hand ovet^ his mouth.)
Cap. Stop that wfll you. {Exit.)
Evans. (Rising mid coming forward.) Just as I
thought! My irascible, self-willed, old uncle has
grown repentant and would restore the prodigal
son, and kill the fatted calf. I am sorry to say I do
not share in his contrition for the past. Why
should I welcome Ralph with open arms? I owe
him nothing but a world of hate. He wrecked the
only noble impulse of my life ; invaded the only
shrine at which I ever worshiped and robbed me of
its idol. It is only a step from the deserted dock
to the soothing waters of the river. There is rest
and freedom from anxiety, and a long, dreamless
sleep in such a downy couch, all of which the poor
old man needs sadly. Would I be guilty? No. If
he were to stumble and fall, I wouldn't be to blame.
I could have no motive in his being found drowned.
He must stumble fall and before he sees that crack-
brained fool who drew his will, or it will be too late !
If I could do this thing and fasten the crime on
28
Ralph, I'd live to see him swing a parricide, and
then I'd find a way to win and wear her.
Garland. I beg your pardon, sir, but you don't
look like a man who would set the police on a
fellow just for asking you for enough money to buy
a square meal. If you can't, don't give me the
collar for vagrancy. You can't blame a poor devil
for asking for bread, when he's hungry.
Evans. (Comes doivn.) The very man I need.
Satan never forgets his own. Why do you ask
for money? You're able to work. ^
GrARLAND. I Can't find any work to do, sir.
Evans. Perhaps an officer could help you.
G-AELAND. No, no, sir! Don't do that! I'm sorry
I troubled you ! I'll go away !
Evans. (Looks at him fixedly-) Come here.
How much money do you want?
Garland. Anything, sir. I'm hungry.
Evans. (Sloivly.) You've got cursed near the
last ditch when you become a common penny beggar,
Garland.
Garland. (Shrinks from him and looks in fear
about him.) You know me? ā¢ Who are you man?
Don't speak that name again !
Evans. Do I know you? Of course I know you.
I knew you before a price was set on your head;
before you killed Ned Andras in 'Frisco.
Garland. (Tearfully and cringingly.) Stop
man ! You'll betray me! Who are you? What do
you want? Are you one of the blood-hounds that
has followed me and hunted me out of every hiding
place? I've suffered enough already. How much
better will the world be off, when you've strangled
the life out of my body? My God ! I never fall asleep
but the accursed choking of the hangman's rope
drives me out into the night in a mad search for
air. If you've got a single touch of pity, let me
skulk away and die a natural death. I can't ā ugh !
I can't die of strangulation! My God, it's horrible !
(Porter enters to light gas.)
Evans. Stop ! You'll betray yourself. I'm no
blood-hound, though I owe you nothing.
29
Gaeland. What have I done to you? Who are
you?
Evans. An old associate of yours in the gambling
hells of 'Frisco, Dick. Take a look at me.
Gaeland. (Stares at him.) Joe Evans?
Evans. Yes.
Gaeland. You scared me, man, until I'm weaker
than a child.
Evans. You're insane.
Gaeland. No, I'm not, Joe. I've been hunted
like a wild beast. No matter what disguises I've
assumed, I've always found myself an object for
keen and stealthy eyes, until I've come to look on
every strange face I meet with dread, amounting
almost to abject terror. I've crawled away and
hidden at times in the deserted habitations of men
until hunger has driven me, skulking with terror
into the light, in search of food, as it has done to-
night. Joe, I have become insane almost with the
dread of the retribution of the law.
Evans. You have become a morbid fool. You
make yourself a target for every curious eye by
your cringing cowardice. See here, Garland, there
is no need of this. If you will help me do an un-
pleasant piece of work, I'll make you rich and free
from every chance of detection.
Gaeland. How, man? How? But if there's
any blood-letting in the job, I can't do it, Joe. I've
got so much of that already on my hands that I
can't sleep without dreams, man ā dreams so fright-
ful that the bright sunshine and blue sky of heaven
cannot dispel them. I can't do any more of that.
