■Hi mm fflffill HHff vlnl nfifufffiK Jail 91 Wfltt ••!■=■■■,..■:: VI WMM ll E 1 1 n« lllli ■ flwllll 11 m Hi HIBII1 ■■■■ ™ ^ JUL IB Bfti mm wksmm ^ OO* K * 8 > & " \v" .^ •% o o x 4 -r N -\ V, ^ ,0 0, & lp r- V * :.::: ::■;; S; ":.- ::::';*:/ ;;:,-t; Mrs. Waldaur and Aurzlia come forwards and guests /" .:.:':.. :."y :\r;; 7. v 1 Mrs. Waldaur, a handsome,, statuesque lady of fifty \ white '-:.::■ .:■;.:" ^ .-■;.-•*-.:." _:/ ':-'; ■■:':.; /;.; : : - y ^ : : .\V :.-:.£ .:*«: :- able-mannered. Elegantly costumed. Attrelia, hi «&- /.:;: ;.\\V;. JTrj. W. You seem to enjoy dancing, Mrs. Mandrake? ^4* . Indeed, I do. I just dote on waltzing. And such "■' :-- '.:: .: :i An: 5 :. ~ _f:: -r.: 5 .;: - : zzzz ::z. '.:-. : zs A:i such lovely toilets! The whole scene is to me like a dream •::*:~=irv ^r_: JMrx. in Then this is your first trip abroad ? An. Yes, bat not my last. Indeed, if I had my way. I would live and die in Italy. Mrs. lt\ You think so now, but sooner or later, like a ::_t Az-.rr::ir. y ; _ .„' leirr :: :yy_ :e: :. - y : .;: -:~e zz z '.zZTt. ; ; — _::;-. zzzzt z-zzzzztz. : :f -l:::; zzyzzz.zz ]•'-'- tlzi zztzzz. Au. Do you think so ? Mrs. IV. I am sure of it. I have visited all lands, and nowhere found nature so lavish in her beauty. And for szzztr/ — -• v; ■ }.: r ih ere :: ::".:i:e -._:'- -.he ^:a:;: :*i ::;: :-:::~5 ir.i fer.ile v^eys z: zz.t zzzz: V.*tf: : .-':. . z-z ' -: :;-.: :^h: = ": : :: *.:.:: - - _ _ ;; : rt :: :s : erijse I was born there. And now I come all die way to Italy to learn from a foreigner how much more beautiful my own home is than any other. (54) THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 55 Mrs. W. You are in error; I am not a foreigner, but an American, like yourself. Au. O, are you? I thought you were German. Mrs. W. My husband is of German descent, though the greater portion of our lives has been spent at the home of my family in Virginia, where we were married thirty years ago. Au. Thirty years! O, dear! what a long time to be mar- ried! And to one man, too. It don't seem possible that I shall ever be married as long as that. Mrs. W. I am sure you will, and many years longer. Au. No, I shan't. We have had three or four awful quarrels already. Mrs. W. Not very serious ones. Aic. Yes, indeed, very serious. Yesterday we didn't speak for an hour. Mrs. W. That was terrible. And whose fault was it ? Ait. Why, Ham's, of course. Mrs. IV. Ham's? Aic. That sounds odd, doesn't it? You see, my hubby's name is Hamilton, and Ham seems to be about the only ab- breviation for it. Mrs. W. And you were very happy during the hour he did not speak to you ? Au. No, I was perfectly miserable. Mrs. W. Of course you were. And when you kissed and made up, you were the happiest little woman in the world. And so, for a year, you will go on pouting, coaxing, quar- relling and kissing and loving each other better after each quarrel. By that time you will be getting well acquainted with each other. You will discover each other's little weak- nesses and vanities, as well as good qualities. You will learn to humor and appreciate each other, to feel how ne- cessary each is to the other's happiness. You will charge yourselves each morning with some new task of self-denial and self-control, until what you began as a task, becomes a pleasure ; and then the real happiness of your life will have found you. Au. And after that we won't quarrel at all? Mrs. W. Not frequently, I think. Au. Dear me ! I should think life would become very monotonous, then. Mrs. IV. You will doubtless find it quite the reverse of 56 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, monotonous. Your mother and father seem to enjoy them- selves quite as heartily as the younger ones. Au. O, dear ! the Doctor isn't my father Mrs. IV. No ? Au. No indeed ! This is mamma's second honeymoon. Mrs. W. Really ! Ate. Yes, and the marriage was a sudden one, like our own. The Doctor had decided upon a sort of excursion trip to Europe, and, at the last moment, decided to marry mamma, and so combine business with pleasure. Mrs. IV. [Laughing.] Ah, yes, I see. Au. And, do you know. I don't believe they are enjoying their honeymoon: they haven't quarrelled once. I sup- pose that's because, having both been married before, they know just how to commence the real drama of married life, without the introductory overture in the shape of lovers spats Dr. Mandrake and Mrs. Mandrake enter l. u. e. both in full evening toilet. Dr. [Gaily '.] Now, Amanda, don't try to deny it, I saw you carrying on a desperate flirtation with the Count Johan- nesburg. Mrs. M. Nonsense, Marmaduke dear, how absurdly jealous you are. I was trying all the time to get away from his stupid compliments. Au. O, here they are, cooing like two turtle-doves. Mamma ! I want to introduce you. Mrs. Waldaur, My mamma, Mrs. Mandrake, and Doctor Mandrake. Mrs. W. Charmed, I'm sure. [All acknowledge introduction. Au. Mrs. Waldaur is an American, too. Mrs. M. Then we are doubly happy. Dr. Waldaur! Waldaur! We were recently introduced to a distinguished looking elderly gentleman of the same name. Mrs. W. Yes, sir, my husband. Dr. Ah, indeed, then I congratulate you, and permit me to add that I congratulate him as well. [Taking Mrs. W's hand with great gallantry. Mrs. M. Doctor ! Dr. [Chuckling, aside.~] Oho! jealous! Jealous, by the gods ! [Dr. and Mrs. M. retire up. Hamilton runs on u. e. THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 57 Ham. Well, a nice hunt I've had for you ladies. [Bows. J Mrs. Waldaur, your servant again. Au. Well, you need not have hunted, I wasn't lost. [Mrs. W., Dr. and Mrs. M. confer apart. Ham. You might as well have been lost, as far as I was concerned. Au. I don't suppose you would have worried yourself much if I had have been lost. Ham. I shall certainly never allow your frivolity to turn my brain. An. Your what? Ham. I said my brain. An. No fear of that. Ham. I wouldn't be a fool, if I were you. Au. Of course you wouldn't be a fool if you were me. [ They exit quarrelling l. Others come down~ Mrs. W. I learn from your daughter that you are Cal- ifornians. Dr. Yes. Mrs. W. From San Francisco ? Mrs. M. No, from the interior. Dr. In point of fact, Mrs. Waldaur, we are a little party of six, fresh from the mining camps. Mrs. W. Now I am more than ever interested; my hus- band has large interests there, and I have twice visited the coast with him. Dr Indeed. In what mines is he interested ? Mrs. W. He is half owner of the famous White Crow mine. Dr. and Mrs. W. Is it possible ! Dr. Then you have been within a very few miles of our little camp at Yuba. Mrs. IV. Yuba ! O, yes, indeed. I remember the name and the charming little village quite well. Dr. Now, this is jolly! Mrs. M. Why, it seems as though we were among old friends. Mrs. W. We must become better acquainted. My hus- band seeks the society of all Americans, and particularly those hailing from California. If you will excuse me, I will try to find him. Both. Certainly. [Exit Mrs. W., l. u. e. Dr. [Playfully], Amanda, now tell me, no fibbing, what was the Count saying to you ? 