Past Redemption: A Drama in Four Acts

Curtain.

ACT II.—Past Redemption.

Tom. The same old errand: chasing that will-o'-wisp, Kitty Corum,—she who is known as the girl with two strings to her bow; who has one hand for Tom Larcom and another for Nat Harlow, and no heart for either. I'm the laughing-stock of the whole neighborhood; but misery loves company, and Nat is in the same box. If she would only say No, and have done with it, I believe I should be happy, especially if Nat received the "No." She won't let either of us go. But she must. To-night I'll speak for the last time; I'll pop. If she takes me, well: if not, I'll pop off and leave the field to Nat. Luckily I found out she was to help Mrs. Maynard to-day. Nat hasn't heard of it, and no doubt he's trudging off to old Corum's. Here she comes. Lay there, you beauties! (Puts flowers on bench.) Kitty will know what that means. (Exit l. Enter Kitty from house.)

Kitty. What a nice woman Mrs. Charity Goodall is, to be sure! so graceful and sweet, not a bit like her big rough brother, John Maynard. But then, she's learned the city ways. A widow, poor thing—and not so poor, either; for her husband, when he died, left her a consolation in the shape of a very handsome fortune. (Sees flowers.) I declare, somebody's attentions are really overpowering. No matter where I am, either at home or abroad, when night comes I always find a bunch of flowers placed in my way. Of course these are for me: no one would think of offering flowers to Jessie. Poor Jessie! 'tis eighteen months since Harry Maynard left home, and six months since a line has been received from him. Ah, well! this comes of having but one string to your bow. I manage matters differently. (Sits on bench. Enter Nat from l., through gate; steps behind tree.) Now, I really would like to know who is so attentive, so loving, as to send me these pretty flowers.

Nat (sticks his head round tree, r.). And can't you guess, Kitty?

Kitty (starting). O Nat!

Tom (sticks his head out from l. Aside.) O Nat! indeed, you owe Nat nothing for flowers. The mean sneak! (Retires.)

Nat (coming forward). Now, this is what I call luck, Kitty. I heard you were here, and I think I've taken the wind out of Tom Larcom's sails to-night. No doubt he's tramping off to your house to find nobody at home. Ha, ha! had him there. (Tom creeps out, and gets behind tree.)

Kitty. And so I am indebted to you for all these pretty flowers.

Nat. Oh! never mind the posies, Kitty. I have something very serious to say to you to-night. (Sits beside her r.)

Kitty. Very, very serious, Nat?

Nat. As serious, Kitty, as though I were a prisoner at the bar waiting my sentence.

Tom. Ah! in that case, there should be a full bench, Kitty. (Comes round and sits on bench, l.)

Nat. The deuce! Tom Larcom, what brought you here?

Tom. I came to court; that is, to see justice done you.

Nat. You be hanged!

Tom. Thank you: let that be your fate; and I'll be transported. (Puts his arm round Kitty's neck.)

Kitty. How dare you, Tom Larcom? (Pushes off his arm.)

Tom. It's "neck or nothing" with me to-night, Kitty.

Nat. Tom, you are taking unfair advantage of me.

Tom. Am I? How about Kitty's posies, Nat, that I laid upon the bench?

Kitty. It's you, then, Tom.—O Nat! how could you?

Nat. I didn't: I only asked you a conundrum. All's fair in love. What's a few flowers, any way? Why, Kitty, smile upon me, and you shall have a garden.

Tom. Yes, a kitchen garden, with you as the central figure,—a cabbage-head.

Nat. Kitty, you must listen to me. I have a serious question to ask you.

Tom. So have I, Kitty.

Kitty. You too, Tom? A pair of serious questions! Shall I get out my handkerchief?

Nat. Kitty, I have sought you for the last time.

Tom. Thank Heaven!

Nat. Perhaps—

Tom. O, Kitty, give him your blessing, and let him depart!

Nat. I am on the point of leaving—

Tom. Good-by, old fellow. You have our fondest wishes where'er you go. "'Tis absence makes the heart grow fonder"—

Nat.—Of leaving my fate in your hands.

Tom. Oh, this is touching!

Nat. 'Tis now two years since I commenced paying attention to you.

Kitty. Stop, Nat. This is a serious business: let us be exact,—one year and ten months.

Tom. Correct. I remember it from the circumstance that I had, about a month before, singled you out as the object of my adoration.

Nat. "We met by chance."

Tom. "The usual way." Oh come, Nat, do be original!

Nat. I worshipped the very ground you trod on—

Tom. And I the shoes you trod in: that's one step higher.

Nat. From that time—

Kitty. One year and ten months.

