As originally performed at the New York Theatre in the months of August, September and October, 1867.
This edition is not printed for circulation in the United States—the American copy is
published by Mr. Wemyss, 575, Broadway, New York, and permission to perform it must be obtained
of the author, Mr. A. Daly. To both these gentlemen, I offer a sincere expression of regret
that I have at length allowed myself to follow the disreputable example of some New York and
Boston publishers, and appropriate property to which I have, certainly, no moral right. I have
for years wholly repudiated the practice of pilfering from Americans, and should never, at any
time, have assumed what I consider to be a degrading, if not a dishonest position, had I not
been the victim of hundreds of instances of similar delinquency from the other side of the
Atlantic. The most annoying and injurious instance of this is the case of “The Amateur’s
Guide,” which, in design and treatment, was altogether original. I knew such a publication was
really wanted, and it occupied all the time I could spare for months in arrangement,
compilation, and new matter. I anticipated that it would be stolen, but I did not expect that
the gentleman who terms himself my agent in New York should hurriedly thrust a mutilated
version of it on the American Public with a studious withholding of my name from the book
altogether, and that my own Preface should be copied, and signed by Tony Denier as
the author of the book.
SCENE—NEW YORK.
Good night! Of course we'll see you on Tuesday.
To be sure you will.
Never spent a jollier hour. Good-night, Ray.
Good night.
You won't forget the sociable on Tuesday, Ray?
O, I won't forget.
Good night—good night.
Good night.
Yes, it's the gayest thing in the park.
I wonder where they got the money! I thought you said Van Dam had failed!
Well, yes. He failed to pay, but he continues to spend.
Good-night!
Isn't it a frightful thing to be shut up here on such a beautiful night, and New Year's of
all others. Pshaw, we've had nothing but mopes all day. O, dear, I hate mourning, though it
does become me, and I hate everything but fun, larks, and dancing.
Where in the world is Laura?
O, do forget her for a second, can't you? She'll be here presently. You're not in the house a minute but it's “Where's Laura?” “Why don't Laura come?”
Well, if anybody in the world could make me forget her it would be you. But if you had a lover, wouldn't you like him to be as constant as that?
That's quite another thing.
But this doesn't answer my question. Where is she?
I sent for her as soon as I saw you coming. She has hardly been down here a moment all this evening. O, dear! Now don't you think I'm a victim, to be cooped up in this way instead of receiving calls as we used to?
You forget that your mother died only last summer.
No, I don't forget. Pshaw, you're just like Laura. She's only my cousin, and yet she keeps always saying “Poor aunt Mary. Let us not forget how she would have sorrowed for us.”
Well, don't you know she would, too?
I don't know anything about it. I was always at boarding school, and she only saw me once a
year. Laura was always at home, and it's very different. But don't let's talk about it. To
die—ugh! I don't want to die till I don't want to live—and that'll not be for a million of
years. Come, tell me, where have you been to-day? How many calls did you make?
About sixty.
That's all? You're lazy. Demilt and Windel made a hundred and thirty, an they say that's nothing. Won't you have a cup of coffee?
No.
Ain't you hungry?
No—you torment.
O, dear! I suppose it's because you're going to be married shortly to Laura. If there's one
time that a man's stupid to his friends, it's when he's going to be married shortly. Tell me
whom you saw.
You witch! Why didn't I fall in love with you?
I don't know—why didn't you?
You never keep me waiting.
Do sit down.
This calling's a great bore, but as you and Laura insisted I should go through it I did.
First I—
And you, sir, we have been looking for you since eight o'clock.
O, I was fulfilling your orders. I've been engaged in the business of calling from ten
o'clock in the morning till now
Well, you can make this your last one, for you have leave to spend a nice long hour
chatting here before you go. Won't you have some supper?
I don't care if I do, I'm rather famished.
Well, I declare! Did Laura bring your appetite with her?
I don't know how it is, but she brings me a relish for everything in life, I believe. Laura, I think if I were to lose you I'd mope to death and starve to death.
Well, that's as much to say I'm a sort of life pill.
Supper.
You may joke about it, but it's so. You take the lounge.
You don't want me to go away, do you?
Certainly not. What an idea!
I'm sure you'll have time enough to be alone when you are married. And I do so want to talk and be talked to.
Well, Ray shall talk to you.
He was just going to tell me about his calls to-day.
That's exactly what we want to hear about. Did you call on every one we told you to?
Every one. There was Miss—
Did you go to Henrietta Liston's first?
Yes, and wasn't she dressed! Speaking of dress, are you going to have your new pink for the sociable Tuesday?
Yes, Pearl, and I will do credit to the occasion, as it is our first for a year.
And our last.
Our last!
Laura's and mine. For when we are married, you know, we shall be tabooed—where maids and bachelors only are permitted.
O bless me!
I wish you hadn't said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb, “Call a maid by a married name.”
Nonsense!
O, here's supper.
Beg pardon, Miss.
What's the matter?
There's a person below, miss, who says he's been sent with a bouquet for you, miss, and must deliver it in person.
For me? Whose servant is it?
I don't know, miss, he looks like one of those soldier messengers, red cap and all that.
Show him up here.
How romantic. So late at night. It's a rival in disguise, Ray.
You wished to see me.
Are you Miss Laura Courtland?
Yes.
Then I was told to give you this.
By whom?
Now, that's what I don't know myself. You see I was down by the steps of the Fifth Avenue
Hotel taking a light supper off a small toothpick, when a big chap dressed in black came by,
and says he, “Hallo, come with me if you want to earn a quarter.” That
It is some folly of our late visitors.
I'm one of the soldier messengers, miss. A South Carolina gentleman took such a fancy to me at Fredericksburg? Wouldn't have no denial—cut off my arm to remember me by; he was very fond of me. I wasn't any use to Uncle Sam then, so I came home, put a red band round my blue cap, and with my empty sleeve, as a character from my last place, set up for light porter and general messenger. All orders executed with neatness and dispatch.
Poor fellow!
I'm much obliged, miss, but I don't think it would be good for me on an empty stomach after fasting all day.
Well, Martin shall find you some supper, too.
Is this Martin? What a nice young man! Mayn't he have a drop of something, too? He must
have
Call on me at this place to-morrow, and you shan't regret it.
All right, cap'n. I havn't forgot the army regulations about punctuality and promotion.
Ladies, if ever either of you should want a light porter think of Joe Snorkey—wages no
objection.
O, Laura, only look, here's a billet-doux.
Nonsense, crazy head, who would dare?
A letter?
I am crazy—am I?
“For Miss Laura Courtland. Confidential.”
Ha, Ha! From some goose who has made one call too many to-day. Read it, Ray.
“Dear Laura,—”
“I respectfully beg you to grant me the favour of an interview to-night. I have waited until your company retired. I am waiting across the street now.”
A tall man in black is just walking away.
“If you will have the door opened as soon as you get this I will step over; if you don't, I
will ring; under all circumstances I will get in. There is no need to sign my name; you will
remember me as the strange man whom you once saw talking with your mother in the parlour, and
who frightened you so much.” What can be the meaning of this? Pearl—no.
Laura, you—
Ask me nothing. I will tell you by-and-bye.
Miss—
Admit no one till you bring me the name.
I was about to tell you, miss, that a strange man has forced himself in at the door and asks to see you, but will give no name.
Kick the rascal out.
Oh, don't let him come here.
He's a very strange-looking person, miss.
I'll find out what this means.
I'll spare you the trouble if you'll hear me a minute.
Who are you, fellow?
Don't, I beg you. Don't speak so crossly, I might answer back, then you'd kick me out, and you'd never forgive yourself for it as long as I lived.
Your business? Come, speak quickly and begone.