58 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, Mrs. M. Why, Marmaduke, how absurd you are. Why, you could see for yourself that I got away from him as soon as I could, without being positively rude. Dr. Well, I forgive you, but don't do it again. If you only knew what I suffered to see you thus sought and courted. Mrs. M. Suffered ! Why, Marmaduke, I should think you would feel proud of it. Dr. So I do, so I do. But still, I suffer, nevertheless. But in the sweet consciousness that you are mine, all mine, I can suffer in heroic silence. [Looks about cautiously], Ananda, one fond embrace. Mrs. M. Why, Marmaduke ! in such a public place! Dr. Not a soul looking; besides, its legitimate, and I haven't had a good hug for an hour. They embrace. Aurelia, Hamilton, and Cadwallader enter u. E. Cad. Let go ! Au. O, mamma ! mamma ! Ham. Dad, I'm ashamed of you. Ain't you ashamed of yourself? Dr. No, sir; but I am ashamed of you, and I sincerely trust that by the time you have reached the age of discre- tion, as I have done, and been twice through the mill, as I have, that you will have acquired sense enough to appre- ciate and enjoy a good thing when you get it. Cad. Good for you, Doc. Mrs. M. I am glad to see that you are enjoying yourself. [Aurelia and Hamilton run off u. e Mrs. W. I certainly did not marry for the purpose of making myself miserable. Dr. Certainly not. Her choice of a husband amply proves that. Cad. Nothing mean about you, Doc ; not even your opinion of yourself. But do you know the sigkt of you two jolly old honeymooners — Dr. [Aside], D — n it! don't say old. Cad. [Choking back laugh.] I mean the sight of two jolly honeymooners gives me a sort of matrimonial fever myself. Say, if either of you happens to run across a black- haired, dreamy-eyed Italian widow, who appears to be angling in the matrimonial pond, give me a pointer, will you. THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 59 Both. [Laughing.'] Certainly. Of course, etc. Cad. Provided, of course, that she is well heeled finan- cially; plenty of stocks and bonds. Mrs. M. [Aside.] That man is always saying- those things at just the wrong time. [Aloud.] Excuse me, gen- tlemen, I see Mrs. Waldaur beckoning lor me. [Exit Mrs. Mandrake u. e. l. Dr. I say, Cad, just drop the finance and stock-and- bond talk, won't you? Of course, /don't mind it. I'm used to it, but Mrs. M. is a little sensitive on that point. Cad. Certainly, of course. But I didn't mean it that way, you know. Dr. I know it. Certainly not. That's all right, only don't do it again, not in her presence. Cad. O, I'm on. I was looking at quotations down at the Consuls this afternoon. Old Sledge is up to 220, and Straight Flush 248. Dr. Great Scott ! You don't say so ? Cad. Sure. Dr. In another month I'll be worth a million. That is, counting Mrs. Mandrake at five hundred thousand, and the stock at an equal figure. Cad. Doc, how do you manage to live in this ranche ? Dr. Live! Why we iare sumptuously. Don't you? Cad. No, I don't. I don't like the grub for a cent, and the sour wine is vile enough to give a man the nightmare. I'd give ten dollars this minute for a good square drink of old Kentucky Bourbon. Dr. [Insinuatingly,] No! would you? Well, now, pos- sibly, I may be able to work the oracle. Cad. You don't mean it. Thought you gave it all up to the sea sickers crossing the channel. Dr. You know I am obliged to keep a little about me at all times for purely medicinal purposes. Cad. I'm the sickest man in Italy. [Takes Doctor's arm, doth start L.] I say, Doc, a Niagara Falls hackman would starve here. When I wanted t6 go to the American Con- sulate this morning, to see about my extradition papers, I sent a man out for a hack, and damme if he didn't bring me a canoe. [Both exit laughing l. i. e. Enter u. e. Waldaur a?id Mrs. Mand. [Waldaur is a tall, dignified man of sixty, white hair and beard, and speaks with a slight Germayi accent.] 60 FROM SIRE TO SON ; OR, Wald. I cannot express to you, madam, my great happiness in meeting yourself and your most interesting^ family groupe, and to think that you were such near neighbors to our dear boy. Mrs. M. And he died at Gold Run, you say. Wald. Alas ! Yes, even the manner of his death we were never permitted to know. We were in Virginia at the time. There came by express a small package containing his effects, among them that certificate of half ownership of the mine, which a few months later was worth millions. But the great wealth we have always regarded as a sacred trust, confided to us by our dying child, who was not permit- ted to live to share it with us. The letter said that our dear boy had died suddenly, and in a pocket near his heart the writer had found a letter from his mother and myself,, from which our address was learned, and, strangest of all, the writer did not even sign his name, which rendered it impossible for us to convey to him our great gratitude. Was it not singular? Mrs. M. It would have been very singular had it occur- red anywhere else than among the big-hearted rough dia- monds of the great West. And you have but recently learned the name of your benefactor. Wald. Within a week ; here in this hotel. I have always sought the society of Americans, and to nearly all have told my strange story, hoping some day to learn his name, at last Heaven has rewarded my search. Mrs. M. I shall be charmed to meet the man whose act proves him a true Californian. If he has lived long in the mining districts, we may be old acquaintances. What is the name? Wald. Harwood, now of Boston. Mrs. M. Harwood. I do not seem to recall the name. Wald. You shall meet him during the evening. Now, remember, Mrs. Mandrake, I have your promise to visit our old Rhine Castle before you return to America. Mrs. M. I'm sure we shall greatly enjoy a visit to an old Castle on the Rhine. I have so often read of them and seen pictures of them, and now I shall see the reality. Wald. True ; and a typical one. Full (to me at least) of romantic and historic interest, to say nothing of the cold you are sure to catch wandering through its damp and mouldy corridors. [Enter Hamilton u. e. THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 6l Ham. O, hear you are, Mr. Waldaur, the Countess von Tyne insists upon it that you are hers for the next waltz. Wald. I attend the Countess at once. Permit me. [Offers arm to Mrs. Mandrake.] Ham, And, mamma, the Count Johannesburg is sighing for your return. [Wald. and Mrs. M. exit laughing l. u. e. Ham. Mamma Mandrake is creating quite a social sen- sation, and to think how near she came to being my wife, instead of my mother-in-law, and then Aurelia would have "been my daughter instead of my wife, and then if dad had married Aurelia, my own daughter would have been my step-mother, and I would have been step-father to my own father, and my own daughter would have been my mother, and dad would have been the step-son of his mother-in- law. As it is now, if Mamma Mandrake should have a male heir, and we should be blessed with a female heir, I would be uncle to my own half-brother, and Aurelia would be aunt to her own child, and pop would be step-father to his own grandchild, and then if our children get married and raise families, I will become uncle to my own grand- children, and my father will become my uncle, my wife will be her mother's aunt, my mother-in-law will be my father's grandmother, and I will be nephew to my own wife, and grandfather to my own children, and then my great-grand — [A waiter x's. R. to l. with iray.~\ Here, waiter, take me out into the air, will you, I need a little oxygen. Waiter. Oxegeen ! oxegeen ! We are just out of ze oxegeen. Ham. Just out. Never mind, a little Holland gin will do just as well. \_Exit Hamilton and waiter l. e. Enter Jonas Hardy, evening dress, u. e. r. looks about. Jonas. Not here ! Not in her room. Strange, however, the maid is absent also, and I presume they are together. I am filled with a superstitious dread every hour that she is absent from my sight. The feeling is something so new to me. Last night again I saw that man standing at my bed side, with his pale face, and his cold steel-grey eyes devouring my very soul. I tried to draw a weapon, but I was powerless to move a muscle ; he seemed to re- alize it, and his bloodless lips parted in a ghastly smile. Oh ! P'sha ! [Jumps up.~\ I am getting childish. The 62 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, man is dead. He must be so. Even had he survived the bullet, which I doubt, old Grimes, for his own safety, would have got him out of the way. Besides, had he lived to speak, I could never have escaped so easily, \_Enter Waldaur, u. e. l. Wald. Ah, my dear Mr. Harwood, you gave us the slip. Jonas. For a moment only, to see my daughter. Wald. Ever thoughtful of others. And your lovely daughter, she will not join the dances ? Jonas. No, dear child. She's fresh from a convent, and has, as yet, no taste for worldly pleasures. Wald. Plenty of time for that. Don't urge her. I de- sire to present you to some American friends — newly ar- rived. [Jonas shows uneasiness.!