Nat. From that time I have loved you sincerely, devotedly, and—

Tom. Etcettery. Same here, Kitty, with a dictionary thrown in.

Nat. You have become very, very dear to me, Kitty.

Tom. You are enshrined in this bosom, Kitty.

Nat. Without you, my life would be miserable—a desert.

Tom. And mine without you, Kitty, a Saharah.

Nat. I have waited long to gain your serious attention, to ask you to be my wife. Now is the appointed time.

Tom (takes out watch). Fifteen minutes after seven: the very time I appointed.

Nat. Let me hear my sentence.

Tom. Put me out of misery.

Kitty. This is indeed serious. Am I to understand that you have both reached that point in courtship when a final answer is required?

Nat. That's exactly the point I have reached.

Tom. It's "going, going, gone" with me.

Kitty. You will both consider my answer final?

Both. We will.

Kitty. No quarrelling, no teasing, no appeal?

Nat. None. (Aside.) I'm sure of her.

Tom. Never. (Aside.) Nat's sacked, certain.

Kitty. Very well. Your attentions, Mr. Harlow, have been very flattering,—your presents handsome.

Nat. Well, I'm not a bad-looking—

Kitty. I mean the presents you have bestowed upon me,—calicoes of the latest patterns, sweetmeats in great varieties, which you, as a shopkeeper, have presented me with.

Tom (aside). At old Gleason's expense.

Kitty. Of course I value them. But a girl wants the man she loves to be a hero: to plunge into rivers to rescue drowning men, and all that sort of thing.

Tom (aside). And Nat can't swim. That's hard on him.

Kitty. And you, Mr. Larcom, have been equally attentive. Your gifts—the choicest fruits of your orchard, the beautiful flowers nightly laid within my reach—all have a touching significance. Still, as I said, a girl looks for something higher in the man she loves. He must be bold—

Nat (aside). Tom's afraid of his own shadow. He's mittened.

Kitty. Rush into burning houses, stop runaway horses, rescue distressed females; and I am very much afraid neither of my devoted admirers can claim the title of hero. So, gentlemen, with many thanks for your attentions, I say No.

Nat. No! That is for Tom.

Tom. No! You mean Nat.

Kitty. I mean both. (Nat and Tom look at her, then at each other, then both rise and come front.)

Nat. Tom.

Tom. Nat.

Nat. You've got the sack.

Tom. You've got the mitten.

Nat. She's a flirt.

Tom. A coquette.

Nat. I shall never speak to her again.

Tom. Henceforth she and I are strangers. (They shake hands, then turn and go up to her.)

Both. Kitty!

Kitty. Remember, no appeal. (They look at her ruefully, then come down.)

Nat. Tom, I bear you no ill-will. Are you going my way?

Tom. Nat, you are the best fellow in the world. I'm going in to see John Maynard.

Nat. We shall be friends.

Tom. In despair, yes. (They shake hands. Nat goes up to gate, Tom goes to door r.)

Nat. Good-by, Kitty. I shall never see you again. I'm going across the river. Should any accident happen, look kindly upon my remains. (Goes off l.)

Tom. Good-by, Kitty. I'm going in to borrow one of John Maynard's razors; they are very sharp. Should I happen to cut any thing, don't trouble yourself to call the doctor. (Exit into house.)

Kitty. Ha, ha, ha! They'll never trouble me, never. They'll be back before I can count ten. One, two, three, four, five—(Nat appears l., comes to gate. Tom comes from house: they see each other, turn and run back.) I knew it. The silly noodles! here they are again. (Enter Jessie, from house.) Didn't I tell you my answer was final? and here you are again.

Jessie. Why, Kitty, are you dreaming?

Kitty (jumping up). Bless me, Jessie, is that you?

Jessie. Have you seen Stub? has he returned from the office? Ah! here he is. (Enter Stub, l., through gate, dejectedly. Jessie runs up to him.) O Stub, have you brought no letter?

Stub. Jes none at all, Miss Jessie; dat ar' post-officer am jes got no heart. I begged an' begged: no use. Squire Johnson, he got his arms full, an' Miss Summer's a dozen. I tried to steal one, but he jes keep his eye onto me all de time. No use, no use.

Jessie. Oh! what can have become of him?

Stub. Dunno', Miss Jessie. He was jes de bes' feller, was Massa Harry; an' now he's gone an' done somfin', I know he has. When de cap'n what picked me up in ole Virginny, in de war,—when he was a-dying in de horse-fiddle, says he to me, says he, Stub, I'm a-gwine; an' when I's gone, you jes get up Norf. You'll find my brudder Harry up dar, an' you jes stick as clus to him as you's stuck to me, an' you'll find friends up dar. An' when it was all ober, here I come. An', Miss Jessie, I lub Massa Harry almos' as much as I did de cap'n; an' I'd do any ting for him an' you, who he lub so dearly.