Evans. There is no blood-letting about it. No-
body but a fool resorts to that. Death by drowning
is more humane and not so shocking to the eyes of
mourning friends; besides, it's safer.
Gaeland. I can't do it, Joe. Don't ask me to do
it. I can't. I won't, man.
(Enter Policeman.)
Evans. I need your help. I say you will. Do
you see that man?
30
Garland. (Fearfully.) Yes, yes ; let me go! I
must go, Joe !
Evans. One word from me and you 11 feel the
grip and strangle of the hangman's noose in earnest
Garland. Have mercy, Joe! My God, don't do
it, Joe!
Evans. Will you help me?
Garland. No, no! I can't! I can't do it!
Evans. (To officer.) I say, ojEficer.
Garland. {Clutches at his throat) Have mercy
on me, Joe! Don't let him take me! {Officer
crosses) I'll do it, Joe. I will, Joe, if you'll save
me from him.
Evans. You will?
Garland. Yes ! yes !
Officer. What can I do for you, sir?
Evans. Can you tell me at what hour the
steamer Bristol leaves her dock.
Officer. Ten o'clock, sir.
Evans. That's all, thank you.
Officer. Who is this skulking specimen you
have here?
EvANsi. Oh, never mind him. He's not such a
bad sort of a fellow, if he'd let drink alone.
Officer. He seems to be in good hands, or I'd
have to run him in on general principles. Good
night, sir.
Evans. Good night, officer. {Clutches Garland
fie7xely by the arm)
Garland. {Cringing with pain) You hurt me,
Joe! Let go your hold ! Let go, I say !
Evans. Do I hurt you? Does my hand tremble?
Is my grip firm and healthy? T want to infuse
a little life into your body. See here. Garland,
I've an uncle, who bears a striking resemblance to
you as you looked before you lost your nerve and
money. If he goes to sleep to-night and fails to
waken to-morrow, I'm worth a straight half million.
If his slumbers should be less profound, I'll be a
pauper. Do you understand me fully?
Garland. Do the job yourself. I'd bungle at it,
Joe.
31
Evans. Don't attempt to trifle with me, Dick.
Garland. I won't, Joe.
Evans. Do you know the Brighton dock and
the ferryman's hot?
Garland. Yes; I've crept into the boat-house
many a night to hide till morning.
Evans. And do you know the keeper of the
ferry?
Garland. Yes, Gordon. He's a poor devil that's
sometime seen better days.
Evans. Does he run the boat at night?
Garland. Not often. There's little call for that
after the working men go home.
Evans. I'll meet you there to-night at nine o'clock.
I want you to act as ferryman across the river for
the man I bring with me. Across the river ! Do
you understand that? The river that runs between
Brighton dock and eternity. Make an even ex-
change of clothing with your passenger and land
him safely at his destination. From that time on,
Dick Garland will no longer need the attention of
the law, but an uncle of mine and I, will go abroad
to spend his money, and, at the proper time, my
uncle can be reported as having died in foreign
parts. Do you fully comprehend me?
Garland. Yes.
Evans. If anything happens before the meta-
morphosis in complete, the crime must be fastened
on Gordon.
Garland. But, Joe, 1 couldn't face a court!
They'd know me there !
Evans. Nonsense. With half a million at com-
mand, I could protect you ; but it won't come to
that, if you keep a cool head.
Garland. Perhaps you might fail to get him to
the dock.
Evans. Curse your excuses! Do you intend to
keep your word with me? I won't be triffled with !
I'll find some plausible excuse to get him there,
and if you're not there to meet me, I'll see you
hung if I spend the balance of my days in doing it.
32
Don^t tiy my patience any further with your "ifs"
and "buts."
Garland. I'll meet you, Joe !
(Enter Major Gurley.)
Evans. Here comes my uncle. Go.
Major Gurley. I've kept you waiting, Joe. Is it
too late to go to-night ?
Evans. Yes, the train left half an hour ago.
Maj. I am very sorry, but I was detained in set-
tling up some business matters that have been left
to run at loose ends so long I was afraid we would
never get them straighteded out. Was there any-
thing to call us home to-night?