^ I have but now been telling them of my great, good fortune in finding in you the man to whom we owe our wealth, and more than our lives. Jonas. I fear you overrate the little service that I was permitted to perform. It was but an act of common humanity to write the letter and send your son's effects, when I learned your whereabouts. And as for the stock, it was worth but a trifle at that time. True, your son had pledged it to our firm, and my business partner was greatly opposed to my course in the matter, but I silenced his op- position by paying him the face value of the certificate. [Wald. takes his hand '.] Wald. My noble friend ! What soil but America, what atmosphere but the great boundless West can produce such types of manhood ? It was an act to make every Ameri- can proud of his nationality. Jonas. f hank you. You were telling me of your old family castle this evening, when I was called away. Wald. Ah, true ! When, through your noble generosity, great wealth poured in upon us, I saw a chance to realize the one great ambition of my life — to redeem from alien hands the grand old ruin that had been the home of my family for many generations, and to pass there in its feudel halls, rich in a thousand heroic memories, a portion, at least, of the remaining years of my unworthy life. Jo?ias. A most commendable ambition, truly. And you own it now? Wald. Yes ; thanks to you. And there we pass a por- tion of each year, living, for the time, an ideal life, com- muning with the past, and picturing in our minds the bat- THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 63 ties that my fathers fought about its crumbling walls. And then studying the almost invisable lineaments of the stern wariors and noble dames who look at us from each alcove, niche, and panncl. Jo?ias. And during your absence it is unoccupied ? Wald. Yes ; save by two old and trustworthy family servants. Jonas. If, on our sight-seeing tour, we should chance to visit the Rhine, I should greatly enjoy seeing the old place ; doubly so, since, as you say, I indirectly enabled you to regain it. Wald. At last I have a chance to grant you a request, though but a slight one. I have anticipated your wish. [Takes letter from his pocket a?id ha?ids it to Jonas. ] In this letter you will find discribed the castle's sear, minutely. Also a letter to my honored old steward, that will make you the castle's lord so long as yourself and your lovely daugh- ter will honor the old ruin by accepting its hospitality. Jonas. \_Putti?ig letter in pocket.^ You are very kind. We will endeavor to merit your hospitality, as we shall certainly honor the traditions bequeathed to the old place by the heroic men and virtuous women, whose time-dim- med faces adorn its walls. Wald. You will honor me in honoring them. [Aurelia runs on L. u. E. An. O, Mr. Waldaur ! Here you are. I told your wife I would find you. Wald. You were very kind, indeed, my dear young friend. I go at once. But first permit me. You are Americans. You should know each other. Mrs. Man- drake, permit me to introduce a dear friend, Mr. Harwood, of Boston. Aurelia starts upon seeing Jonas' face, but quickly recovers herself, and assumes former light mamier. Au. I — delighted, Mr. Harwood, and hope to know you better. Butjustnowl am sure you will excuse me, for I have promised to take this naughty boy to his mamma. Takes Waldaur's arm, he smiling pleasantly, they go up L., turn at exit and Aurelia again looks sharply at Jonas. Exit Waldaur a?id Aurelia l. u. e. Jonas. How that woman stared at me, and there was something half familiar in her face. P'sha ! I frighten at 64 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, my own shadow of late. [Moves nervously about room.^\ I wonder where that girl can be? She seldom leaves her room. What is to be the end of this new phase of my ad- venture? Six months ago, the idea of Jonas Hardy seri- ously in love would have seemed to me the very height of absurdity. But for weeks I have felt the meshes weaving themselves about me. I have grown jealous of every eye that looks at her. She fills my waking thoughts and haunts my dreams. The very touch of her fingers sends the blood tingling through my veins, and then she calls me "father," and the breath freezes in my throat. A score of times as I have held her in my arms, and looked into her innocent black eyes, the demon of mad passion has almost torn the mask aside and cast me prostrate at her feet. It will come ! It will come ! I feel it, I know it ; but not now, nor here. I'll leave this place to-morrow, and go — go where? To the old ruin on the Rhine. There for a time, at least, she will be wholly mine. There no eye, save mine, can feast upon her dainty loveliness. No hand save mine can touch her virgin flesh. [Exit Jonas r. i e. Enter l. i e. Cadwallader and Doctor M. arm-in-arm. They wipe their mouths, swell up, and beam with satisfac- tion. Cad. whispers in Doctor' s ear. Doctor feels in vest pockets, takes out cloves, each take one. Cad. Now that's what I call a white man's drink. Dr. Nine years old, Cad. Cad. And the aroma of blue grass in every drop. Dr. Cost ten dollars a gallon. Cad. Cheap at any price. Sink the expense. Old Sledge can stand it. [Punches Dr. in ribs. Both laugh heartily. Doctor stops suddenly and looks about roo?n.~\ Dr. Say, Cad; just drop Old Sledge, will you? Cad. Certainly, of course. Excuse me, excuse me. Dr. What have you done with Armitage ? Cad. He's wandering about as restless as a disembodied spirit. I don't believe he ever sleeps. In New York, Liv- erpool, London, Paris, here, always the same. Day and night he continues his sleepless search. I sometimes fear the fellow will lose his mind. Dr. Not a bit of it. He has too steady a nerve and too determined a purpose for that. He might lose his voice again, which I doubt, but never his head. I exacted a half- THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 65 way promise from him to-night that he would join us here, if only for half an hour. We must try to occasionally break the current of his thoughts. Cad. Poor fellow had another letter from his mother to-day. Dr. Good news or bad ? Cad. Both. You know his father was an invalid for years. The visit John made to his home before sailing from New York, affected a reconciliation, and seemed to brighten the old man up wonderfully, but a reaction set in, and the poor old fellow passed quietly away. Dr. That's the bad news. What's the good? Cad. The good is that John inherits a handsome fortune, and will be able to prosecute his search to the ends of the earth if he wants to do so. Dr. Any late arrivals reported at the American Consul's? Cad. Yes, several. But nothing that looks like our man. There is one Harwood and daughter, of Boston, and they are guests at this hotel. I learned it only an hour ago. I haven't asked any questions, as Armitage objects to it, and still registers himself under an assumed name. Dr. That's a wise precaution. Cad. Doc, I've had a bit of bad luck myself. One of my pieces of luggage has gone astray between Paris and this point, and worse luck, it is the one containing all of my papers, my appointment and detail on this case from the Governor, my extradition papers, and all. Why, if I should meet that man this minute, I haven't a scrap of paper to hold him on. Dr. But you had your letter of introduction to the Consul ? Cad. Yes, luckily, and that's all. I immediately had him cable for an order from the Secretary of State to retain the prisoner should he be found before I recover my papers. But I discovered my loss only an hour ago, and we will not hear from Washington before to-morrow. Dr. That will be time enough. Cad. Well, I hope so. [Aurelia runs on l. u. e Au. Oh, Doctor! Mr. Cadwallader! I've seen him ! I've seen him! Both. Seen who? Au. The murderer ! the murderer ! I saw him here, in this room, with my own eyes, ten minutes ago. 66 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, Both. Are you sure ? Au. Yes, I'm sure. I shall never forget that face, as I saw him, bending over the poor murdered woman, that ter- rible night. Cad. Did he recognize you? Au. I think not ; although I was introduced to him. Cad. What name? Au. Harwood. Cad. [Whistles.'] All right. Not a word. Go on with your dancing. There now go — go ! [ Urges Aurelia off L. u. E.] We must keep these men apart. Dr. Sure. Cad. Get your folks together, and retire to your rooms. This man might recognize some of you, although he has seen you but once. We must not frighten him away. The papers will surely be here to-morrow. Dr. What's your first move? Cad. To find Armitage and prevent a meeting between them, if possible. Quick, get your family together, and withdraw from the rooms. Dr. All right. Bring Armitage to our apartments when you find him. Exit Doctor l. u. e. Jonas e?iters r. i. e., crosses c. His eyes and Cadwallader's meet for a ??ioment. Cad- wallader, aside, takes a photograph from his pocket, and co?7ipares it with Jonas, who is looking about the roo?n. Cad. The gal was right. {Exit Cadwallader r. u. e. Jonas. I hope that fellow will know me the next time. Every man that looks into my face of late I fancy to be a detective. To-morrow shall see me safely out of this. Agnes is not in her room. I wonder where she can be ? Exit Jonas l. i. e. Mabel enters from veranda r. c, fol- lowed by maid. She hands a light wrap to maid. Mabel. Take it to the room, and in a few minutes return to me here. Do not stay from me long. {Maid courtesies and exits r. 2. e. Music!