Jessie. I know you would, Stub. Heaven only knows when he will return to us. If he comes not soon, my heart will break. (Weeps; goes and sits on bench.)

Stub. Pore little lamb! She wants a letter: she shall hab one too. Massa Harry won't write: den, by golly, I'll jes make up a special mail-train, an' go down dere to de city, an' fotch one. It's jes easy 'nuff to slip down dere, an' hunt Massa Harry up, an' I'll do it. Say nuffin' to nobody, but slip off to-morrow mornin' an' hunt him up. (Exit r., i.e.)

Kitty (comes down from gate). Jessie, here's a surprise. Mr. Thornton is coming up the road.

Jessie (springing up). Mr. Thornton? Heaven be praised! News of Harry at last! (Runs up to gate, meets Mr. Thornton, takes his hand; they come down.) O Mr. Thornton! Harry, what of Harry?

Thornton. Miss Jessie, I am the bearer of bad tidings. Would it were otherwise!

Jessie. Is he dead? Speak: let me know the worst; I can bear it.

Thornton. Be quiet, my child. He is not dead; better if he were, for death covers all the evils of a life,—death wipes out all disgrace.

Jessie. Disgrace? Oh, speak, Mr. Thornton! why is he silent? what misfortune has befallen him?

Thornton. The worst, Jessie. Perhaps I should hide his wretched story from you; but I'm here to tell it to his friends, and you are the dearest, the one who trusted him as none other can. Jessie, the man you loved has been false to you, to all. He has abused the trust I placed in him. He has become a spendthrift, a libertine, a gambler, and a drunkard.

Jessie. I will not believe it: 'tis false. Harry Maynard is too noble. Mr. Thornton, you have been misled, or you are not his friend.

Thornton. I was his friend till he betrayed and robbed me. I am his friend no longer. Jessie, you must forget him; he will never return to his old home, his first love. He has broken away from my influence: he associates with the vilest of the vile, and glories in his shame.

Jessie. Stop, stop! I cannot bear it.

Thornton. Jessie, you know not how it pains me to tell you this; but 'tis better you know the worst. I have striven hard to make his path smooth,—to make his way to fortune easy, for your sake, Jessie. For I,—yes, Jessie, even in this dark hour I must say it,—I love you, as he never could love.

Jessie. You—love—me? You! Oh! this is blasphemy at such a time.

Thornton. I could not help it, Jessie. (Tries to take her hand.)

Jessie. Do not touch me. I shall hate you. Leave me. O Harry, Harry! are you lost to me forever? (Staggers up and sits on bench.)

Thornton (aside). I've broken the ice there. Rather rough; but she'll get over it. Now for old Maynard. I'd sooner face a regiment; but it must be done. (Exit into house.)

Kitty (comes down to Jessie). O Jessie, this is terrible!

Jessie. Don't speak to me, Kitty: leave me to myself. I know you mean well, but the sound of your voice is terrible to me.

Kitty (comes down). Poor thing! Who would have believed that Harry Maynard could turn out bad? I wish I could do something to help her. I can, and I will too. Oh, here's Tom! (Enter Tom from house; sees Kitty, stops, then sticks his hat on one side; crosses to l. whistling.)

Kitty. Tom!

Tom (turns). Eh! did you speak, Miss Corum?

Kitty. Yes, I did. Come here—quick—why don't you pay attention?

Tom. Didn't you forbid any further attention?

Kitty. Pshaw! no more of that! Do you remember what I told you my husband must be?

Tom. Yes: a sort of salamander to rush into burning houses, an amphibious animal to save people from drowning.

Kitty. Ahem! Tom, to save people: just so. Well, Tom, you can be that hero, if you choose.

Tom. Me? How, pray?

Kitty. Harry Maynard has got into trouble in the city; he's a drunkard and a gambler, and every thing that is bad.

Tom. You don't mean it!

Kitty. It's true. Now, he must be saved, brought back here, or Jessie will die. Tom, go and find him, and when you come back, I'll sacrifice myself.

Tom. Sacrifice yourself?

Kitty. Yes, marry you.

Tom. You will consider him found. O Kitty, Kitty,—but hold on a minute. Have you given Nat Harlow a chance to be a hero?

Kitty. No, Tom: I'm serious now. Find Harry Maynard, and you shall be my hero.

Tom. Hooray, Kitty: tell me all about it. I'll be off by the next train. Come (gives her his arm), I can't keep still: I must keep moving. (Exeunt l.)

