gain more by quiet means 
 than you will by threats or by force. Count de Faye, we understand each 
 other. 
 
 Count. Had you been wise, we might have understood each other. 
 
 Stella. And if you are wise now, you will take your last chance of 
 saving the situation — for all of us. 
 
 Count (sullenly). How should I know where she is? 
 
 Stella. You need not prevaricate any longer. You see your scheme 
 has failed. 
 
 Count. I shall do e;xactly what I choose. As I said before, the question 
 you put to me with damnable reiteration is not one that can be answered by 
 a man of honor. 
 
 Stella. For goodness sake, do not parade that phrase again. 
 
 Singleton (trying to get at him, but held back by Dr. Bridges). You 
 villain, how dare you make such an infernal innuendo? 
 
 Bridges. Keep your temper, Singleton. Leave everything to La Stella- 
 Trust to La Stella. 
 
 Stella (smiling). Did I not know your character, Count, so well as I 
 do, your wicked insinuation might have alarmed me. But Mrs. Singleton is 
 safe. You have only got to tell us now where she is to be found. 
 
 Count (coived). And if I do? 
 
 Stella (to the Count aside). If you help to save her name from being 
 tarnished even by the breath of slander, if you put her right by confessing 
 the miserable trick you have played, if you go away from New York, if you 
 never cross our paths again, 
 
 Count. Then? 
 
Stella. Then I may keep your other secret from -the world. 
 
 (Mrs. Lennox has picked up Mrs. Singleton's handkerchief. She 
 closely examines it.) 
 
 Mrs. Lennox (to herself). It is hers. 
 
 (She beckons to Dr. Bridges. They zvhisper together.) 
 
 Bridges (to Mrs. Lennox). Are you sure? 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. Yes, yes; see, here are her initials. 
 
 (Singleton has observed, and advances to her. In her first im- 
 pulse Mrs. Lennox seeks to hide the handkerchief.) 
 
 Singleton. Let me see what that is. 
 
 Bridges. Be calm, Singleton ; for God's sake be calm. 
 
 Singleton (taking the handkerchief). What is this? Good heavens, it 
 is my wife's. 
 
 Stella. She has been here ! Count de Faye, you have not done this 
 monstrous thing? You did not bring her here? 
 
 Count (doggedly). This is a free country. If Mrs. Singleton has been 
 my visitor, she came of her own free will, I presume. 
 
 Singleton. Let me kill the man. Let me strangle him with my own 
 hands. 
 
 Stella. No, no. Do not take his insults and innuendoes seriously. It 
 is because he sees himself beaten that he indulges his vindictiveness in ut- 
 tering them. There is no harm done, and I have still one means of bringing 
 him to his knees. 
 
 (Dr. Bridges opens the door, and peeps out.) 
 
 Bridges. Hush ! Listen ! 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (voice muffled, in the distance) Help! help! 
 
 Singleton. It is Ethel! 
 
 (He rushes from the room. An instant later, the crash of a door 
 being broken in is heard.) 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (outside). Oh, John! John! 
 
 Singleton (outside). Ethel, my darling, my little wife. 
 
 Stella. Thank God, she is saved! 
 
 Count (to Stella). You will hold to your promise? Otherwise, I 
 will drag you all down in my ruin — yes, Singleton and his wife, and you as 
 well. 
 
 Stella. You need not threaten. If I show you the slightest mercy, it 
 will only be to save them from annoyance. 
 
 (Re-enter Singleton and Mrs. Singleton.) 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (sobbing). John, my dear husband, you will not mis- 
 judge me. 
 
 Singleton. No, no, dearest. I know that everything will be explained. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. He brought me here — I did not know where I was 
 comings — from La Stella's — where — ^Oh ! — (bursting into tears). 
 
 Singleton (pressing her to his breast). Yes, yes, little one. Where 
 you saw me in circumstances that require an explanation. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. But there is an explanation, dear husband? Oh, I 
 knew, after a few minutes' reflection, that it was all some wretched mis- 
 understanding. 
 
 Singleton. Everything will be made clear, dear. Meanwhile, here is 
 someone who will comfort you. 
 (La Stella advances.) 
 
 Mrs! Singleton. The lady from Paris! Madame Guichard. 
 
 Stella (zifith a smile). La Stella. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton (shrinking away slightly). La Stella! 
 
 Singleton (fervently). One of the best and noblest women breathing. 
 Love her, Ethel, as. you once loved my sister, Grace. Let her be your sister 
 from this day, for, as you will learn, she has done us a service that can 
 never be repaid. 
 
Mrs. Singleton. Oh, forgive me. I have only to look into your face 
 to know that you are good. I have been foolishly jealous. 
 
 Stella. You have been cruelly deceived. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. Yes; he made me believe that you had stolen my hus- 
 band's love. 
 
 Stella (caressing her hand). Poor little heart! 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. Ethel, dear, I am so thankful everything has come right. 
 But why did you not confide in me? 
 (They embrace.) 
 
 Singleton (sternly looking at the Count). And this man? What of 
 him? 
 
 Stella. Let him take himself away. It is best so. His chastisement at 
 your hands would only make the world talk. And, alas, we all know, the 
 world has a malicious and a slanderous tongue. 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. But I must speak, for I am all in a maze. John, he 
 would not let me go from here, unless I promised to open your strong box. 
 
 Singleton. Open my strong box ! 
 
 Mrs. Singleton. And give him the secret memorandum book you keep 
 there. 
 
 Singleton (looking at Stella). God above! Is that what the man is? 
 
 Count (aside). Curse it! — given away! — and by her! 
 
 Stella (to Singleton). You know it now — without my speaking the 
 word. 
 
 Singleton, Oh, let us hear. What do you think him to be? 
 
 Stella. A spy — a secret agent of his government. 
 
 Singleton. Not on your life ! If you have believed that, he has thrown 
 dust in your eyes, too. I can tell you exactly what this man is ; I know the 
 breed well. He is nothing more nor less than a professional blackmailer — a 
 common or garden blackmailer. 
 
 All (murmuring). A blackmailer! 
 
 Singleton. That is why he schemed to get possession of a note book 
 of mine which contains some secrets that might have been worth a barrel 
 of money for him. 
 
 Stella. And I was so blind ! 
 
 Bridges (zvith a smile, to Mrs. Lennox). So thought-reading has its 
 limits, eh? 
 
 Mrs. Lennox. The creature! I don't suppose he is any more a Count 
 than my chauffeur. 
 
 Bridges. Probably not. 
 
 (A momentary pause, all eyes iixed on the Count, who stands 
 crushed and silent.) 
 
 Singleton. De Faye, or whatever your name may be, a transatlantic 
 liner sails tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. You will be on board. You 
 have the chance between that or — the Tombs, 
 
 (The Count hangs his head in abject acquiescence.) 
 
 CURTAIN, 
 
 END OF PLAY. 
 
MAY 8 >909