\ How lonesome the big, deserted rooms appear! Ah, I see; they are dancing now. And how gay and happy they seem. There are many Americans here, too. I could hear them conversing, from my window. And some spoke of California and San Francisco. Oh ! how I did want to come out and talk with them. To hear THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 67 the voices of people from my own country ; to look into the faces of people from my own home. But papa seems to think 1 should speak to no one, but my maid and him- self. [Looking l.] How bright and happy the dancers are! I wonder if I shall ever dance ? At the convent they said that dancing was a sin. It seems as though all happiness is a sin. [Enter Jonas l. i. e.] O father, please do not scold me Jonas. Why did you leave your room, Agnes? Mabel. Agnes! I shall never become accustomed to that name. Jonas. O, yes; you will in time. Mabel. I so much prefer my own, or rather my other name. It was my mother's name, and it seems so strange to me to be called by any other. Jonas. There were very good reasons for the change, my child, which you shall know at the proper time. In the mean- time do not forget that the names of Mabel and Armitage are as unknown to you, as though you had never heard them. Mabel. I shall try to be obedient, father. Jonas. But you have not told me why you left your room. Mabel. I stepped out onto the balcony with my maid, to listen to the music, and then I ventured in, just to get a look at the dancers. They seem so bright and happy, and so beautiful. Jonas. I dare say they are happy enough in their way, but their way is not your way. Mabel. Is it so wrong, then, to be happy ? Jonas. It is not wrong to be happy, no. But scenes like these are not necessary to happiness. Mabel. Then why do you join them ? Jonas. 1 have not been dancing. Why, Agnes, \taking her in his arms,~\ I can find more happiness in one moment in your presence than in hours of such scenes of frivolous gayety. Mabel. I suppose, as a dutiful daughter, I ought to feel flattered by that. But you have had your days of youth- ful pleasures and enjoyments. I have had no girlhood, no bright companionship, only books, books, books, and pray- ers and tasks. But even that life had some hours of bright- ness, for I had people of my own sex and age with whom to pass my few hours of recreation. 68 FROM SIRE TO SON J OR, Jonas. I expect I am very selfish and hard-hearted. Mabel. O, no, you are not. And pardon me if I appear discontented. I do not mean to complain. I think the sound of the music must have made me a little sad for a moment. Pray forgive me, father. [She kisses his hand. Jonas. Forgive you, my child! Forgive you ! \_After a struggle, kisses her Jore head. Aside. ] O God ! who will forgive me ! Mabel. [Surprised^] Why, father, how you tremble ! Your hands are burning. I'm so sorry that I wounded you. Jonas. Never mind, my darling, it is past now. I am wrong, I dare say, in keeping you mewed up so closely, but I love you so dearly that I dread to have others look upon you. I am jealous of your very thoughts. Mabel. Why, father, such a love seems terrible to me. Jonas. Had you not better return to your room ? Mabel. Please let me remain and listen to the music, only for a short time. I told my maid to rejoin me here. Jonas. I can deny you nothing. But it is late, and in ten minutes you must be in your room, remember. \_Exit Jonas l. i. e. Mabel. How strange and ill at ease he seems to-night! Indeed, each time we meet of late there seems a something in his manner, I know not what, that half frightens, half re- pels me. I blush to confess it, even to myself, but a father's loving care and protection has not brought me that happi- ness I had so longed and hoped for, and I try so hard to love him, too ; to realize that he is to me father, mother, all. But there are moments in which his endearing embraces, in which I had thought to find such a world of contentment and happiness, seen to fill me with an indescribable terror. [Sits on ottoman r. c] O, my poor mother, whose voice I may never hear, whose earthly love I may never know, let your gentle spirit hover near me, to teach me a daughter's duty, to inspire me with a daughter's affection. [Takes tip mandolin."] A mandolin! The very name is dear to me, for it is associated with memories of a mother's love. [Takes letter Jrom her bosom.] How jealously have I guarded these, the last lines she ever wrote me, and oh, how often have I bathed them with my kisses and my tears! [Reads.] " My darling daughter ! Upon your fifteenth birthday, we send you, with our great love, a mandolin. It is your father's THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 69 favorite and mine. It is his desire that you learn it. My darling, how earnestly I pray that ere another birthday comes we can offer you the shelter of parental love, and that we may together pour out our voices in songs of praise that a merciful Providence has united us in the sanctity of 'Home, Sweet Home.' Do not be impatient. Be studious, obedient and cheerful, and trust the great wisdom of your Heavenly Father, who, in His good time, will bring you to a loving mother's sheltering arms. Mabel Armitage." [Armi- tage appears in backgrounds Mabel kisses letter and places it in her bosom.] My sainted mother! And that you should die before we could look into each other's eyes ; before I could feel your loving arms about me, your mother's kiss upon my lips. It seems so strange to me — she said my father was so fond of the mandolin, and yet I often sing with it, in his presence, without the slightest recognition. She sings a verse of " Home, Sweet Home" accompanying herself on mandolin. Armitage gradually draws near to her, attracted by the voice. As she finishes, he reaches out as though to take her i?i his arms, realizing picture from first act. Mabel turns to lay down mandolin, their eyes meet. She rises quickly, and Armitage exclaims : Armitage. Mabel ! \_She shrinks r., half frightened. Arm. \_Partially recovering himself] Do not go. Pray pardon me — I fear I frightened you. Please remain. \_She hesitates^ I beg you to be seated but for a moment. Mabel. I fear my father is waiting for me. Arm. Your father! Mabel. Yes, sir. He left me but now. Arm. I will not detain you long. Your song attracted me, for it told me that, like myself, you were an American. Mabel. Yes, sir; I am. \_She sits half reluctantly. Arm. It is such a happiness in alien lands to meet those who speak our own tongue. And how much greater the charm to hear a native song sweetly sung by a native tongue, and the song itself a pure heart-offering of an American absent, like ourselves, from home and kindred. Mabel. It was my mother's favorite and one of her last wishes that I should learn the song of "Home, Sweet Home." Arm. Her last wish. Poor child! Then you — you are an orphan. 