Jessie. Lost! lost to me, and I loving him so dearly! You must forget him! He said forget: it is impossible. He loved me so dearly, too, before he left this house in search of fortune. No, no: I will not give him up; there must be some way to save him. If I only knew how! O Harry, Harry! why do you wander from the hearts that love you? Come back, come back! (Covers her face and weeps. Enter Charity Goodall from r., through gate.)

Charity. Oh, this is delicious! I've climbed fences, torn my way through bushes, and had the most delightful frolic with Farmer Chips's little Chips on the hay, with nobody to check my fun and remind me of the proprieties of life. Ha, ha, ha! How my rich neighbor, Mrs. Goldfinch, would stare to see me enjoying myself in the country! Little I care! I shall go back with a new lease of life, a harvest of fresh country air, that will last me through the winter. (Sees Jessie.) Hey-day, child, what's the matter? (Sits beside her.)

Jessie (flinging her arms round Charity's neck). O Aunt Charity! Harry, Harry—

Charity. Ah! the truant's heard from at last; and not the most delightful tidings, judging by your tear-stained cheeks. Well, child, tell me all about it.

Jessie. He's lost to us. He has fallen into temptation; he's—

Charity. The old story. "A certain man went down unto Jericho, and fell among thieves."

Jessie. O Aunt Charity, how can you be so heartless!

Charity. Heartless, Jessie! You must not say that. You know not my story. Listen to me. One I loved dearer than life was ingulfed in this whirlpool. He was a brave, noble fellow, who took a poor country girl from her home, and made her the mistress of a mansion, rich in comfort and luxury. For years our life was one of happiness; and then a friend, a false friend, Jessie, led him into temptation, with the base hope of securing his riches by his ruin. The friend failed to acquire the one, but wrought the other. He died ere he had become the wretched sot he hoped to make him; died in my arms, loving and repentant. I had his fortune, but my life was blighted. I refused to be comforted until the wretchedness about me brought me to my senses. Then I sought in work, strong, earnest work, consolation for my bereavement. With his wealth, I sought out the wretched, the outcasts of society; gave my aid to all good work, and so earned the title of a strong-minded woman. 'Tis often spoken with a sneer, that title, Jessie; but they who bear it have the world's good in their heart, thank Heaven for them all! And so I go about doing all I can to relieve distress, the surest solace for sorrow, Jessie; for there's nothing so cheering, as relieving the wretchedness of others. So don't call me heartless, Jessie.

Jessie. O Aunt Charity, he was so good! he loved me so dearly!

Charity. And he has fallen. Who told you this?

Jessie. His friend Mr. Thornton: he is here now, speaking with father. O dear aunt! can nothing be done to save him?

Charity. Thornton? What Thornton? Speak, Jessie, who is he?

Jessie. Here comes Mr. Thornton. I will not see him. He has spoken to me of love,—his love for me, almost in the same breath in which he told of Harry's ruin. Oh, let me go! I can not, will not meet him. (Runs off l.)

Charity. So, so: the friend of Harry makes love to his wife that is to be, and his name is Thornton. I am curious to see this friend. (Enter Thornton from house.)

Thornton. That job's over. Now for Miss Jessie. (Charity rises.) Charity Goodall!

Charity. Yes, Charity Goodall, widow of Mark Goodall, your friend, Robert Thornton.

Thornton (aside). What fiend sent her here to blast my well-laid plans?

Charity. So, sir, you are the friend of my nephew, Harry Maynard? here on a mission of mercy, to break gently to his sorrowing friends the news of his downfall?

Thornton. 'Tis true.

Charity. And to console his affianced wife with the proffer of your affection.

Thornton. 'Tis false!

Charity. It is the truth. I know you, Robert Thornton. Your work made my life a burden. You robbed me of one I loved; and now you have wound your coils about another victim.

Thornton. You are mistaken: I sought to keep him from temptation; but he was reckless, and forsook me.

Charity. Where is he now?

Thornton. I know not; neither do I care. He robbed me; and, were he found, I should give him up to justice.

Charity. Staunch friend indeed! He robbed you? I do not believe it. I have cause to mistrust you. I never dreamed you were the friend of Harry. But now I can see your wicked scheme. You have him in your power, but beware! My mission is to save. (Goes up r.)

Thornton (coming to l.). Too late, too late. I do not fear you.

Maynard (outside, r.). Say no more: I will not seek him. (Enter from house, followed by Mrs. Maynard.)

Mrs. Maynard. O John, don't say that! He is our only boy.

Maynard. He has disgraced the name of Maynard. I will not seek, I will never allow him to cross my threshold. He went out a man: he shall never return a brute. (Enter Capt. Bragg, r., through gate.)