Business, on this happy day! I came for pleasure—to see Miss Courtland, my little
pupil—grown so—only think, sir, I knew her when she was only a little child, I taught her
music—she was so musical—and so beautiful—I adored her, and her mother told me I needn't come
again. But I did, and her mother was glad to see me, wasn't she, little pupil?
The fellow's drunk. Leave the house.
What, after sending that touching bouquet?
It was you, then? I knew it.
You see she knows me. Ah, memory, how it blooms again where the plough of time has passed.
Leave this house at once.
Not until I have spoken to you.
You miserable rascal.
Don't, pray don't. I weigh a hundred and ninety-eight pounds, and if you attempt to throw me about you'll strain yourself.
Go, to-morrow in the morning I will see you.
Thanks. I thank you, miss, for your forbearance.
See that he goes
O, dear, this is dreadful. I do hate scenes.
He must know everything, I tell you; and you must relate all. He will question, he will ponder—leave him nothing to ask.
If you wish it, but—
I desire it; speak of me as you will, hut tell him the truth.
Stay with her, don't follow me.
Pearl, what does this mean?
O, it's only a little cloud that I want to clear up for you.
Cloud? How? Where?
Don't I tell you I am going to tell you. Sit down here by me.
He said he knew her. And she gave him an interview for to-morrow. That drunken wretch—
Do sit down. I can never speak while you are walking about so.
You serious? I'd as soon expect to see the lightning tamed. Well, I listen.
I have something to say to you, Ray, which you must settle with your own heart. You love Laura, do you not?
Pearl, I do more, I adore her. I adore the very air that she breathes. I will never be
happy without her, I can swear
Laura is twenty now. How do you think she looked when I first saw her?
Were you at home when she first came into this earthly sphere?
Yes.
Well then I suppose she looked very small and very pink.
She was covered with rags, barefooted, unkempt, crying, and six years old.
Explain.
One night father and mother were going to the opera. When they were crossing Broadway, the usual crowd of children accosted them for alms. As mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers touched a cold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse.
A pickpocket! Well?
This hand my mother grasped in her own, and so tightly that a small, feeble voice uttered an exclamation of pain. Mother looked down, and there beside her was a little ragged girl.
The thief.
Yes, but a thief hardly six years old, with a face like an angel's. “Stop!” said my mother, “what are you doing?” “Trying to steal,” said the child. “Don't you know that it's wicked to do so?” asked my father. “No,” said the girl, “but it's dreadful to be hungry.” “Who told you to steal?” asked my mother. “She—there!” said the child, pointing to a squalid woman in a doorway opposite, who fled suddenly down the street. “That is Old Judas,” said the girl.
Old Judas! What a name. But how does this story interest us?
This child was Laura. My father was about to let her go unharmed, but my mother said, “No, it is not enough. We have a duty to perform, even to her,” and acting on a sudden impulse, took her to our home. On being questioned there, the child seemed to have no recollection save of misery and blows. My mother persuaded father, and the girl was sent to a country clergyman's for instruction, and there she remained for several years.
Pearl, you are joking with me.
In beauty, and accomplishments, and dignity Laura, as mother named her, exceeded every girl of her age. In gratitude she was all that father could have wished. She was introduced, as you know, into society as my cousin, and no one dreams of her origin.
Laura an outcast—a thief!
No, that is what she might have been.
And this man—to-night?
All I know about him is, that four years ago this man came with a cruel-looking woman, to see mother. There was a fearful scene between them, for Laura and I sat trembling on the stairs and overheard some awful words. At last they went away, the man putting money into his pocket as he left.
But who were they?
Laura never told me, and mother would not. But, of course, they must have been Laura's
father and mother.
Mother made me promise never to tell anybody this, and you would have known nothing had not
Laura made me speak. You see, she would not conceal anything from you.
What a frightful story. Laura Courtland a thief. A drunken wretch who knows her history,
and a squalid beggar woman who can claim her at any moment as their child. And I was about to
marry her. Yes, and I love her. But what would my mother think? My friends? Society?
No—no—no—I cannot think of it. I will write her—I will tell her—pshaw! she knows, of course,
that I cannot wed her now.
Ray.
Miss—Miss Courtland.
Laura—I—
Pshaw, where is my book?
What book do you want, Laura?
Sir!
Oh
Don't trouble yourself, I beg.
Laura.
Well.
Look at me.
No, no, not that way—as you used to. You act as if I were a stranger.
They are only strangers who call me Miss Courtland.
Forgive me, I beg you to forgive me.
I often wish that I were ugly, wretched, and repulsive, like the heroine in this story.
Why?
Because then I could tell who really loved me.
And don't you know?
No, I do not.
Well, I know.
Do tell me then, please.
He has told you so himself a hundred times.
You?
I!
How happy must those women be who are poor, and friendless, and plain, when some true heart comes and says “I wish to marry you!”
Laura, you act very strangely to-night.
Will you put this book away?
There, Laura.
There's Pearl calling me.
Laura, why don't you let me speak to you?
About what?
About my love.
For whom? Not me. This is only marriage and giving in marriage. I hate the very word.
You did not think so once.
I wish I had. I am frightened now; I begin to understand myself better.
And I am frightened because I understand you less.
Do not try to; good night.
I've been an ass. No, I wrong that noble animal. The ass recognised the angel, and I, like
Balaam, was blind. But I see now. After all, what have I to fear?
Phew! wet as the deuce, and cold too. There'll be nobody here.
It's an awful night. The rooms are almost empty.
Sam! Where the dickens is that darkey?
Here sah.
Hurry up with my boots. Who's here?
Berry few gemman, sah; only lebben overcoats and ten overshoes. Dem overshoes is spilin the polishin business.
Look out and don't give me any knocks.
I wonder if the Courtland girls have come yet.
What did Laura Courtland ever see in Trafford to fall in love with? The Van Dam party is my fancy.
She's ten years older than you, and has a husband.
Yes, a fine old banker, on whom she can draw for
That'll do, Sam, take my coat.
Hallo! Trafford, this is a night, ain't it? Have the Courtlands come?
Not with me. Here, Sam, take my coat.
Save the pieces. Mind the love letters.
Look out well next time. There's that cursed letter I was going to send to Laura. Confound
it, I must destroy it when I go home.
I say, Trafford, what'll you take, and let a fellow read those? Windel, I guess if the girls could get into the cloak-room, it would be better than the dead-letter office. What a time they'd have! Are you ready?
What's the use of hurrying? There is no life in the party till Laura Courtland comes. By Jove, Trafford! you're in luck. She's the prettiest girl in New York.
And the best?
There's the march music, let's go.
Come along.
Dere's anoder of dem billy dooses; wonder if it am Mist' Trafford's. Eh, golly! musn't mix
dem gentlemen's letters,—musn't mix 'em nohow,—or nobody or nuffing wouldn't be able to stop
lighting in dis city for de nex month.
There Ray. I've had enough; I want to speak with him.
You lazy fellow, where have you been?
You're not tired, are you?
I feel as fresh as a daisy.
Have a waltz with me.
Where's Laura?
She wasn't ready, and I was dying to come. Been fixed since eight o'clock; so I came with Miss Earlie. So you made it up with Laura?
Yes. Don't say anything more about the horrid subject. We've made it all up. But what on
earth keeps her to-night? It's eleven already.
Trafford, you look very uneasy, what's the matter?
Oh, nothing. I think I ought to go for Laura. I will, too.
Nonsense! She'll be here in good time. You shan't leave us. Hold him, Pearl. We want a nine-pin quadrille; we havn't half enough gentlemen. Come, be jolly about it. You lovers are always afraid someone will carry your girls away.
I? I'm not afraid.
Come, come! I never saw such a restless fellow.
Here's your coat, sir.
Give it to me. I'm determined you shan't go.