70 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, Mabel. O, no; I have a father. Arm. Ah, yes; you have a father. I know you will think me very rude and persistent, but your face for a mo- ment startled me in its striking resemblance to one loved and lost, and for a moment I fancied I must be dreaming. Mabel. [Aside. ,] How strangely he looks at me. [Rises. Arm. Do not go. Do not leave me. Mabel. [Aside.] Some fascination seems to charm me to this spot. [Sits. Arm. You started when I called you Mabel. The name came unbidden to my lips. It was the name of my wife, who is dead ; and it was her face, as I first saw it, that your own so vividly recalled. It is also the name of my daughter, now of your own age. Mabel. You have a daughter of my age, and her name is Mabel? Arm. Yes; Mabel — the name of her mother. Mabel. [Aside.] How strange ! how strange! Arm. And now I hope you will understand and pardon my unseemly emotion. Mabel. O, yes, sir : I am not at all offended. [Aside.] What a strange fascination is in his voice! His very pres- ence seems to hold me as in a spell. Arm. Have you been long in Italy? Mabel. No, sir; but a few weeks. Arm. And you are, I presume, from New York? Mabel. No, sir; from San Fran — from Boston, sir. [Aside.] Oh, what have I said? I am disobeying my father. Arm. Disobeying your father ? Mabel. [Half rising.] I think I should go, sir. Arm. Not yet, I pray. You do not fear me ? Mabel. Fear you? O, no, sir. Arm. And you are right. A daughter could be no more sacred in a loving father's presence than you are in mine. Mabel. [Aside.] Each word he utters, and everv tone of his voice, seems to draw me nearer to him. O, Heavenly Father, forgive and guide me if I am doing wrong. Arm. Your home is Boston ; [She hangs her head.] and mine is in far-away California. Mabel. California! And you are long from there? Arm. Not long ; and but one day in Italy. Mabel. And your daughter Mabel — she is there? THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 71 Arm. No, not now. Mabel. O, then she is here with you. Arm. Each instinct of a father's heart answers, ' * Yes, she is here with me." Mabel. [Aside.'] How strangely and how earnestly he speaks ! Arm. And your — your father — I am sure he loves you devotedly, and by that devotion supplies in part, as only a father's love could do, the great void you must feel in the loss of a mother's loving care. Mabel. O, yes ; he is very kind to me. But, sir, I have never known a mother's tenderness* [Aside."] O, what have I said ? Arm. Nothing, my child, that should have remained un- spoken. I understand. It is your father's wish that you should not meet strangers or speak of your past. Mabel. Yes, sir; such is his desire. Arm. [Affecting a pleasant manner.] But dear me ! how ungallant I have been to occupy so much of your time without even introducing myself. I am free to tell you my name : yours it is your privilege to withhold. My name is Alfred Armitage. [Jonas Hardy appears l. u. e. Mabel. [Starting up.] Alfred Armitage! Arm. Do not go until you have told me your name. Mabel. [Hesitatingly.] My name is — Agnes Harwood. [Jonas quickly exits l. over veranda. Arm. [Aside.] Poor child ! poor child! His plans have been carefully laid. [Aloud.] My daughter's name was Mabel Armitage. She was placed in her infancy in the Convent of the Sacred Heart, in San Francisco. Mabel. Oh, what can this mean? Arm. In failing to visit her, and to win and retain her affections as we should have done, her mother and myself committed a grievous error, and grievously have we been punished. But, Heaven forgive us, in our blind ignorance, we believed we were performing a sacred duty. Our lives had not been guiltless, and we dreaded the hour when the shadow of the parents' faults should darken the life of an in- nocent child. And so we believed, and in that belief gov- erned our lives, until one day six months ago. In that convent with our child, a pure young girl had died. Fifty fair young creatures, in raiment white and spotless as their 72 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, own lives, were returning in procession from the sad scene of the poor orphan's burial. As they entered the convent gates, a pale, anxious woman, leaning upon the arm of a thoughtful, silent man, eagerly scanned each passing face. Suddenly an exclamation of mingled joy and pain broke from the woman's lips. A fair young girl, the very image of herself, was passing before her. Seizing both the soft white hands in her own, she bathed them with her kisses and her tears, and while the poor, frightened child stared in wonder, the husband bore the woman fainting from the scene. Mabel. O, I remember — I remember! Arm. You remember ? Mabel. I do— I do! Arm. And that night, in the solitude of their chamber, that man and woman knelt and prayed for heavenly guidance. They asked that their eyes might be opened, and their path of duty made plain. Mabel. O, what am I hearing? What is the mystery of this man's power? Arm. That prayer was answered. Their duty was made plain ; but, in the moment of its fulfilment, the hand of the assassin stretched that poor mother lifeless on the earth, and left the husband maimed, bleeding, and speechless at her side. Mabel. O, Heaven ! is this a dream or a revelation ! Arm. No, no, my child ; no dream ; but the blessed truth is dawning upon you. O, speak, my child, speak! I long to hear you proclaim the truth I fear to utter. You remember the pale woman at the convent gate ? Mabel. I do— I do ! Arm. Then your name is not Agnes, but Mabel ? Mabel. It is — it is! Arm. Not Harwood, but Armitage ? Mabel. It is — it is. [Jonas re-enters over veranda fol- lowed by group of uniformed police. All characters enter quickly. ~\ And that poor woman at the convent gate. Arm. That woman was your mother. Mabel. My mother ! then you are fonas. Seize that lunatic ! Arm. \_T71rning quickly, sees Jonas, and rushes at him with a shriek.'] At last ! at last ! Armitage is seized by officers. Jonas passes down r. THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 73 Mr. and Mrs. Waldaur into r. cor. Doctor, Ham- ilton and ladies into L. cor. Auxiliaries filling the background. Arm. Who arrests me ? Who accuses me of crime ! There's the criminal ; there's the man you seek. I've traveled ten thousand miles to find him. Arrest that man ! Jonas. [To officers^ You hear the ravings of the maniac! Why do you not remove him ? [Cadwallader enters quickly L. Arm. [To Cadwallader.] Quick, man, your papers ! Where are they? Don't let him escape. Cad. [Aside to Armitage.] My papers have been de- layed. I expect them every hour. Without them we are powerless. We must not frighten him away. Let him appear to triumph — it is only ior a day. [Cadwallader goes down l. Jonas. Why do you not remove that creature. Can you not see that the ladies are frightened and their pleasures disturbed. See, my daughter is almost fainting. Arm. Your daughter ! Audacious liar ! My child, an awful fate has threatened you, but watchful eyes and loving hearts will be near you from to-night. Remember that pale woman at the convert gate. Should danger menace your honor or your life, call upon your father's name, and though walls of stone and bars of steel should shut him in, your voice will bring him to your side. Be brave and fearless, when the hour comes, the man will be there. Jonas, Away with the madman ! Come, my child. [Jonas draws Mabel to his side. Arm. [ Wildly7\ Touch her not ! My child, fly from that man as from a pestilence. There is pollution in his presence, and poison in the air he breathes. Better ten thousand deaths than one moment of his loathsome touch. Away from his side, I say. Yo7C are clingi?ig to your mother' s 7nurderer ! Mabel shrinks r. cor. under the protection of Mr. and Mrs. Waldaur. Armitage on picture c. restrai?ied by officers. Cadwallader, Doctor, Hamilton, Mrs. Mandrake and Aurelia form a group in l. cor. Stage is filed at back with ladies and gentlemen who have ente? r ed from the ball-room l. Jonas r. Curtain. ACT IV. Interior of a tower in an old castle on the Rhine. The room is round or octagonal in shape. Walls and ceilings represent old frescoes nearly obliterated by time. The walls are covered with full le?igth portraits of men in armor and antique coshimes, and women in different styles of ancie?it dress. No door is visible, but many of the pictures are panels that revolve, forming entrances