Evans. No, 1 think not. By the way, uncle, I
met an old friend of yours to-day.
Maj. So? Who was it?
Evans Whitmore, of the lime-kiln firm of Stein
& Whitmore. Have a cigar, uncle?
Maj. Yes, thanks. Did you see Whitmore?
Evans. Yes, and he expressed a great desire to
see you. Told me to tell you if you staid all night,
to be sure and call on him. He looks as young and
sprightly as ever.
Maj. I dare say. He was a lively boy in his
time, Joe. I would like to see him. We were
boys and beaux together. Wonder where we can
find him.
Evans He said he would be at his office to-night
at nine o'clock.
Maj. Where's his office now ; at the old place?
Evans. Yes ; across the river from Brighton
dock.
Maj. An out of the way place for a man like
me to go alone at night. Could I get you to go with
me as a sort of body guard?
Evans. Certainly ; why, of course, with pleasure.
Let's see ! [Looks at watch.) It's palf-past seven
now.
Maj. Have you had supper?
Evans I haven't. Have you?
Maj. No.
Evans. We'd better not go back to the hotel.
33
We can drop into a restaurant somewhere. We
shall be pushed for time,
Maj. That's so, Joe. We won't have any too
much time. Let's go.
(Exit Evans and Major Gurley. Enter passengers,
among them an elderly lady tvith numerous packages
and two or three children hanging to her skirts. Enter
Peters from opposite direction and catches sight of
Major Gurley as he exits.)
Peters. Hello ! Mr. Gurley ! {Rushes after Gur-
ley. Trips and falls. Runs into tvoman and scatters
parcels. Knocks one of the children over. Child
wails. Business. Jumps up and starts after Gurley
without waiting to see the result of collision. Elderly
lady seizes him by back of coat.)
Peters. Excuse me 1 Excuse me, my dear
madam ! I haven't time to apologize ! Release me,
or I will make you answer for it before the bar of
justice.
{Porter enters. See Peters. Strikes pugilistic atti-
tude.)
Porter. Ha ! ha !
{Peters slips away. Trips porter. Stands over
him in attitude of triumph.)
Peters. {Sarcastically.) Ha ! ha !
{End of scene.)
Scene II. ā Street at evening. Enter Capitola and
Teddie.
Teddie. Where yougoin' anyway, Capitola?
Cap. I'm going to the flower store on Becker
street. It's too bad to make you go all the way
there, just to keep me company, Teddie.
Ted. Oh, that's all right. I ain't got no partic-
ular business jest now, an' it wouldn't do for no
young lady that's as pretty as you be, to be round this
town nights without a escort.
Cap. What do I need an escort for, Teddie?
Ted. What for? Why for pertiction! This
town's jes' chuck full of toughs, an' ef I wan't along
to pertect you, you wouldn't be safe a minute.
34
Cap. (Laughing ^) Could you protect me? Why
I am a great deal stronger than you are, Teddie.
Ted. Yes ; but I'm a tough, too. Most every
tough knows me, an' I knows them. I'd peach, an'
they're onto it. Say, what you going to the store,
for?
Cap. It's a long story, but I'll tell you just a little
of it so you'll understand. You know where I live,
an how poor the people are?.
Ted. Cordon's flat broke, ain't he?
Cap. His name ain't Cordon ; its Curley.
Ted. Is that so? I knew there was some mys-
tery about him. Did he use to be a bank cashier?
Cap. No ; but he quarreled with his father. The
old gentleman is awful rich.
Ted. He didn't have no sense, did he?
Cap. (Laughing.) His father turned him away
from home, but he's sorry, and wants to make up.
I'm going to meet him, and take him to see them.
Then they'll make up and we'll all go back home
again.
Ted. You will?
Cap. Yes ; won't that be jollj^?
Ted. No ; that ruins me, sure.
Cap. Why, Teddie.
Ted. 'Cause, you are the only folks that's good
to me, an' when you go away, I'll jest get tough as
as any of 'em.