Well, I suppose I'll have to wait.
There, take him off, Pearl.
Here's one for Laura, its unsealed and not delivered.
A fair prize, let's see it.
“your sister, Pearl—your obscure origin—terrible family connexions—the secret of the tie
which binds you to a drunken wretch—my mother, society—will demand of me a wife who will not
blush to own her kindred—or start at the name of outcast and thief.—Signed, Ray Trafford.”
What can it mean?
It means that the rumours of ten years ago are proven. It was then suspected that the girl whom Mrs. Courtland brought every year from some unnamed place in the country, and introduced to everybody as her niece, was an impostor, which that foolish woman, in a freak of generosity, was thrusting upon society. The rumours died out for want of proof, and before Laura's beauty and dignity, but now they are confirmed, she is some beggar's child.
What do you think we ought to do?
Tell it—tell it everywhere, of course. The best blood of New York is insulted by the girl's
presence.
What have you three girls got your heads together for? Some conspiracy, I know.
Go, girls, tell it everywhere.
What is it all about? Your face is like a portrait of mystery.
Look at this, and tell me what it means.
Where did you get this?
It is you who must answer, and society that will question. So Laura is not a Courtland?
You know, then—
Everything! And will you marry this creature? You cannot, society will not permit your sacrifice.
This is not your business. Give me that letter.
Certainly, take it. But let me say one word—its contents are known. In an hour every tongue will question you about this secret, every eye will inquire.
I implore you! Do not breathe a word for her sake.
The secret's not mine.
Who knows it?
Look!
What will they do?
Expose her! Expel her from society in which she is an intruder!
You dare not!
O Ray, what is the meaning of this?
It means that society is a terrible avenger of insult. Have you ever heard of the Siberian wolves? When one of the pack falls through weakness the others devour him. It is not an elegant comparison, but there is something wolfish in society. Laura has mocked it with a pretence, and Society, which is made up of pretences, will bitterly resent the mockery.
Very good! This handsome thief has stolen your breeding as well as your brains, I see.
If you speak a word against her I will say that what you utter is a lie!
As you please, we will be silent. But you will find that the world speaks most forcibly when it utters no sound.
O, go and prevent her coming here.
That I can do.
Come girls! Let us look after our things. They are no longer safe when an accomplished
thief enters.
Ray, Ray! why do you not come to her?
Are you not coming with us, Trafford?
Let us go home.
No, stay with him!
The stove won't shine. It's the fault of the polish, I know. That boy that comes here, just
fills the bottles with mud, and calls it stove polish. Only let me catch him. Ah! Ah!
Hum! Is your ma in, my dear?
Oh!
Any old clothes to change for chany, my dear? Where's your ma's old skirts and shawls, my
pet? Get 'em quick, before mother comes in, and I'll give you a beautiful chany mug or a
tea-pot for them. Come here, my ducky—see the pretty—
You just leave me be. I'm honest, I am. I'm good!
You're good? Where's my shoe? I'll take the goodness out of you.
Oh, oh! please don't beat me. I ain't good. I'm only trying to be.
You're only trying to be, eh? Trying to be good, and here's me as was a weeping every night, thinking as you was sent up for six months. Who're you living with—you ain't a keeping house, are you?
I'm living with Miss Nina.
Nina, what's she, concert saloon girl?
No, she's a lady.
A lady—and have such baggage as you about? Where's my shoe, I'll make you speak the truth.
I don't know what she is. She met me when the police were taking me up for loafin' down Hudson-street, and she begged me off.
Has she any money?
No, she's poor.
Any nice clothes?
Oh, she's got good clothes.
Where are they?
Locked up, and she's got the key.
You're lying, I see it in your eye. You're always shame-faced when you are telling the
truth, and now you're as bold as brass. Where's my shoe?
There's Miss Nina.
Ah, my pretty dear! What a good lady to take you in and give you a home.
No, I don't want anything, my good woman.
That's her—I'd know her anywheres!
You've been very good this morning, Blossom. The room is as nice as I could wish.
Please 'm I tried because you are so good to me.
No pay yet for colouring 'till I have practiced a week longer. Then I shall have all the
work I can do. They say at the photographer's I colour well, and the best pictures will be
given me. The best! Already I have had beneath my brush so many faces that I know—friends of
the old days. The silent eyes seem to wonder at me for bringing them to this strange and
lowly home.
Here he is m'm.
Leave go, I tell yer, or I'll make yer.
What is the matter?
He's the boy that sold me that stove polish what isn't stove polish.
What is it then—s-a-a-y?
It's mud! it's mud at tenpence a bottle.
Ah, where could I get mud? Ain't the streets clean? Mud's dearer than stove polish now.
And your matches is wet, and your pins won't stick, and your shoe-strings is rotten, there now!
Well, how am I to live? it ain't my fault, it's the taxes. Ain't I got to pay my income tax, and how am I to pay it if I gives you your money's worth? Sa-a-y?
Do let the boy alone, Blossom. Send him away.
Extra! Hollo, Bermudas! how's your sister? Papers, Miss. Extra! Revolution in Mexico!
Dear, dear, this is the way I'm worried from morning till night.
Here, just you get out! This is my beat.
Vell, I ain't blacking or hairpins now, I'm papers. How'm I hurting you?
Vell I'm papers at four o'clock, and this is my beat. Take care of me, I'm training for a fight. I'm a bruiser, I am.
Hold yer jaw.
Get out with you, both of you!
Don't let's be troubled in this way again. Have you got the things for dinner?
Lor, no, miss. It's twelve o'clock, and I forgot.
What did we have for dinner yesterday, Blossom?
Beefsteak 'm. Let's have some leg o' mutton to-day. We've never had that.
But I don't know how to cook it. Do you?
No, but I'd just slap it on, and it's sure to come out right.
Slap it on what?
The gridiron!
No, we'd better not try a leg of mutton to-day. Get some lamb chops, we know how to manage them.
Taters, as usual, 'mum?
Yes; and stop Blossom—while you're buying the chops, just ask the butcher—off hand, you know—how he would cook a leg of mutton, if he were going to eat it himself—as if you wanted to know for yourself.
Yes 'm, but I'm sure it's just as good broiled as fried.
Now to be cook.
Beg pardon, is there anybody here as answers to the name of A. B. C.?
My advertisement for work.—Yes, give it to me.
If I'd been taking something this morning, I'd say that I'd seen that face in a different sort of place from this.
Is there anything to pay? Why do you wait?
Nothing, Miss. It's all right.
Yes, an answer to my advertisement.
Miss, I say Miss?
What do you want?
Only one word, and perhaps it may be of service to you. I'd do anything to serve you.
And why me?
I'm a blunt fellow, Miss, but I hope my way don't offend. Ain't you the lady that I brought a bouquet to on New Year's night—not here, but in a big house, all bright and rich, and who was so kind to a poor soldier?
Whoever you may be, promise to tell no one you saw me here.
No fear, Miss. I promise.
Sacredly?
No need to do more than promise, Miss—I keeps my word. I promise Uncle Sam I'd stick to the flag—though they tore my arm off, and by darnation I stuck! I don't want to tell on you, Miss, I want to tell on some one else.
What do you mean?
They're looking for you.
Who?
Byke.
This?
Yes, it's his writin'—looks like a woman's, don't it? Lord! the snuff that man's up to, would make Barnum sneeze his head off. He's kept me in hand, 'cause he thinks I know you, having seen you that once. Every day he reads the advertisements, and picks out a dozen or so, and says to me—“Snorkey, that's like my little pet,” and then he sits down and answers them, and gets the advertisers to make appointments with him, which he keeps regularly, and regularly comes back cussing at his ill luck. See here, Miss, I've a bundle of answers to deliver as usual, to advertisers. I calls 'em Byke's Target Practice, and this time, you see, he's accidentally hit the mark.