to the room. In L. u. E. a log fire is burning in a?i old-fashioned fire- place, r. u. E. is an alcove hung with antique drapery, which, being drawn aside, reveals a?i old-fashioned bed made up as though for use. A few pieces of antique fur- niture about the room. The back of scene is almost en- tirely filled by large folding windows openi?ig onto a massive stone balcony overlooking the Rhine by moo?ilight. The window-panes are small, round, oval and diamond- shaped stained glass. The windows, when lhrow?i open, reveal stro?ig moonlight effect on the distant waU rs, and so painted as to convey the idea that it is seen from a great height, a red lens i?i fire-place filling the interior with mellow red light. Heavy climbing vines seen clinging to the balcony c. and a few large vines growing up above balcony, as though extending up to cornice or roof. Cru- cifix, ca?idle, &c, R. between window and alcove. At rise of curiam a full le?igth portrait L. revolves, forming door, through which Parsons enters, followed by Jonas. Parsons carries old-fashioned lamp, which he places on table. Lights half up. Jonas carefully surveys the sur- roundings. Parsons. This, sir, is the panel-chamber which my mas- ter's letter mentioned, and which you were so anxious to inspect. I have had it made as presentable as possible. It is a favorite resort of my master's, and, as you will see, he has added some modern comforts. But his desire has always been, while preserving the old place from decay, to keep it, as nearly as possible, intact. fonas. Yes, I see. Parsons. You will observe there are no doors to be seen, (74) THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 75 yet many of the pictures are panels leading to the different stairways, all centering in the grand corridor below. Mr. Waldaur seems to love the very stones in the old walls, and for these faded portraits of his ancestors, he has a perfect veneration. Jonas. You speak excellent English. Parsons. Naturally : I am an American, sir, and for forty years a member of Mrs. Waldaur's family. I was her tutor in childhood, long before our terrible war, which swept away the fortune of her family. But I remained with them during their years of poverty, and when brighter days came to them, they seemed to vie with each other in an effort to make my latter years pass pleasantly. They brought me here two years ago. They saw that I fancied the old place, and so I am made its custodian during their absence. Jonas. This is not the main portion of the castle? Parsons. No, sir. This is the North Tower. [Going up to alcove R.] Here, you see, is a little niche, or alcove, just large enough for a bed. [Goes up and throws open window c, revealing balcony and view as described^ This balcony overlooks the Rhine. These old vines, they say, have clung to the walls for centuries. And yonder, on the rag- ged rocks, eighty feet below, is The Baron' s Bridal Bed. Jonas. The bridal bed ! Parsons. Yes. Did my master not tell you the legend ? Jonas. No. Parsons. Would you like to hear it ? Jonas. If not too much trouble. Parsons. Nothing can be a trouble to me that will afford entertainment to my master's guest. Jonas. You are very kind. Parsons. The tradition runs that during the old feudal wars, the young Baron Waldaur was, on his wedding day, summoned to the field. In this chamber he parted from his virgin bride, and, mounting his charger, hurried to the de- fence of his prince. On this balcony stood the fair Amelia, the bride of an hour, waving her lord adieu, and bidding him God speed and safe return. Three days later, so the legend runs, this castle was stormed and carried by the enemy. All the inmates had been killed or captured save the young bride, who was alone in this chamber. The Prince Ballenburg, the young Baron's deadly foe and former rival for Amelia's hand, knew of her presence here, 76 FROM SIRE TO SON J OR, and sought to force an entrance. But the secret panels de- fied both his cunning and his strength, and so, when dark- ness came, he returned, and climbing by these old ivy vines, he reached this balcony and surprised the trembling bride upon her knees before the crucifix. Meantime, the young Baron, returning victorious from the field, recap- tured the castle and put the enemy to flight. Looking from this balcony the prince realized the fate that awaited him. The fair Amelia was kneeling at his feet, begging him to kill but not pollute her. In the corridors below he could hear the rapid tread of armed heels. The very walls seemed to echo with the clanging steel. He seized the trembling bride in his brawny arms and bore her towards yonder couch, when she, with God-given strength, tore herself from his grasp, rushed on to yonder balcony, and, with a wild shriek, plunged to her death below. At this moment every panel opened, and the young Baron and his retainers filled the room. The prince was slain, and as he fell, pointed, with a mocking laugh, to the balcony. Hurrying thither, the young Baron saw the white body on the rocks below, and crying, "Amelia, my bride, one in life, so shall we be in death !" he took the frightful leap, and when the retainers reached the spot, they found them clasped in each other's arms, their, lips sealed in death. And so that pile of rugged rocks is called " The Barons Bridal Bed." Jonas. A very interesting legend. They were wonderful fellows, these old barons — weren't they? Parsons. So it would seem, if we are to believe all of the traditions and legends so religiously preserved among their descendants. Jonas. I presume Mr. Waldaur has given you no notice of the time of his probable return. Parsons. No sir. I do not expect him for a fortnight at least, unless some entirely unexpected event should hasten his return. Jonas. Thank you. I presume my daughter has changed her attire by this time- You may, if you will, conduct her here. Parsons. With great pleasure. Do not hesitate to call upon me for any service. My master's letter tells me that during your visit you are to receive every attention that he himself would have a right to expect. Jonas. Thank you. [P 'arsons exit through panel L. THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 77 Jonas. The race is nearly run. The meshes of the net are tightening about me, and, try as I will, I cannot fly from my fate. A score of times I have resolved to abandon all and seek safety in flight, but a power greater than my own will controls me, and a nameless fascination chains me to this girl's side. When, by a bold and desperate ruse, I saved myself and left him a prisoner, every instinct of self-preser- vation cried " Fly ! fly ! fly while you may !" but I looked into her eyes, and I was a slave again. A slave to a passion so intense and so terrible that I shrink from its contempla- tion, though I cannot free myself from its spell. I have played a desperate game. So far I win, but the cards are out to beat me, and in the hands of a player more desperate than myself. I know my man, and I know the world's not large enough for us both. But I want no more blood upon my hands. There is but one crime in the calendar that can make me blacker than I am, and I feel myself half longingly, half fearfully drawn towards it. It is an abyss upon whose brink I have long been treading, and which to-night seems yawning to receive me, like a bottomless pit overgrown with tempting fruits and flowers. And shall I seize the fruit and die amid the perfume of the flowers, or wander on to meet my certain fate, and leave the dainty morsel for other hands to pluck in safety. \Savagely.