Cap. Wouldn't you like to live in the country?
Ted. I don't know ; I never tried it. Eeckon I
could run a farm, though.
Cap. Well, come on, Teddie. We must hurry !
{Going.)
Ted. Say, Capitola, what kind of a hay-seed would
I make?-
Cap. (Laughing.) Oh, splendid. Come, hurry.
(Takes hand and runs him off. Enter Peters ivith
hat smashed, somewhat mussed.)
Peters. I believe, and so allege the fact to be,
that that porter will henceforth refrain from
attempting to restrain me of the free and untram-
meled control of my own actions. I was obliged to
punish him for contempt, and in stopping to do it,
I missed Major Gurley. I must go to his hotel.
Hello ! I wonder if that minion of the law is look-
ing for me! I will withdraw! I will go hence
without day !
End of scene II.
Scene III. ā Brighton Dock by moonlight. ā Dock. ā
Boathouse. ā Biver, and city opposite. ā Interior of
ferryman's hut.ā Nellie asleep on lounge. ā Ralph
stands looking at her.
Ralph. {Coming doivn.) She sleeps; thank
heaven for that! It brings oblivion for a little
time, at least, to her desolate surroundings. She
sleeps and dreams, may be, of the bright days
when the soft breezes, stealing in at the open win-
dow of the little schoolhouse, came laden with the
fragance of the lilac and the rosebush, that whis-
pered and nodded just outside. She dreams, per-
haps of the low music of the glen-brook, made
sweeter by the notes of the robins in the swaying
branches of the old mai3les, whose " leaves clapped
their little hands " in rapture at the music ; of rich,
warai sunshine and blue skies without a fleck to
mar their wondrous beauty, save here and there a
soft, white, hand -breadth cloud, floating across the
purple vault of heaven, like incense from an altar.
For her sake, I could almost wish she might not
waken ; that her hands might never again clasp my
own with the tender assurance of her confiding and
trusting love; that the weary eyelids might never
open to reveal to me the love that shines undimmed
through misery and want.
Nellie. (Wakens.) Ralph !
Ralph. What is it, Nellie?
Nkl. Is that you, Ralph?
Ralph. Yes.
Nel. Haveyoucome to stay withme now? Can
you do so as well as not?
Ralph. Yes ; the workmen have gone home,
and everything is deserted along the dock. How
are you to-night? Better, I hope.
36
Nel. I am much better. I feel quite strong. I
have been asleep a long time, have I not? What
time is it?
Ralph. It's nearly half-past eight. You'd better
try and sleep again. Nellie, I'm glad to hear you
say you feel stronger. You'll soon be well again.
Nel. If we were only out in the country again,
I believe I should get up, and be as strong as ever
in a short time. Have you had supper, Ralph?
Ralph. Oh, yes ; Capitola looks after everything.
She is getting to be a famous cook. {Laughs)
Only this morning for breakfast she made some
griddle cakes that would have done credit to a
caterer, if she hadn't forgotten the salt and ioaking
IDOwder. {Laughs) She was as proud of them as
a boy with new skates.
Nel. You couldn't eat them, Ralph?
Ralph. Oh, yes, I could. {Laughs) I could
have eaten them if they had really been lead, in-
stead of a close imitation, to please her. I did eat
them, and praised their quality. She was supremely
happy till she tasted them herself. {Laughing)
She has eyed me w^ith great suspicion ever since.
Nel It's too bad, anyway, poor child, to put so
much on her shoulders. She isn't used to it.
Ralph. She's having quite an experience now,
to say the least.
Nel. Yes, and bears it nobly. Did I show you
what she has done for me to-day?
Ralph. No.
Nel. Bring out the arm chair, Ralph, won't you?
She bought some creton yesterday, and has made a
cover for it to-day, that makes it as comfortable and
pretty as can be. {Ralph brings it from adjoining
room) Isn't it nice and cosy? Let me sit up a
little while, it will do me good.
Ralph. I am afraid you are taxing your strength
too much. We mustn't get well too fast, you know.