For heaven's sake do not betray me to him! I've got very little money, I earn it hardly,
but take it, take it—and save me.
No, miss, not a cent of it. Though Byke is a devil, and would kick me hard if he thought I would betray him.
I don't want you to suffer for my sake, take the money.
No, I stood up to be shot at for thirteen dollars a month, and I can take my chances of a kickin' for nothing. But Byke ain't the only one, miss, there's another's looking for you.
Another! Who?
Mr. Trafford.
No, no, no; not even he must know. Do you hear—not he—not anyone. You have served them well; serve me and be silent.
Just as you please, miss, but I hate to serve you by putting your friends off the track—it
don't seem natural—Byke I don't mind, but the capt'n wouldn't do you any harm. Just let me
give him a bit of a hint.
How shall I ever escape that dreadful man? And Ray searching for me too. Our friends, then, remember us, as well us our enemies.
O, Miss Nina, whatever is into the people? There's a strange man coming down the entry, I heard him asking that red cap fellow about you.
Byke! Fasten the door, quick.
O, dear, he's powerful strong, I can't keep it shut. Go away, you willin': Oh!
Laura, it is I!
Ray!
Dear Laura
No, sir, I've swept the sidewalk and gone a marketing, and now I'm in doors and I mean to stay.
And wouldn't you oblige me by going for a sheet of paper and an envelope? Here's a dollar—try and see how slow you can be.
You can't sheet of paper me, mister, I'm protecting Miss Nina, and I'm not to be enveloped.
Go as the gentleman asks you, Blossom.
Oh!
Laura, when I approached you you shrank from me. Why did you do so?
Look around you and find your answer.
Pardon me, I did not come here to insult your misery. When I saw you I forgot everything else.
And now it's time for us to remember everything. I told you to look around that you might understand that in such a place I am no longer Laura Courtland, nor anything I used to be. But I did not ask your pity. There is no misery here.
Alone, without means, exposed to every rudeness, unprotected, is this not misery for you?
Oh, it's not so bad as that.
Laura, don't trifle with me. You cannot have exchanged everything that made you happy, for this squalid poverty, and not feel it deeply.
I have not time to feel anything deeply.
Lamb chops! It makes me shudder to hear you speak.
Does it? Then wait till I get the gridiron on the fire and you'll shiver. And if you want to be transfixed with horror stop and take dinner.
I will not hear you mock yourself thus, Laura. I tell you in this self-banishment you have acted thoughtlessly—you have done wrong.
Why?
Because, let the miserable creatures who slandered you say what they might, you had still a home and friends.
A home! Where the very servants would whisper and point, friends who would be ashamed to acknowledge me. You are mistaken. That is neither home nor friendship.
And you are resolved to surrender the past for ever.
The past has forgotten me in spite of myself.
Look at me.
Well, then, there's one who has has not forgotten me, but I desire that he may. You speak to me of bitterness. Your presence, your words, cause me the first pang I have felt since the night I fled unnoticed from my chamber, and began my life anew. Therefore I entreat you to leave me, to forget me.
Laura, by the tie that once bound us!
Yes, once. It is a long time ago.
What have I said? The tie which still—
Mr. Trafford, must I remind you of that night when all arrayed themselves so pitilessly against me, when a gesture from you might have saved me, and you saw me without stretching a finger to the woman who had felt the beating of your heart. No, you made your choice then—the world without me. I make my choice now—the wide, wide, world without you.
I have been bitterly punished, for we are never so humiliated as when we despise ourselves. But, by the heaven above us both, I love you, Laura—I have never ceased to love you.
I thank you. I know how to construe the love which you deny in the face of society to offer me behind its back.
Will you drive me mad? I tell you, Laura, your misery, your solitude is as nothing to the anguish I have suffered. The maniac who in his mental darkness stabs to the heart the friend he loved, never felt in returning reason the remorse my error has earned me. Every day it says to me “You have been false to the heart that loved you, and you shall account for it to your conscience all your life. You shall find that the bitterest drops in the cup of sorrow are the tears of the woman you have forsaken.” And it is true. O, forgive me—have pity on me.
I forgive you. Yes, and I pity you—and so good-bye for ever.
Of course I am nothing to you now, that is some comfort to me, I have only to be sorry on my own account, but I come to you on behalf of others.
Whom?
My mother and Pearl, they ask for you. For them I have sought you, to urge you to return to them.
Dear little Pearl.
Yes, she has been quite ill.
She has been ill?
Think of those two hearts which you have caused to suffer and do not drive me from you. It is not only wealth, luxury, and refinement which you have surrendered—you have also cast away those greater riches, loving and devoted friends. But they shall persuade you themselves—yes, I'll go and bring them to you, you cannot resist their entreaties.
No, no, they must not come here, they must never know where I hide my shame, and you must never reveal it.
I promise it if you will go to them with me. Think, they will insist on coming unless you do.
Poor Pearl. If I go with you you promise not to detain me—to permit me to come back and to trouble me and my poor life no more?
I promise, but I know you will release me from it when you see them. I will get a carriage, so that no one will meet you. Wait for me, I shall not be long. It is agreed?
Yes, it is agreed.
Here they are.
That's a good girl, keep them till I come back. In half an hour, Laura, be ready.
What's he going to do in half an hour?
He's going to take me away with him for a little while, Peachblossom, and while I'm gone I wish you to be a good girl, and watch the house and take care of it till I return.
I don't believe it, you won't return.
Blossom!
I don't care, if you go away I'll go away; I'll bite and scratch him if he comes back.
Blossom, you're very wicked. Go into the corner this minute and put your apron over your head.
O, please, Miss Nina, let me go with you and I'll be so good and not say a word to any one.
Do let me go with you. Let me ask him to let me go with you.
Run, run, open the door.
Ah, my dear little runaway, found you at last, and just going out. How lucky! I wanted you to take a walk with me.
Instantly leave this place!
How singular! You are always ordering me out and I am always coming in. We want a change. I will go out, and I request you to come with me.
Blossom, go find an officer, tell him this wretch is insulting me.
Blossom? Ah—exactly! Here, you Judas.
O, miss, save me.
Take care of that brat, and as for you, daughter, come with me.
Daughter.
Yes, it is time to declare myself. Paternal feeling has been too long smothered in my
breast. Come to my arms, my child—my long-estranged child.
Heavens! is there no help?
What an unfilial girl, you take advantage of a father's weakness and try to bolt.
Smithers, keep those people quiet.
Pickpocket, your honour. Caught in the act.
What's he got to say for himself? Nothing, eh? What's his name?
Says his name is Peter Rich.
You stand a poor chance, Rich. Take him away!
So you want to get out, eh? How much money have you got?
Be jabers! half a dollar in cents is all the money I'm worth in the world.
Give it to me. I thought you organ fellows were Italians.
Divil doubt it! Ain't I got a monkey?
Here, you—come up here.
Now then, what's this, officer?
Complaint of disturbing the neighbourhood.
What have you got to say for yourself?
If your honour please, I appear for this man.
Well, what have you got to say for him?
Here is an unfortunate man, your honour—a native of sunny Italy. He came to our free and happy country, and being a votary of music, he bought an organ and a monkey, and tried to earn his bread. But the myrmidons of the law were upon him, and the Eagle of Liberty drooped his pinions, as Rafferdi was hurried to his dungeon.
Rafferdi, you're an Irishman, ain't you? What do you mean by deceiving us?
Sure I didn't. It's the lawyer chap there. I paid him fifty cints and he's lying out the worth of it.
You fellows are regular nuisances. I've a great mind to commit you.
Commit him? If the court please, reflect—commit him to prison? what will become of his monkey?