~\ No! no! a thousand times no! I am in the whirl of fate, let her dash me where she will. Jonas walks about the room, examining its appointments . Draws aside the curtain R. u. E. exposing bed. Listens as though he heard footsteps, then passes out onto balcony and disappears. Pa?iel opens l. a?id Mabel is shown iri by Parsons. She is i?i pure white, of soft, cli?igi?ig material, trimmed with soft lace or swansdown, a robe de chamber. The design is to have her appear as a mere child, just eyiteri7ig womanhood. Mabel. Why am I brought here, sir ? Parsons. It is your father's wish. He desired this old room to be especially prepared for you. Mabel. It seems such a height, and so far from the other apartments. Parsons. True, but still, I think you will find it very comfortable. The old tower has the sun during the entire day, so that it is thoroughly dry, and the fire has been lighted for some hours. The bed has been newly made, 78 FROM SIRE TO SON , OR and you will be the first, excepting my master, to occupy it. Indeed, you are highly honored, for this is my master's favorite room, and has never before been occupied by a guest. Mabel. You are most kind and thoughtful. But my maid, she will share it with me ? Parsons. I fear not. Your father selected an apartment for her in the east wing of the castle, a long distance from here, through many corridors and winding stair-ways. Mabel. That's very singular. Parsons. Good night, Miss Harwood, and may the old panel-chamber bring you sweet slumber and happy dreams. Mabel. I thank you, sir ; good night. [Exit Parsons through the panel.'] I cannot understand it all. This old place, and everything connected with it, seems so weird, so strange and unnatural. And each hour that I pass within its walls adds to the terror and superstitious dread with which the place inspires me. Sometimes I think I must surely be dreaming. I cannot seem to realize or comprehend the incidents that have been crowded into the past two days of my life. I cannot, for an instant, banish from my mind that strange, pale man, whose eyes seemed to look into my very soul, and read my every thought. The tears that fell from his eyes, the trembling, earnest voice, that held me as in a spell, the story of the weeping woman at the convent gate, whom he said was my mother. O, no! no! that was no dream, no dream ! [She sinks down by a seat l. c. Jonas enters and drops down r.] O my poor, pale, weeping mother, shall I ever look into your eyes again ? Jonas. I fear not. Mabel. [Starting up.] Oh! Jo?ias. You are not frightened, Agnes ? Mabel. I was startled a little, that's all. I did not know that you were here. Jonas. No, I was out on the balcony, enjoying my cigar and the beautiful view of the old Rhine by moonlight. Won't you join me there? Mabel. No, thank you. I greatly prefer being alone just now. Besides, I had a similar view from the window of my room below. I was very comfortable there ; why was I brought up here? Jonas. I thought this room more interesting. Besides, it is further removed from possible listeners, and I have that THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 79 to say to you to-night that must be heard by no ears but our own. You must naturally have some curiosity to know what it is. Mabel. I have certainly wondered at our sudden mid- night departure from Naples, coupled with the terrible scenes that preceded our apparently guilty flight. Jonas. Guilty flight ? Mabel. What else can I think ? I have been taught that "the wicked flee when no man pursueth." Surely you appeared to be in perfect safety when the man whom you accused was removed to a prison, and yet, in the middle of the night, with scarcely an hour of preparation, we hurry from Naples, hardly sleeping or exchanging words until our arrival at this desolate place. Joyias. Scarcely desolate, my child. This is a famous old castle, the property of a dear old friend, and only the favored few are permitted to enjoy its hospitality. Besides, you have your father. Mabel. My father ! Jonas. Yes, child. Surely you have not wearied of my company so soon ! Mabel. Sir — I — I camiot call you father — the name seems to stop in my throat, but if I must speak plainly, I have not, from the first, found in your companionship that consolation, that confidence and happiness which my heart tells me a father's presence should have inspired. Heaven pardon me if I do you a wrong, but the events of that hour preceding our departure from Naples, seem to have changed my life, my very nature. That man's trembling voice is ever in my ears, like strains of sacred music ; his pleading eyes are ever before me, and the spell of his presence seems still to hold me. And his fearful words of warning as they bore him away — I can never forget them, " Better ten thousand deaths than one moment of his loathsome touch. My child, you are clinging to your mother's murderer." [She sinks sobbing into seat. Jonas. And you believe the words the madman uttered ? Mabel. I know not what to think or what to believe. I am but a child, sir, a helpless child. I have never known a father's protection or a mother's care. No contact with men or women, to teach me worldly wisdom. I only know that in my heart there has been a desperate struggle between its natural instincts and my sense of duty to you, and, for a time, instinct has gained the mastery. SO FROM SIRE TO SON J OR, Jonas. Then you repudiate me and my authority ? Mabel. I do not say that ; but every intuition of my nature tells me that you are not my father ! Jonas. And your intuitions are entirely correct. I am not you father. Mabel. Thank God for that ! Jonas. You are not complimentary. Mabel. Pardon me, sir, I scarcely knew what I was saying. Jonas. I understand — it was your instinct again. Mabel. And now, sir, please tell me who and what you are. Jonas. I am your fate, as you are mine. Mabel. Speak plainly, sir, and do not torment me. The man whom you called a madman, did he speak the truth ? Jonas. That you will never hear from me. We have done with the past. Let us now consider the present and the future, Agnes. [Moves towards her. Mabel. \_Shrinking '.] O, do not touch me ! Speak and I will listen, but do not touch me. Jonas. Sooner or later you will have to overcome your aversion to me, you may as well begin the^struggle now. Mabel. I cannot guess the import of your words. Jonas. Their import is fraught with fate for both of us. I am calm, you see, yet no man was ever more desperate or determined than I am at this moment. You say you became a changed being from the moment you met that strange man. I can well believe it. My whole being is changed since the hour when I took you in my arms and looked into your eyes. Every thought, every energy, every ambition concentrated in the one desire, and each day has added to its intensity. Agnes, I love you. Mabel. [Groans and hides her face. ~\ Oh! Jonas. Yes, I love you with a passion that pursues my waking thoughts, and haunts my dreams. A love that fills my mental vision and animates every fibre of my being. It is such a passion as inspires men to deeds of daring or tempts them to crime and death. Mabel. O Holy Virgin, let the spirit of my murdered mother hover near me now. Jonas. Can you in your heart find responsive echo to a love so absolute ? Mabel. Your words have filled me with an unknown ter- THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 8l ror. I can find in my heart an echo to nothing but my father's awful warning-. Jonas. Your father's? Mabel. Yes, my father's; for I know it now. " Better ten thousand deaths than one moment of his loathsome touch." Go! go! go! Leave me, I implore you! Jonas. It is plain you do not yet comprehend your situa- tion nor my desperate purpose. When a passion like mine is reciprocated, it makes the man a god; when it is re- pulsed, it makes him a demon. Your fate and mine hang upon your word. Mabel. Upon my word ? Jonas. Yes. I offer you my hand and name in mar- riage. Mabel. O, monstrous! What must you think of me? With what kind of beings has your life been passed that you thus insult all womankind in me ? Jonas. You cannot paint me blacker than I see myself, and your sublime anger but adds new temptations to your beauty and my ungovernable passion. Mabel. And you are a nian / In the books they gave me to read at the convent, the women were gentle and con- fiding; the men were brave and strong. Thinking you my father, I have tried to find in you the realization of that girlish ideal, but, with a breath, you sink yourself so low that I can only see you with eyes of pity. I can only feel for you a loathing and contempt. Jonas. I was prepared for all of this and more. Nothing that you can say or do will swerve me from my purpose, Agnes. [Moving towards her. Mabel. Back, sir! I am no longer Agnes! I am Mabel Armitage, and I command you to quit this room! There is pollution in your presence and poison in the air you breathe. Go! go! and never let me see your loathsome face again. Jonas. You have chosen your fate and must abide it. I should have preferred it otherwise, but you will not have it so. I cannot comply with your request. To leave you now would be to abandon a purpose which I have planned de- liberately, and which I shall execute remorselessly. In the pursuit of that purpose, scorn, epithet, and contempt fall harmless from me. Mabel. Man, man, at what awful crime do you hint ? 