Capt. Now, done yer say that, Maynard (hic). It's disgrace-ful to drink. I mean to get full. I never got full. I can drink a gallon, an' walk straight, I can (hic). But I'm a Bragg. I'm Cap'en Bragg of the Horse Marines; no, the ill-ill-lus'rus Lawless Rangers, every man—full—full—six— Now look a' here, look a' me, if your son's gone to the dogs, don't you give him up. Look a' me. I'm Bragg. I had a son: you know him: went off twenty years ago. Do I give him up? Not a bit of it (hic). He'll come back one of these days, rolling in his carriage; I mean in wealth. But then, he's a Bragg. We can't all be Braggs. Come, le's go down, and hunt him up. I know all the places.

Maynard. Not a step will I stir. (Enter Jessie, l.) He has made his bed: let him sleep in it. He shall not disgrace my house with his presence.

Jessie (runs to him, falls on her knees). No, no, father: don't say that. You will not cast him off. Think what a kind son he was: how he loved us all. You will try to save him, father! Don't say you will not; my heart will break.

Maynard. Jessie, you know not how low he has fallen. My son of whom I was so proud! He has disgraced his home. Henceforth he is no longer son of mine. I will not seek him. I have said it, Jessie, and John Maynard never breaks his word.

Jessie (crosses to Mr. Thornton). O Mr. Thornton! you will seek him: you will save him for my sake?

Thornton. He is past redemption. 'Twere useless.

Jessie. Then I will go in search of him.

Maynard. You, Jessie?

Jessie. Yes, I. He saved me, when a babe, from the pitiless storm; now I will seek him.

Thornton. This is folly. He lurks with the vile and worthless, in dens of filth and vice. Who will lead you there?

Charity (comes down c.). I will.

Jessie (rises and runs into her arms). O Aunt Charity!

Charity. Yes, I. When man shrinks from the work of salvation, let woman take his place. Look up, child! Foul treachery has insnared him. From the toils of the false friend, from the crafty arts of the boldest of schemers, we will snatch him: from the depths of despair, we will save him. Past redemption, Robert Thornton? False! While there is life, there is hope!

ACT III.—Charity's Quest.

Murdock. Thornton, you have a princely way of doing things, and the luck of the evil one himself.

Thornton. Shrewdness, old fellow. I'm an old hand at this sort of business, and glitter and dash go a long way in sharpening the appetites of one's customers.

Murdock. There's something more than glitter about this wine.

Thornton. The wine is good, and costly too. Of course, I do not set this before everybody, or the profits would hardly come up to my expectation. I never throw pearls before swine. Home-made wares pay the best profit.

Murdock. Ah! you do a little in the way of doctoring?

Thornton. A great deal, Murdock. I have a very good dispensary close at hand, and Maynard has made himself decidedly useful in that branch.

Murdock. Maynard? is that miserable sot of any use to you now?

Thornton. Oh, yes! I alone can control him. Poor devil! he's breaking up fast. It's a pity such a likely young fellow could not let rum alone; but he would drink, and will until the end comes. 'Twill not be long.

Murdock. Where do you keep him? I've not seen him about to-night.

Thornton. Close by, but out of sight. Some of his friends, a few months ago, made a demonstration towards his rescue from the pit into which he had fallen. I believe they are now searching high and low for him.

Murdock. An idle task, while he is in your clutches.

Thornton. You're right, Murdock: he stood between me and the dearest wish of my life. Meddling fools thwarted me in that; and now, from sheer revenge, I'll hold him from them all.

Murdock. I'd rather have you for a friend than an enemy. (Rising.) Good-night. I must look after my own humble quarters. Ah! if I could only have your dash!

Thornton. There's money in it, Murdock. (Rises.)

Murdock. I believe you: good-night.

Thornton. Good-night: drop in again. (Murdock goes up and off r., up steps.) Daley, who's that on the lounge?

Daley (comes from behind bar). I don't know him: he dropped in an hour ago, took a drink, and rolled on to the lounge.

Thornton. Well, rouse him up, and get him out: that don't look respectable. (Goes behind bar, and looks about.)

Daley (goes to Tom, and shakes him). Come, friend, rouse up. (Another shake.) Do you hear? rouse up!

Tom (slowly rises and looks at him). Rouse up? wha's that (hic)? No, le's fill up; that's besser (hic).

Daley (shaking him). Well, get up; you're in the way.

Tom (sitting up, and looking at him). Say, wha's (hic) yer name?

Daley. My name's Daley.

Tom. Daily (hic) what? Times? Oh, I know: you're a (hic) newsboy (hic), you are. Don't want no papers. (Attempts to lie down again.)

Daley. Come, come, this won't do. Get up, I say!

Tom. I always take (hic) my breakfast in bed.