Well, I'll commit him too.
You cannot. I defy the Court to find anything in the Statutes authorizing the commital of the monkey.
Well, we'll leave out the monkey.
And if the Court please, what is the monkey to do in the wide world, with his natural protector in prison? I appeal to those kindlier feelings in your honour's breast, which must ever temper justice with mercy. This monkey is perhaps an orphan!
Take them both away, and don't let me catch you here again, Mr. Rafferdi, or you'll go to jail.
Get up here.
Look yah—don't pull me around.
Silence there! what's all this noise about?
Whar's do court? I want to see de Judge.
My colored friend, can I assist you?
Am you a Counseller-at-law?
Yes, retain me. How much money have you got?
I ain't got no money, but I've got a policy ticket. It's bound to draw a prize.
Got any pawn tickets?
Oh course.
Well, what's the charge?
Drunk and disorderly.
Well, my man, what have you to say?
Dis here gemman represents me.
We admit, if the Court please, that we were slightly intoxicated, but we claim the privilege, as the equal of the white man.
Very good. Commit him for ten days.
But this is an outrage, your honour.
Take him off.
What?
Take him away.
Look here, judge, hab you read the Civil Right Bill? You can't send dis nigger to prison, while dat bill am de law ob de land.
That'll do, remove him.
I ain't no gipsy, I'm one of de Bureau nigger, I am. Where am de law? Don't touch me, white
man! Dis am corruption—dis am 'ficial delinquency!
Any more prisoners?
Where is the judge? Oh, where is the good, kind judge?
Well, my dear sir, what is the matter?
O, sir, forgive my tears. I'm a broken-hearted man!
Be calm, my dear sir. Officer, bring this gentleman a chair.
Ah, sir, you are very good to a poor distressed father, whose existence has been made a desert on account of his child.
Repress your emotion, and tell me what you want.
I want my child.
Where is she?
She is here, sir—here—my darling, my beautiful child, and so unfilial—so unnatural.
How is this, young lady?
It is all a lie. He is not my father.
Not your father? Oh, dear, oh, dear, you will break my heart!
This needs some explanation. If not his child, who are you?
I am—I dare not say it. I know not who I am, but I feel that he cannot be my father.
O, dear—O!—
Silence!
Yes.
Where and with whom do you live?
I have lived alone for four months.
And with whom did you live before that?
O, forgive me, if I seem disobedient—but I cannot tell.
Then I must look to this gentleman for information.
And I will gladly give it. Yes, sir, I will gladly tell. She was taken from me years ago,
when she was but a little child, by rich people who wanted to adopt her. I
How old is she?
Nineteen.
Your father is your legal guardian during your minority, and is entitled to your custody. Why are you so undutiful? Try to correct this?
Oh, bless you, dear good judge for these words.
O, have I no friends, must I go with him?
Certainly.
Anything then. Exposure! Disgrace, rather than that!
Snorkey! the devil!
Can I help you, miss? Only tell me what to do, and if it takes my other arm off, I'll save you.
Yes, yes, you can help me!
You may do that.
Run to that house—not my house—but the one in which you saw me first. Do you remember it?
Don't I, and the wine and cakes.
Ask for Miss Pearl. Tell her where I am. Tell her to come instantly.
Can I what? Gaze at this giant intellect and don't ask me! The ebony box—all right—I'm off.
It would have been as well, young lady, to have answered frankly at first.
O, sir! Don't be harsh with her! Don't be harsh with my poor child.
Your father has a most Christian disposition.
Sir, I have told you, and I now solemnly repeat it, that this man is no relation of mine. I
desire to remain unknown, for I am most unfortunate; but the injustice you are about to
commit forces me to reveal myself, though in doing so I shall increase a sorrow already hard
to bear.
We sit here to do right, according to the facts before us. And let me tell you, young lady, that your obstinate silence has more than convinced us that your father's statement is correct. Further, unless the witnesses you have sent for can directly contradict him, we shall not alter our decision.
Let it be so. He says he gave me into the care of certain wealthy people when I was a little child.
I am willing to swear to it.
Then he will be able to describe the clothes in which I was dressed at the time. They were safely kept. I have sent for them.
Let them be produced—and I will recognise every little precious garment.
Here's a witness! Here's evidence!
Ray?
Who is this?
I am a friend, sir, of this lady.
He is a dreadful character—a villain who wants to lead my child astray! Don't—please don't let him contaminate her!
Silence!
His daughter?
He knows nothing.
Let him answer. Come—have you any knowledge of this matter?
I had been told, sir, that—
Have you brought the ebony box? It contained the clothes which I wore when—
I understand; but in my haste, and not knowing your peril I brought nothing. But can you not remember them yourself?
Perfectly.
Write, then!
That's the way.
It will not be a great effort for me to remember.
Now, sir, I will listen to you.
A soiled gingham frock, patched and torn.
What kind of shoes and stockings?
Her foot were bare.
And the colour of her hood?
Her dear little head was uncovered.
He has answered correctly.
It is useless to struggle more! Heaven alone can help me!
You can see, sir, that this lady cannot be his daughter. Look at her and at him.
I only see that he has pretty well proven his case. She must go with him, and let her learn to love him as a daughter should.
She shall not! I will follow him wherever he goes.
I appeal to the Court.
Officer, take charge of that person, until this gentleman is gone.
My child, try and remember the words of the good judge. “You must learn to love me as a
daughter should.”
Stay here, sir, I'll track him. No one suspects me!
Only tell me where he has taken her, and I'll go with you—indeed I will.
We don't want you, we wouldn't be bothered with you; she's our game.
What are you going to do with her?
Do! why we'll coin her. Turn her into dollars. We've had it on foot for a long time.
What! Is she the rich young lady I heard you and Byke speak of so often before I got away from you?
Heard me speak of! What did you hear?
O, I know! I know more than you suppose. When you used to lock me up in the back cellar for running away, you forgot that doors had key-holes.
This girl must be silenced.
What are you muttering about—don't you know how Byke used to throw you down and trample on you for muttering?
I'll have you yet, my beauty.
I think you are a great fool, Judas.
Likely, likely.
Why don't you give up Miss Nina to that handsome young gentleman? He'd pay you well for the secret. He'd give his whole fortune for her, I know, I saw it in his face. And he'd treat you better than Byke does.
Not yet my chicken; besides, what does he care for her now? Isn't he going to marry the other girl—she's the one will pay when the time comes—but we intend to hold the goods 'till the price is high.
Then if you won't, I'll tell all as I knows. I'll tell him all I used to overhear about babies and cradles, and he'll understand it, perhaps, if I don't.
Hang her—she'll make mischief.
Don't touch me, I won't trust you with your hands on me.
I'm no more use than a gun without a trigger. I tried to follow Byke, but he smoked in a
minute. Then I tried to make up with him, but he swore that I went against him in Court, and
so he wouldn't have me at no price. Then I ran after the carriage that he got into with the
lady, till a darn'd old woman caught me for upsetting her apple stand and bursting up her
business. What am I to do now? I'm afraid to go back to the Cap'n, he won't have me at any
price either, I suppose.
What are you a-doing of—sa-a-y?
Well, youngster, what are you groaning about? Have you got the cholera?
Ah! what are you doing? Taking the bloom off my songs? You've read them 'ere ballads till they're in rags.
I was looking for the “Prairie Bird.”
Perary Bird! eh? There ain't no perary bird. There's a “Perary Flower.”
Now don't go into convulsion. I'll find it.
Sa-ay—you needn't look no further for that bird! I've found him and no mistake. He's a big Shanghae with a red comb and no feathers.
He's dropped on me.
Ain't you a mean cuss, sa-ay? Why don't you come down with your two cents, and support trade?