82 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, Jonas. There is but one crime more awful than that al- ready charged against me. That crime to-night shall be added to the list. Mabel. What sin have I committed that I should be thus assailed ? Jo?ias. The sin of being beautiful. The sin of arousing in me a demon that only that beauty can assuage. Mabel. [Sinking at his feet. ~\ O sir, I divine your fearful purpose. In the name of the mother who gave you life, I implore you to turn from this awful deed. Within a day or two at best, you will be discovered, and your punishment will be terrible. Fly while there is time and save yourself. I will forgive the past and forget the present, and I wall im- plore my father's forgiveness, too. O, curb the awful demon that is urging you to this worse than murder. By this one act, you may, in part, atone the past and go forth into the world a man again. Jonas. I will leave this minute. Mabel. You will ? Jonas. I will! But you must go with me. Mabel. O, no! no! no! Jonas. And I say yes. Here or elsewhere, now or here- after, you must be mine. Jonas moves tozvard her. She escapes him and runs out onto balcony. Mabel. [On balcony.^ O my father! I call upon your name. Jonas. Foolish child! This is no age of miracles. Mabel. He said when danger threatened my honor or my life, to call upon his name, and though bars of steel and walls of stone should shut him in, my voice would bring him to my side. Jonas. You are mad, come from that balcony. [Moving towards balcony. Mabel. Stop ! one step nearer, and my blood will be upon your soul. Jonas. What would you do ? Mabel. A deed for which I now ask forgiveness through Mary for Jesus' sake. Jonas. You would not commit self-murder ? Mabel. Better ten thousand deaths than one moment of your loathsome touch! [Jonas starts c] Stand where you are. I know a father's love will find me here. And w r hen THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 83 he comes, he shall find me spotless, or find my body on the rocks below. Jonas. [Aside.'] And she will do it too. Impatient fool that I was, not to have heeded the legend of the Baron's Bridal Bed. Mabel. And now, sir, leave my presence or I shall leave yours. You still have a chance of escape by flight. One step in this direction, and all is over. Jonas. [Aside.] I have played too desperate a game to weaken now. But I must, by some subterfuge, get her from that balcony. Mabel. Do you linger still ? Jonas. I go. I do not ask forgiveness, because I do not deserve it. [Moves tip to panel and opens it.] But I would not have your blood upon me — I have enough of that already, and so I go. Disappers through panel L. , closing it. AJter a briej pause , Mabel enters the room, moves towards door a step, then raises hand to her head a?id heart, a?id Jails in a swoon c. The pa?ie I slowly opens, Jonas looks cautiously in. Sees Mabel, enters, closes and locks panel, putting key in pocket. Jonas. [In whisper^] Fierce as a tiger in the moment of danger, and when she thinks it past, woman-like, she swoons. I could swear I heard strange voices murmuring in the court below. [Rushes quickly up onto balcony.] Can they have run me down so soon! O, no, it is my guilty conscience that makes each chirping bird and falling leaf a nemesis. I feel a premonition of impending doom, but the destiny that has wrought my fate controls it still, and chains me to this spot. Mabel. [Half recovering and half rising.] O, no! no! no! not yet. Let me pray first, let me pray. [Recoveri?ig consciousness^] O, no, it could not have been a dream ; it was too real, too terrible. [Rises, looks about.] O, yes, I remember all now. That fearful man! But he is gone. O, thank Heaven for that! Quick! let me escape. [She starts l. Jonas. [From balcony^] There is no escape. That panel is securely locked. There are two keys. The one I hold, the owner of the castle the other. Mabel. And even death is denied me. Jonas. Are you reconciled to your fate ? 84 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, Mabel. I am reconciled to death. Jonas. So be it ; and I will, if need be, share it with you. I shall not be the first man or the last to face death for a woman's kiss. If you have a prayer repeat it quickly now, [Mabel kneels r. c. in prayer, Jonas enters room from balcony, stands c] for the cords of fate are tightening about us both. The very air is pregnant with dishonor and death. If there is a hell, nothing can save me from its tortures; and as bliss is denied me in the world to come, I'll seize one hour of Heaven in this. [Moves towards Mabel r. Mabel. [Shrinking r. in terror.] O my father, the hour has come ! Armitage, holding by the vines, springs onto the balco?iy, and into the room. He is in shirt sleeves and bare headed. Armitage. \_As he reaches balcony. ~\ The man is here. [Enters and sta?ids c. on picture. Mabel, with a scream of joy, rushes up and kjieels at her fathey^s feet, clinging to his knees. Jonas down into L. cor. Mabel O my father, by what miracle have you reached this place ? Armitage. [Lifting Mabel 2ip and looking into her face .] Tell me, child, and quickly, am I too late? Mabel. No, father, no. My Heavenly Parent guarded me until you came. [Armitage kisses her, and her head sinks upon his breast. Armitage. Thank God ! thank God! I have her pure. My child! my Mabel! sweet image of your murdered mother. At last! at last ! Mabel. But how did you reach this place? Armitage. As we arrived in the court below, I saw your pale face in the moonlight there, and heard you call your father's name. While others guarded the avenues of es- cape, the old ivy vines brought me safely to your side. Jonas moves stealthily toward panel. It opens, a?id Wal- daur enters, followed by Job Cadwallader, Doctor and Mrs. Mandrake, Hamilton, Aurelia and Par- sons. All are in traveling costume. Ladies with wraps, gentlemen with overcoats. Two uniformed officers are last, and remaiii standing by panel. Waldaur and the ladies congratulate Armitage and greet Mabel. All is done very quickly. THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 85 Cad. [ To Jonas.] You escaped us very nicely at Naples, but we have the documents now. Jonas. What need of documents or delay ? I have lost. My life is his. [Pointing to Armitage.]. Let him take it and end the game. Mabel. O father, remember the Martyr upon the cross who said: " Forgive them, Father; they know not what they do." In this moment of great joy, cannot we, too, be merciful ? Ar7?iitage. My child, there are crimes so ghastly that in their contemplation Mercy hides her face behind the judg- ment seat, while outraged Honor wields the awful sword of justice. Jonas. Then why not kill me now ? Doctor. It is quite natural that you should court a sud- den death at the hands of an outraged husband and father, but your friends have other views for you. Jonas. What is to be my fate ? Cad. You will be taken to the scene of your crime. Hamilton. Where you will be tried by a jury of your countrymen. Armitage. And you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead. Mabel. O, blessed hour! How sweet and sacred is the instinct that tells me that a father holds me in his arms! Armitage. Forever and forever! Curtain. /O- T\ rom Sire) To Sox :& OR, The Hour and The AN ORIGINAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS, MILTON NOBLES. Entered at the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C, March, 18-87, by Milton Nobles, AS SOLE AUTHOR AND PROPRIETOR. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PHILADELPHIA : LEDGER JOB PRINT. 1887. 'S< V '* k '**> *<■ h' ^ ,0o. V * S W 1 V ^ * o x .0 e>