Nel. Just a little while, Ralph ! Don't be cruel
to me. It's hard to keep still all the time. When
I feel tired, I'll tell you. You can command, and
I will obey then without a murmur. {Ralph helps
o /
her to Chair, places foot-rest and adjusts pillows!)
Ralph. So, so, how's that? Do you rest easily?
You look like an invalid queen in this new throne
of Capitola's building,
Nel. Do 1, indeed?
Ralph. Yes. you do, and I proffer homage and
fealty. Command me.
Nel. My power is absolute, I am afraid you
find me despotic,
Ralph. Not a bit of it. A loyal subject never
feels the yoke.
Nel, It was once the custom of monarchs to
reward loyal subjects with gifts. Please go to the
cupboard, Ralph, and find yours. Capitola as prim'e
minister and I as queen, haven't forgotten even
the humble ferryman.
Ralph, What conspiracy have you been plotting
now? The proofs are in the cupboard, are they?
(Goes to cupboard.) So, let me see.
Nel. In my writing case, Ralph,
Ralph. (Takes out money.) What, Nellie !
Where did this come from?
Nel. You won't be angry with me? Promise
me this, and I'll tell you. We are very poor, Ralph.
I know it all. We are almost destitute, and my
illness is the cause. You have tried to hide this
from me. You have been cheerful in my presence,
when I knew you were in despair. Ralph, I could
bear this no longer, and ā you'll forgive me ā but, I
gave it to Capitola, and she sold it, and that's the
money, Ralph,
Ralph. Sold what?
Nel. (With emotion.) The ring ā the ring ā
Ralph. The wedding ring I placed upon your
finger?
Nel. No, no ; not that. The ring father gave
me just before the failure came that swept awayliis
fortune. I could never quite make up my mind to
part with it before. It seemed almost like a wrong
done to his memory, and when I looked at it, the
bright old days came back to me, when I was a
foolish girl without a care.
38
Ralph. And made you half forget the sorrow and
poverty to which your wedding ring bears witness!
It made you half forget the gloomy shadows that
our marriage cast across your life ! Better have
parted with the one I gave you!
Nel. Ralph, don't speak like that. No ; your
ring is here ; here, where you placed it. It has
never left my finger since you put it on. It will be
there, Ralph, when my hands are folded in the
sleep of death ; for when you placed it there, my
life was so flooded with happiness that no pain, no
poverty, no tortue can destroy. I would give up
home, friends, health, my life, and memory of all
else, before the memory of the love that's symbol-
ized in this ā my wedding ring, Ralph. (Weeps.)
Ralph. Forgive me, Nellie ; but I little thought
what the future held in store for us when I learned
the truth of what you say for the first time. Do
you remember where it was?
Nel. Yes.
Ralph. Under the maples on the old homestead,
when the roses and the lilacs were in blossom. Had
we been able to cast the horoscope, would you have
answered as you did?
Nel. Yes.
Ralph. If we were there to-night, under the
maples, everything would be unchanged, except
ourselves and father. I wonder where he is
to-night, and if he ever thinks of us. Capitola
says he has aged rapidly in the last year. I wish I
could forget him and hate him, but I can't.
Nel. You must not try, Ralph. He loved you,
and it was that which made him blind. Sometime
he will see the truth and ask your pardon.
Ralph. There is no hope from him. He is as
remorseless and cruel as the coming cold, which
will rob me, Nellie, when it comes and covers the
river with ice, of the only work I have been able to
secure. What will happen to you then, the pitiless
winds of winter alone can tell. I can almost hate
him when I think of this and the insults he heaped
upon you without cause or provocation.
39
Nel. Oh, Ralph ! I dragged you down to this!
I told you, you would sometimes count the cost ! I
do not blame you, but I suffer, too ! (Weeps.)
Ralph. It was weak and cowardly in me to
speak like that. I do not count the cost with one
regret. I would not exchange the loving pressure
of your feeble, feverish hand, the trusting glance of
your tender eyes, the words of "Ralph" and "hus-
band" coupled on your lips, the music of your voice,
for all the wealth, the pomp, the luxury and ease of
all this world. I would not barter one little kiss
(Kisses her.) for all the power that ever lived in
kings. Come; you'd best lie down and try to
sleep again. I have been thoughtless. (Helps her
to lounge.) Don't you think you can sleep? I'll ait
beside you.