But I ain't got two cents. What's a fellow to do if he hasn't got a red?
Hain't you? Where's your messages?
Havn't had one go to-day.
Where do you hang out?
Nowheres.
My eye—no roost?
No.
I tell you what, come along with us—we've got a bully place—no rent—no taxes—no nothin'.
Where is it?
Down under the pier! I discovered it. I was in swimmin' and seed a hole and I went in. Lots of room, just the place for a quiet roost. We has jolly times every night I tell you on the dock; and when it is time to turn in we goes below, and has it as snug as a hotel; come down with us.
I will! These young rascals will help me to track that scoundrel yet.
Now, help me to take in my show windows; it's time to shut up shop.
If what that crazy girl has told me can be true, Laura may yet be restored to her friends
if not to me, for I have dispelled that dream for ever. But that villain must be traced
immediately, or he will convey his victim far beyond our reach or rescue.
Hollo! Capt'n!
The man of all I wanted. You tracked him?
They was too much for me, sir—two horses was, but I saw them turn into Greenwich-street, near Jay.
This may give us a clue. I have learned from a girl who knows this fellow, that he has some hiding-place over the river, and owns a boat which is always fastened near the pier where the Boston steamers are.
Well, Cap'n, if anything's to be done, you'll find me at Pier—what's the number of our pier, Shorty?
Pier 30! Down stairs!
Pier 30. That's my new home, and if you want me, say the word.
You will help me?
You bet, Cap'n. I was on Columbia's side for four years, and I'll fight for her daughters for the rest of my life, if you say so. If there's any fightin' count me in, Cap'n.
Thank you, brave fellow. Here take this—no nonsense—take it. Pier 30, is it?
Pier 30.
How much, Perary?
One—two—three—four—dollars.
Four dollars! Sa-ay—don't you want to buy a share in a paying business? I'm looking out for a partner with a cash capital, for the ballad business. Or I tell you what to do. Lay your money on me in a mill. I'm going to be a prize-fighter, and get reported in the respectable dailies. “Rattling Mill, 99th round, Bermudas the victor, having knocked his antagonist into nowheres.”
Come along, you young imp. I could floor you with my own arm, and then the report would be: “25th round—Snorkey came up first, while his antagonist showed great signs of distress.”
Say, Perary, what are you going to do with all that money?
I won't bet it on you, sure.
I'll tell you what to do, let's go and board at the Metropolitan Hotel for an hour.
What will we do for toothpicks?
Oh, go along. You can't get anything to eat for four dollars.
Have you fixed everything across the river?
Yes, I have a horse and waggon waiting near the shore to carry her to the farm. Has any one been around here?
Not a soul. I've been waiting here for an hour. What made you so long?
I pulled down the river for a spell to throw any spies off the track. It was necessary after what you told me of that girl's threat to blab about the Boston pier.
Pshaw! she'd never dare.
Never mind, it's best to be certain. Is the prize safe?
Yes, she was worn out, and slept when I came away. How her blood tells—she wouldn't shed a tear.
Bah! if she'd been more of a woman and set up a screaming, we shouldn't have been able to get her at all. Success to all girls of spirit, say I.
Don't you think it might be worth while to treat with this young spark, Trafford, and hear what he has to offer?
Satan take him! no. That'll spoil your game about the other girl, Pearl. He was making up
to her all right, and if he gets this one back he'll upset the whole game by marrying her. I
tell you he's got the old feeling
Then I do as you do—get her out of the city. When Pearl is married to him we can treat for Laura's ransom, by threatening them with the real secret.
Then that's settled.
Just tell her it's to meet her beau and get her ransom, or give her a reason and she'll be as mild as a lamb.
Ha! let me get hold of her, and I'll answer she goes across, reason or no reason.
It's only the market boys coming down for a swim.
Softly then, come along.
Say, Peanuts, go down and see if any of the fellows is come yet.
There's nobody there.
Hollo!
Hollo! that's our new chum. Hollo! Follow your front teeth, and you'll get here afore you knows it.
What a very airy location.
It's a very convenient hotel. Hot and cold salt-water baths at the very door of your bedrooms, and sometimes when the tide rises we has the bath brought to us in bed, doesn't we, Peanuts?
That's so.
Come, what do you do before you go to bed?
We'll have a swarry. Say, one of you fellows, go down and bring up the piany forty.
Something lively.
Here, boys! less noise.
It's Acton and the police. Let's go to bed.
If you boys don't make less noise, I'll have to clear you out.
It's an extra occasion, Mr. Acton; we've got a distinguished military guest, and we're
entertaining him.
Is that you, Snorkey?
Here, sir. Anything turned up?
Byke was overheard to say he intended crossing the river to-night. He will doubtless use that boat which he keeps by the Boston pier. The river patrol are on the watch for him, but I will meet him before he can embark.
Which Boston pier is it, Cap'n? there are three on this river.
Three?
Yes, one of them is two slips below. I tell you what, Cap'n; you get the officers, go by the shore way, search all the slips; I'll find a boat about here, and will drop down the river, and keep an eye around generally.
This way, sir.
That's the patrol calling me. Your idea is a good one. Keep a sharp eye down the stream.
Now for my lay.
Say, can't I do nothin? I'm the Fifth-Ward Chicken, and if there's any muss, let me have a shy.
No; get in and keep quiet.
Yours, it you like. Turn it loose.
Keep your toe out of my ear.
Is this the place? There is no one here; you have deceived me.
Well, we have, but we won't do so any longer.
What do you mean?
Do you see this? It is my dog Trusty. It has a very loud voice, and a sharp bite; and if you scream out, I'll try if it can't outscream you. Judas, unfasten the boat.
What are you about to do? You will not murder me?
No, we only mean to take you to the other shore, where your friends won't think of finding you. Quick, Judas!
The boat's gone.
Damn you, what do you mean? Where is it? Here, hold her.
Here!
Snorkey! We're betrayed. Come.
The police are there. Turn, you coward, don't run away from a one-armed man!
Judas, take her.
Help! Bermudas!
Hi! Ninety-ninth round! First blood for Bermudas!
Judas, toss her over.
And so the distinguished foreigner is in love with me? I thought he looked excessively
solemn last night. Do you know, I can't imagine a more serious spectacle than a Frenchman or
an Italian in love. One always imagines them to be unwell.
Where's Ray?
O, he's somewhere. I never saw such another. Isn't he cheerful? He never smiles, and seldom talks.
But the foreigner does. What an ecstasy he was in over your singing; sing us a verse, won't you, while we're waiting for Ray?
It will be delightful—do.
Well!
Now, I've sung that to Ray a dozen times, and he never even said it was nice. He hasn't any soul for music; O, dear, what a creature!
Yes, and what a victim you will be, with a husband who has 60,000 dollars per annum income!
That's some comfort, isn't it?
Going out, Pearl?
Yes, we're off to Shrewsbury. Quite a party's going—four carriages—and we mean to stay and ride home by moonlight.
Couldn't you return a little earlier?
Earlier! Pshaw! What's in you, Trafford?
Well, she'll read and read, as she always did, and never miss me.
But at least, she ought to have some little attention.
Dear, dear, what an unreasonable fellow you are. Isn't she happy now—didn't you save her from drowning, and havn't I been as good to her as I can be—what more do you want?
I don't like to hear you talk so, Pearl, and remember what she and you were once. And you know that she was something else once—something that you are now to me. And yet how cheerful, how gentle she is. She has lost everything, and does not complain.
Well, what a sermon! There, I know you're hurt and I'm a fool. But I can't help it. People say “she's good-looking, but she's got no heart!” I'd give anything for one, but they ain't to be bought.
Well, don't moan about it, I didn't mean to reprove you.