Daley. You'll take yourself out of this! (Gets him on to his feet.)

Tom. Wh- (hic) what you say, Mister Times? Say (hic), le's drink!

Daley. No: it's time you were home.

Tom. Home (hic)? wha's that? Fools a (hic) to this? (Staggers across, and clutches bar.) I'm goin' t'stay (hic) here forever and always (hic), forever.

Thornton. Oh, get him out, Daley!

Tom. Yes, get me out, Daily, for (hic) exercise. Take the air (hic). Air's good; le's have some sugar (hic) in mine. (Gets down, r.; aside, sobered.) So he's here,—Maynard is here. I've run the fox to earth at last. (As before.) Fetch on the drinks, D-Daily (hic) and a little oftener.

Daley. Here's your hat; come. This way, this way. (Leads him up to steps, r.)

Tom (at steps, turns round). Hole on a minute, D-Dai- (hic) ly; give us your hand, D-Daily. I'll be back soon (hic), an' we'll never (hic), never (hic) part any more (hic). Good mornin', D-D-aily (hic), good-morn. (Exit up steps. Thornton comes down to table, l.; Daley takes bottles and glasses from table and goes behind bar. Two gentlemen enter, r., drink, and go off.)

Thornton (sits at table). The luck of the evil one! Murdock is but half right. The loss of that girl is a stroke of ill-fortune that imbitters all my prosperity. Get your supper, Daley; I'll look after the bar. (Daley exits, r., up steps.) But for the interference of Charity Goodall, she would have been mine. They have not found the missing Maynard yet. I have him safe: he cannot escape me. (Soft music. The mirrored door, between entrances in flats, slowly opens, and Harry Maynard, shrinking and trembling, with feeble steps, comes down, closing the door behind him. He creeps down to Thornton's chair.)

Harry. Thornton, Thornton!

Thornton (turns with a start). You here?

Harry (trembling). Yes, yes; don't be fierce, don't. It is so dark and dismal up there! and the rats—oh, such rats!—glare at me from their holes. I couldn't stay. Don't send me back: I'll be very quiet. I'm sober too. Not a drop for two days: not a drop.

Thornton. What's the matter with you now?

Harry. Oh! nothing, nothing: only I wanted to be sociable (tries to smile),—as sociable as you and I were in the old times.

Thornton. Sociable! you and I! Bah! you're shaking like an aspen. What friendship can there be between me and a miserable sot like you?

Harry. Yes, I know I'm not the man I used to be: I know it. Oh, the thought of that other life I lived once, tortures me almost to madness!

Thornton. Well, why don't you go back to it?

Harry. Back? back to that old home among the hills from which I came, full of lusty manhood? Back to the old man who looked upon me with all a father's pride? the dear mother whose darling I was? the fair, young girl whose heart I broke? Back there, with tottering steps, a pitiful wreck, to die upon the threshold of the dear old home? No, no: not that, not that!

Thornton. Then be quiet. You have brought ruin upon yourself: you can't complain of me.

Harry. No, I don't complain. It was a fair picture of fame and fortune you laid before me; and when I found the honorable mercantile business, in which you had amassed wealth, was work like this, I should have turned back.

Thornton. I told you to keep a clear head and a steady hand; to sell, not poison yourself with my liquid wares.

Harry. Yet you placed pleasures before me that turned my head, and—

Thornton. They never turned mine. You were a fool, and fell.

Harry. Ay, a fool! Yes, your fool, Robert Thornton. I quaffed the ruby wine, I flung myself into every indulgence, because you led me. I must keep a cool head and a steady hand, with fire in my veins! I feel I am condemned. Of my own free will, I flung away a life. I do not complain; but, when we stand before the last tribunal, Heaven be the judge if your hands are unstained with my life-blood, Robert Thornton.

Thornton. Enough of this: back to your den.

Harry. No, no, Thornton, not there! I will be quiet, silent; but do not, in mercy, do not drive me back there!

Thornton. Poor devil! Well, stay here: look after the bar until Daley returns. (Aside, going l.) He can't resist: he'll make a dive for the brandy, and forget. Two days without it: I should not have allowed that. (Exit l., i.e.)

Harry. Stay here! No, no, he has given me a chance for freedom. The doors are open: a dash, and I am free. Free for what? To die in the gutter. I could drag myself no farther; and who would look with compassion on such a ragged, bloated wretch as I? No, no: I have sold myself, body and soul, to this accursed life. (Staggers to bar.) Let me get at the brandy; that, at least, will bring freedom,—freedom from this maddening thirst, these horrible fears that drive me mad. (Staggers behind bar.) Ah, here, here! (Seizes decanter.) The balm for bitter memories. Stop, stop! That vision in the night,—Jessie, with her warning finger: and the old melody I loved so well rang in my ears. I vowed I'd drink no more, though I should die of madness. (Buries his face in his arms upon the bar. Enter r., down steps, Capt. Bragg.)