Nel. Yes ; I can sleep with you beside me, Ralph.
Surrounded with a love like yours, I feel secure and
safe, no matter what befals us. But, Ralph, I am
selfish in my security. Where is Capitola? It is
late.
Ralph. She's been a ministering angel to us,
Nellie, in our trouble. Next to you, Grod never
made a braver, truer woman, or more loyal friend.
Her happy disposition has been like a bright burst
of sunshine in this dark corner of the world, and
you have gained strength in its warmth and bright-
ness. She went away an hour ago, ,as merry as a
lark, saying she had a surprise in store for us. Poor
girl, her voice seemed almost out of place, like the
notes of an imprisoned bird. She would not tell
me where she was going. I told her we couldn't
spare our sunshine for even a little while, and then
she said, the little, hopeful Samaritan, that she
would flood us with it when she came.
Nel. I cannot bear to think of her alone on the
streets at night.
Ralph. I would not let her go alone, and so she
secured an escort in Teddy. She's almost as safe
with him as with a man full grown.
Nel. Teddy, poor little fellow ! I wish we could
do something for him, Ralph.
40
Ralph. Perhaps we can some day, who knows?
The clouds will have a silver lining for us some-
time ; but you must try to sleep. You have
talked too much. {Turns doivn lamjJ.) You must
try to sleep.
I^EL. I will, Ralph. {Ralph sits beside her and
watches her. Enter Garland on the dock outside.
Looks hack stealthily.)
Garland. I have thrown that stealthy shadow
that has dogged me here, off the trail. I saw it
creep into the darkness and lie in wait to clutch me
as I passed, but I had too much at stake to fail.
What if I'd failed? Heaven help me if I had ! I'm
here; but why? My Grod ! I'm here to wash the
red stains from my hands in blood! Can life's red
waters cleanse the stains that Heaven's pure rain-
drops, falling from the firmament of God to kiss the
drooping lillies into life, but serve to make indel-
lible? I can't do this thing! If I could creep away
and hide from him! I will ā I will ! {Looks ivildly
about him. The ivind moans.) What's that? Don't
Joe ; have pity on me, Joe ! I'm here ā I'm here,
Joe. I didn't mean to go. I'll do the the work ā I
will ā I will, Joe ! {Looks ivildly about him and sees
no one. Listens. The wind moans.) It was the wind.
Oh, heaven ! How guilty is that fearful soul that
cannot listen to the moaning night wind without a
creeping horror through every nerve and fibre!
'Twas only the wind of night, whose solemn music
through the grieving pines about my boyhood
home, floats like a sacred hymn of praise up to
night's holy stars. It ruffles the calm surface of the
little lake and kisses the flowers above my mother's
grave. Oh, mother, at whose sacred shrine I dare
not even pray, the night wind can not cool guilt's
fever on my brow, but stealing in upon me from the
creeping shadows, moans for my crimson soul.
{Listens. Clock in distance strikes nine.) My God !
I shall go mad, if time creeps on a half-hour longer!
{Enter Evans and Major Gurley.
Evans. Hello, my man ! {Garland staggers, falls
back on dock and clutches at hi.s throat.)
41
Major Gturley. Nephew, what ails the man?
Are you ili, sir?
Gar. 111? 111? Yes ; lam ill, sir. (Evans stands
over him.)
Mas. Poor fellow! Can't you rise? Help him
to his feet, nephew. Don't you see the man is siek?
(Evans helps him to his feet.)
Evans. (Aside.) Another move like that and
I'll kill you where you stand. Quick ; get him into
the boat-house. (Aloud.) What's the matter?
Are you too drunk to take us across the river?
What ails you?
Gar. It's nothing. I have been broken of my
rest until I'm nervous and excitable at times. (To
Gurley.) Do you wish to cross the river, sir?