But you do reprove me. I'm sure I havn't been the cause of Laura's troubles. I didn't tell the big ugly man to come and take her away, although I was once glad he did.
Pearl!
Because I thought I had gained you by it.
I'm coming. Can't you get me my shawl, Ray?
And here's your foreign admirer on horseback.
Are you not coming, Trafford?
I? No!
Do come on horseback, here's a horse ready for you.
Pearl's calling you. Be quick or Count Carom will be before you, and hand her in the carriage.
Poor Pearl. It is a sad thing to want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to see
another groping about blindly for it when it is almost within the grasp. And yet she can be
very happy with him. Her sunny temper, and her joyous face will brighten any home.
If you please.
Did any one see you come here? How did you find me?
I asked 'em at the hotel where Mr. Trafford was, and they said at Courtlands, and I asked 'em where Courtlands was, and they said down the shore, and I walked down lookin' at every place till I came here.
Speak low, Blossom. My existence is a secret, and no one must hear you.
Well, miss, I says to Snorkey—says I—
Is he with you?
No, miss, but we are great friends. He wants me to keep house for him some day. I said to him—“ I want to find out where Miss Nina's gone,” and so he went to Mr. Trafford's and found he was come to Long Branch, but never a word could we hear of you.
And the others—those dreadful people?
Byke and old Judas? Clean gone! They hasn't been seen since they was took up for throwing
you into the water, and let off because no one came to Court agin 'em. Bermudas says he's
seen 'em in Barnum's wax-work show, but Bermudas is
Brought you up here?
Yes, he sells papers at Stetson's; he's got the exclusive trade here, and he has a little waggon and a horse, and goes down to the junction every night to catch the extras from the express train what don't come here. He says he'll give me lots of nice rides if I'll stay here.
But you must not stay here. You must go back to New York this evening.
Back! No, I won't.
Blossom!
I won't, I won't, I won't! I'll never let you away again. I did it once and you was took away and chucked overboard and almost drowned. I won't be any trouble, indeed, I won't. I'll hire out at the hotel, and run over when my work is done at night, when nobody can see me, to look up at your window. Don't send me away. You're the only one as ever was good to me.
Besides, I've got something to tell you. Dreadful! dreadful! about old Judas and Byke—a secret.
A secret! what in the world are you saying?
Is it wicked to listen at doors when people talk?
It is very wicked.
Well, I suppose that's why I did it. I used to listen to Byke and Judas when they used to talk about a rich lady whom they called Mrs. Courtland.
Ah!
Judas used to be a nurse at Mrs. Courtland's, and was turned off for stealing. And wasn't she and Byke going to make money off her! and Byke was to pretend to be some beautiful lady's father. Then when they took you, Judas says to me: ‘Did you ever hear of children being changed in their cradles?”—and that you wasn't her child, but she was going to make money off the real one at the proper time.
What do you tell me?
Oh! I'm not crazy. I know a heap, don't I? And I want you think I'm somebody, and not send me away.
You ain't mad with me?
No, no; but you must go away from here. Go back to the hotel, to your friend—anywhere, and wait for me; I will come to you.
Is it a promise?
Then I'll go; for I know you always keep your word—you ain't angry, 'cause I came after
you? I did it because I loved you—because I wanted to see you put in the right place. Honour
bright, you ain't sending me away now? Well, I'll go; good bye!
I did go part of the way, but I left the party a mile down the road?
You and Pearl had no disagreement?
No—yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers always stand at “cloudy” and “overcast.”
But she is to be your wife. Ray, my friend, courtship is the text from which the whole solemn sermon of married life takes its theme. Do not let yours be discontented and unhappy.
To be my wife; yes. In a moment of foolishness, dazzled by her airs, and teased by her conquettishness, I asked her to be my wife.
And you repent already?
I don't know what it is. I was wrong to accuse you. Forgive me! I have only my own cowardice to blame for my misery. But Pearl—
You must not accuse her.
When you were gone, she seemed to have no thought—no wish—but for my happiness. She constantly invited me to her house, and when I tried to avoid her, met me at every turn. Was she altogether blameless?
Yes, it was her happiness she sought, and she had a right to seek it.
Oh! men are the veriest fools on earth; a little attention, a little sympathy, and they are caught—caught by a thing without soul or brains, while some noble woman is forsaken and forgotten.
Be it as you will.
How well I have learned that.
She only asks in return, that when you look upon her, your eyes shall speak a mute devotion; that when you address her, your voice shall be gentle, loving and kind. That you shall not despise her because she cannot understand, all at once, your vigorous thoughts and ambitious designs: for when misfortune and evil have defeated your greatest purposes—her love remains to console you. You look to the trees for strength and grandeur—do not despise the flowers, because their fragrance is all they have to give. Remember, love is all a woman has to give; but it is the only earthly thing which God permits us to carry beyond the grave.
Spoken like a hero.
But it is to you I owe the new light that guides me; and I will tell her—
Tell her nothing—never speak of me. And when you see her, say to her it is she, and she alone, whom you consult and to whom you listen.
And you?—
You will see me no more.
You will leave me?
Something of me will always be with you—my parting words—my prayers for your happiness.
It's getting darker and darker, and I'm like to lose my way. Where the devil is Judas? It
must be nine o'clock, and she was to be at the bend with the waggon half an hour ago.
Is that you, Byke?
Who did you suppose it was? I've been tramping about the wet grass for an hour.
It was a hard job to get the horse and waggon.
Give me a match.
Yes, it is on the shore, well away from the other cottages and hotels.
That's good. Nothing like peace and quietness. Who's in the house?
Only the two girls and the servants.
How many of them?
Four.
It'll be mere child's play to go through that house. Have you spied about the swag?
They have all their diamonds and jewels there; Pearl wears them constantly; they're the talk of the whole place.
We'll live in luxury off that girl all our lives. She'll settle a handsome thing on us, won't she? when she knows what we know, and pays us to keep dark—if t'other one don't spoil the game.
Curse her! I could cut her throat.
O, I'll take care of that!
You always do things for the best, dear old Byke!
Of course I do. What time is it?
Not ten yet.
An hour to wait.
But, Byke, you won't peach on me before my little pet is married, will you?
What's the fool about now?
I can't help trembling; nothing is safe while Laura is there.
I've provided for that. I've had the same idea as you—while she's in the way, and Trafford unmarried, our plans are all smoke, and we might as well be sitting on the hob with a keg of powder in the coals.
That we might. But what have you thought to do?
Why, I've thought what an unfortunate creature Laura is is—robbed of her mother, her home, and her lover; nothing to live for; it would be a mercy to put her out of the way.
That's it; but how—how—how—
It's plain she wasn't born to be drowned, or the materials are very handly down here. What made you talk about cutting her throat? It was very wrong! When a thing gets into my head, it sticks there.
You oughtn't to mind me.
Make your mind easy on that score.
Where the hedge is broken. I could swear I saw the shadow of a man.
Stop here. I'll see.
There are traces, but I can see no one.
Suppose we should have been overhead!
Come, let us go to the waggon and be off.
Heigho! I must be off.
Tracked 'em again! We're the latest fashionable arrivals at Long-Branch. “Mr. Byke and
Lady, and Brigadier-General Snorkey, of New York;“ there's an item for the papers! With a
horse and waggon, they'll be at the seaside in two hours; but in the train I think I'll beat
'em. Then to find Cap'n Trafford, and give him the wink, and be ready to receive the
distinguished visitors with all the honour. Robbery; burglary; murder; that's Byke's
catechism. “What's to be done when you're hard up?—Steal! What's to be done if you're caught
at it?—Kill!” It's short and easy, and he lives up to it like a good many Christians don't
live up to their laws.
It is impossible for me to go further. A second time I've fled from home and friends, but
now they will never find me. The trains must all have passed, and there are no conveyance
till to-morrow.