Capt. Found a new place. (Looking about.) Superb—gorgeous—dazzling! Here's juiciness! Just my idea of a palace. The man who figured this place no doubt believes his plan original. Absurd! I planned it years ago. Bragg's plan stolen! Fact, by jingo! (Raps on bar.) Come, young man, business, business. (Harry raises his head: Bragg staggers back.) Harry Maynard, or I'm no Bragg! (Comes to bar, and offers his hand.) Harry, young fellow, how are you? (Harry falls back, and glares at him.) Don't know me, hey? Why, I'm Bragg, Capt. Bragg, your distinguished townsman; Bragg of the Rangers; every man a sharpshooter, and their commander—well, modesty forbids my mentioning him in fitting panegyrics. Why, how you stare! You don't look well.

Harry. I don't know you.

Capt. Won't do, my boy, won't do. You may be able to bluff common folks, but I'm Bragg; Bragg of the judicial brow, Bragg of the penetrating eye: it's a keen one, and, when I fixed that detective's orb upon you, I said, There's my man! Why, they've fitted out an exploring party for the purpose of hunting you up,—Mrs. Charity Goodall, Jessie, Tom Larcom, and that black imp Stub. They've scoured the city in vain. They didn't ask my help, and I am the keen-eyed volunteer that never misses his mark. I have found you. Oh, here's glory, for Bragg's outwitted 'em all! I knew I should: Bragg never fails, never; and now I've got you, you can't escape me. Come, come, don't glare like a madman. What will I have? Brandy, of course! (Harry sets decanter and glass before him.) They made a mistake: when there's any detective business to be done, call a Bragg. He can see farther and run faster than the sharpest of 'em. Fact, by jingo. (Pours liquor into glass.) Ah, that's my style! (Raises glass.) Here's to the glorious Rangers, Bragg's own!

Harry (excitedly). Stop! don't drink that. See, there's a snake twisting and turning about in the glass. Stop, or you are a dead man!

Capt. (sets down glass, and staggers back). Jersey lightning!

Harry (glaring). See, it's raising its head,—it will strike deep and sure: and there's another, and another. Look, they are crawling about the decanter: now they drop upon the bar: they are upon you: tear them off, tear them off! They strike and kill, strike and kill!

Capt. He's raving mad. I wish I was well out of this.

Harry. Thicker and thicker, faster and faster, they come upon the bar. See them glare at me! Back, back! (Dashes his hands upon bar.) Ah, they coil about my arms. Away, away! (Attempts to tear them off.) They crawl about me: they are at my throat. Help, help, help! (Runs into c., and falls upon floor.)

Capt. He's got 'em bad. (Runs to entrance, r.) Fight 'em, young man, fight 'em: it's your only chance. I guess I won't drink: can't stop. (Runs up and off, r.)

Harry (raises his head). Gone, gone at last with him. I've driven them off again; but they will come again. What's that? (Glares into corner, l.) Rats again: fierce and big! how they look at me! Away! Gleaming teeth and eyes of fire! Away, I say! I cannot drive them back. They swarm about me: they're at my legs. (Tears them off.) Devils, I'll fight you all! Closer and closer! (Gets to his feet.) They're making for my throat: away, I say! (Tears them from his breast.) I cannot, cannot. Now they're at my throat! (Hands at his throat.) Off, devils; off, I say! Help, help! oh, help! (Falls quivering upon the stage. Enter Thornton, l.)

Thornton. What's this, Maynard? Maynard, I say! (Drags him to his feet.)

Harry (clinging to Thornton). Don't let them get at me: there's a thousand of them thirsting for my life. Save me from them!

Thornton. Oh, you've been dreaming! you're all right now. Come, get to bed: you'll sleep it off. Up above you're safe enough. (Drags him up stage.)

Harry. Not there, not there, Thornton. Don't thrust me into that hole to-night. They're up there, lurking in corners, waiting to eat me. Don't, Thornton, don't!

Thornton (struggling with him). Fool, do as I bid you! (Throws open mirrored door. Stub comes down steps, l., and watches them.)

Harry. Not to-night, Thornton, not to-night! (Thornton pushes him in, closes door, and locks it. Stub comes down softly, and sits l. of table.)

Thornton. He's safe there. I shouldn't wonder if this night rid me of him.

Stub (aside). Shouldn't wonder a bit. (Raps on table.) Here, bar-keeper, innholder, porter, bootblack, somebody or anybody, am a genblem gwine to wait all night? am he, say, somebody?