Beg pardon, ma'am, looking for anybody?
Thank you, no. Are you the man in charge of this station?
Yes, ma'am.
When is there another train for New York?
New York? Not till morning. We've only one more train to-night; that's the down one; it'll be here in about twenty minutes—“express train.”
What place is that?
That? That's the signal station shed. It serves for store-room, depot, baggage-room, and everything.
Can I stay there to-night?
There? Well it's an odd place, and I should think you would hardly like it. Why don't you go to the hotel?
I have my reason—urgent one. It is not because I want money. You shall have this
Well, I've locked up a good many things in there over night, but I never had a young lady for freight before. Besides, ma'am, I don't know anything about you. You know it's odd that you won't go to a decent hotel, and plenty of money in your pocket.
You refuse me—well—I shall only have to sit here all night.
Here, in the open air? Why, it would kill you.
So much the better.
Excuse me for questions, miss, but you're a running away from some one, ain't you?
Yes.
Well, I'd like to help you. I'm a plain man you know, and I'd like to help you, but there's
one thing would go ag'in me to assist in.
No, you good, honest fellow—no, I have no father.
Then, by Jerusalem, I'll do for you what I can. Anything but run away from them that have not their interest but yours at heart. Come, you may stay there, but I'll have to lock you in.
I desire that you should.
It's for your safety as much as mine. I've got a patent lock on that door that would give a
skeleton the rheumatism to fool with it. You don't mind the baggage, I'll have to put it in
with you, hoes, shovels, mowing machines, and what is this, axes—yes, a bundle of axes. If
the superintendent finds me out I'll ask him if he was afraid you'd run off with these.
I say, miss, I ain't curious, but, of course, it's a young man you're a going to?
So far from that, it's a young man I'm running away from.
I've met an excellent friend—and here at least I can be concealed until to-morrow—then for New York. My heart feels lighter already—it's a good omen.
Now, miss, bless your heart, here's your hotel ready.
Thanks, my good friend, but not a word to any one till to-morrow, not even—not even to your girls.
Not a word, I promise you. If I told my girls it would be over the whole village before morning.
Lock me in safely.
Ah, be sure I will. There!
Running away from young man, ha! ha! ha!
Ten minutes before the train comes, I'll wait here for it.
Too long? it won't stop here at all.
I must reach the shore to-night, there'll be murder done unless I can prevent it.
Murder or no murder, the train can't be stopped.
It's a lie. By waving the red signal for danger the engineer must stop, I tell you.
Do you think I'm a fool? What, disobey orders and lose my place, then what's to become of my family?
I won't be foiled, I will confiscate some farmer's horse about here and get there before them somehow.
Then when Byke arrives in his donkey cart he'll be ready to sit for a picture of surprise.
Byke!
Yes, Byke. Where's that pistol of yours?
In my breast pocket.
You ain't a going to shoot me?
No!
Well, I'm obliged to you for that.
What for?
You'll see.
Well, I don't mind if I do take a seat.
You'll see.
Byke, what are you going to do?
Put you to bed.
Byke, you don't mean to—My God, you are a villain!
O, Heavens, he will be murdered before my eyes! How can I aid him?
Who's that?
It is I, do you not know my voice?
That I do, but I almost thought I was dead and it was an angel's. Where are you?
In the station.
I can't see you, but I can hear you. Listen to me, miss, for I've got only a few minutes to live.
Never mind, me, miss, I might as well die now, and here, as at any other time. I'm not afraid. I've seen death in almost every shape, and none of them scare me; but, for the sake of those you love, I would live. Do you hear me?
Yes! yes!
They are on the way to your cottage—Byke and Judas—to rob and murder.
Can't you burst the door?
It is locked fast.
Is there nothing in there? no hammer? no crowbar?
Nothing.
Cut the woodwork! Don't mind the lock, cut round it. How my neck tingles!
Here—quick!
I don't feel a bit sleepy. What a splendid drive we had. I like that foreigner. What an
elegant fellow he is! Ray is nothing to him. I wonder if I'm in love with him. Pshaw—what an
idea! I don't believe I could love anybody much. How sweetly he writes!
Safely down. I've made no mistake—no this is her room. What a figure I am for a lady's
chamber.
Who's there? What's that?
Silence, or I'll kill you.
Help! Help!
You will have it, my pretty one.
Save me! save me!
Just in time.
Scoundrel!
Hold him, governor. Hold him!
Sixty-sixth and last round. The big 'un floored, and Bermudas as fresh as a daisy.
Dear, dear Laura you have saved me.
Yes Pearl, from more than you can tell.
No, no; her preservers are there.
Had it not been for the one, I should never have learned your danger, and but for the other, we could never have reached you in time.
Bermudas and his fourth editions did it. Business enterprise and Bermuda's pony express worked the oracle this time.
The way we galloped! Sa-ay, my pony must have thought the extras was full of lively intelligence.
Darling Laura, you shall never leave us again.
No, never!
Beg pardon, Cap'n what are we to do with this here game we've brought down?
The magistrates will settle with him.
Come, old fellow.
One word, I beg. My conduct, I know, has been highly reprehensible. I have acted injudiciously, and have been the occasion of more or less inconvenience to every one here. But I wish to make amends, and therefore I tender you all, in this public manner, my sincere apologies. I trust this will be entirely satisfactory.
Villain!
I have a word to say to you, sir.
Come, that's enough.
My good fellow, don't interrupt gentlemen who are conversing together.
I address you, sir—you design to commit me to the care of the officers of the law.
Most certainly.
And you will do your best towards having me incarcerated in the correctional establishment of this country?
How very genteel.
Then I have to say if you will, I shall make a public exposure of certain matters connected with a certain young lady.
Do not think that will deter us from your punishment. I can bear even more than I have—for the sake of justice.
Excuse me, I did not even remotely refer to you.
To whom, then?
To her.
Miss Courtland?
Oh dear—no sir. The daughter of old Judas—the spurious child placed in your cradle, Miss Laura Courtland, when you were abducted from it by your nurse.
What does he say?
That you're a beggar's child—we have the proofs! Deliver me to prison, and I produce them.
Wretch!
Then it's you, dear Laura, have been wronged—while I—
You are my sister still—whatever befalls!
Oh, I'm so glad it's so! Ray won't want to marry me, now—at least, I hope so; for I know he loves you—he always loved you—and you will be happy together.
Pearl, what are you saying?
Don't interrupt me! I mean every word of it. Laura, I've been very foolish, I know. I ought to have tried to reunite you—but there is time.
Dear Laura! Is there, indeed, still time?
Allow me to suggest that a certain proposition I had the honor to submit has not yet been answered.
Release him.
Thank you—not so rough! Thank you.
Now, go—but remember, if you ever return to these parts you shall be tried, not only for this burglary, but for the attempt to kill that poor fellow.
Thank you. Good-bye.
Oh, Miss! Oh, such an accident—old Judas!
Well?
She was driving along the road away from here—just now, when her horse dashed close to the cliff and tumbled her down all of a heap. They've picked her up, and they tell me she is stone dead.
Dead! And carried her secret with her! All's up. I'll have to emigrate.
Go to Hoboken and climb a tree! I guess I'll follow him and see he don't pick up anything on his way out.
Well there goes a pretty monument of grief. Ain't he a cool 'un? If I ever sets up an ice-cream saloon, I'll have him for head freezer.
Oh, Miss Laura, mayn't I live with you now, and never leave no more.
Yes, you shall live with me as long as you please.
That won't be long if I can help it.
Yes, it is night! It is night always for me.
But there is a to-morrow. You see it cannot be dark for ever.
Hope for to morrow, Ray.
We shall have cause to bless it, for it will bring the long sought sunlight of our lives.