Thornton. Hallo! who are you?

Stub. Hallo, yourself: a genblem widout extinction ob color. Hop beer and peppermint for one. Be libely, be libely!

Thornton. We don't serve niggers here.

Stub. Wh-wh-what dat? Wha's yer ignorance? wha's yer ignorance? Take, keer, take keer: five hundred dollars fine! Cibil rights bill: dat's me. You can't fool dis yer citizen widout extinction ob color: no, sir. (Raps on table.) Ginger ale and sassaparilla for one. Be libely!

Thornton. Take yourself off: you cannot be served here.

Stub. Take keer, take keer; don't elebate my choler: don't rouse de slumbrin' African lion; ef yer does, down goes de whole hippodrome. Don't cibil rights bill say, don't he, ebery citizen, widout extinction ob color, am entitled to all de privileges ob trabel,—de smokeolotive, steamboat, and—and horse cars: an' to be taken in to all de inns, an' giben all de freedom,—free lunch, free drinks, an' five hundred dollars out ob de pocket ob any man dat says, Dry up? Dat's de law, mind yer eye. (Raps on table.) Soda and sassafras. Be libely, be libely!

Thornton (takes a revolver from his pocket). Will you have my pocket flask?

Stub. O Lor! (Slides under table.) Dat ain't de kind: put 'im up, put 'im up! Ain't dry: guess I won't drink.

Thornton. Out of this, or you'll get a taste of civil rights that will teach you better manners.

Stub. I's gwine: don't want no manners. (Creeps out, and goes up stage. Enter Charity Goodall, r., down steps, enveloped in a waterproof cloak: she comes down c.)

Thornton. What want you here? Who are you?

Charity (extending her hand). Charity.

Thornton (turning to table, and laying down pistol). Away: you'll get nothing here!

Charity (throws off cloak). Don't be too sure of that, Robert Thornton.

Thornton (turns quickly). Charity Goodall! (Stub comes down softly, takes pistol, goes up, crosses stage, and hides behind bar.) I beg your pardon, Mrs. Goodall. This is indeed a surprise!

Charity. And yet you have been expecting me; dreading the hour when you and I should meet face to face.

Thornton. This is hardly the place for a woman who would guard her good name from scandal.

Charity. You forget I am a woman above suspicion: that I have won a good name, by daring to enter such dens as yours, on errands of mercy.

Thornton. Ah! indeed! what errand of mercy brings the saintly Charity Goodall into my humble saloon?

Charity. Ah, you confess ownership! The spider of the gilded web! You, who, under the guise of a gentleman, lured my husband from an honorable life: you, who, with flattering promises of honorable wealth, tricked a brave lad to his ruin. Your humble saloon! You sneer, and yet you tremble. Confess all: confess you are a villain and a cheat!

Thornton. I will not listen to you. Be warned in time: at any moment, a rude throng may burst upon you. You are liable to insult from which I could not protect you.

Charity. Fear not for me: my mission is my protection. Alone, I have walked into the worst dens, without fear, without insult. With the most abandoned, no hand is raised against one who comes to rescue and deliver. Robert Thornton, listen to me: day and night I have sought, with ready helpers, Harry Maynard. To-night I have tracked him here.

Thornton. Here?

Charity. Ay, here! You threw me from the scent with your story of his utter degradation. I never dreamed the silly fly was ensnared in the gilded web. Give him back to the friends who mourn for him, and, spite my wrongs, all shall be forgotten.

Thornton. You ask too much: you see he is not here. You have been misinformed: for once the shrewd angel of mercy has been deceived.

Charity. Indeed! Perhaps another may be more successful—Jessie! (Enter from r., hurriedly, Jessie.)

Jessie. Have you found him? Speak! in mercy, speak!

Charity (putting her arm about Jessie). Be calm, my child: there is the man who holds him in his power,—Robert Thornton.

Jessie. Mr. Thornton? No, no, it cannot be! (Falls on her knees to him.) If you know where he is, if you can give him back to his father, to me, I will bless you.

Thornton. You are mistaken, Jessie; I cannot give him back. You know how much I loved him. Think you, if it were in my power, I would refuse the request of the only woman I truly loved?

Jessie. Oh, this is mockery! (Rises, and goes to Charity, who folds her in her arms.)

Charity. Poor child, your prayers are vain: that man is pitiless!

Thornton. I told you you had been deceived. Was I not right? You tracked him here, and yet you cannot find him. See how your well-laid plan has failed!

Charity. No; for I have one resource left, one taught me by the noble women of the West. You fear for my good name: do you fear for those who come to my aid with the song he loved? Pray heaven it reach the prisoner's ear! (Raises her hand. Chorus outside:—