PS 3515 
 fl44 P6 
 1897 
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^^^^ AfviericaR. Lije 
 
 FOR CLOSET AND STAGE 
 
 This even-handed justice 
 
 G>mniends the ingfredients of our poisoned chalice 
 To our own lips* — Shakespeare. 
 
 WASHINGTON, D. C. 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 x397 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE 
 
 A Romantic Drama of American Life 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 ANDREW WILLIAM HAMMOND 
 
 This even-handed justice 'VaX v 
 
 Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice 
 To our own lips — Shakespeare. 
 
 
 
 WASHINGTON, D. C. 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 1897 
 
-2) 
 
 6\ 
 
 6 
 
 
 % 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONJ^. 
 
 RICHARD FANSHAWE, M. D., a Bohemian. 
 
 GEORGE MARLOWE, an artist ; actor in a roving compan}' under the 
 
 name of Rugge ; friend of Fanshawe. 
 COLONEL HERBERT VAUGHN, a country gentleman. 
 JOHN CARSON, a provincial banker ; friend of Colonel Vaughn. 
 JUDGE GROTCHET, Colonel Vaughn's lawyer. 
 JOHN DUNMORE, Nephew of Colonel Vaughn; law student with 
 
 Judge Crotchet ; afterward captain of a slaver. 
 JONES, Mate of Dunmore's schooner. \ 
 
 GILHOOLY, a waiter ; afterward one of Dunmore's crew. 
 OLD DAN, Negro slave of Dunmore. 
 
 ALIENA DENHAM, a reputed adventuress ; actress in the company 
 
 with Marlowe. 
 ROSE VAUGHN, Daughter of Colonel Vaughn. 
 MISS BELLE DUNMORE, Cousin of Rose. 
 
 Guests of Colonel Vaughn ; Servants ; Hotel Waiters ; Inmates of 
 a Water Street Dance-house ; Crew of Dunmore's Schooner. 
 An Octoroon Slave Girl. 
 
 Time— ]856-'5' 
 
 SCENE : Act I.— The Garden of a Tavern in the Suburbs of an American 
 Provincial City. Acts II and III.— Country Residence of Colonel 
 Vaughn. Act IV— Scene I.— Apartments of Marlowe and Fanshawe 
 in New York. Scene II.— Interior of a Water Street Dance-house. 
 act V. — Dunmore's Rendezvous on the Coast of Florida. 
 
 Between Acts I and II a supposed interval of one month ; between Acts III 
 and IV, one year ; between Acts IV and V, ten days. 
 
 This play is a dramatized version of the author's novel (unpublished) ei 
 titled " George Marlowe, Artist and Tramp : An Autobiography." 
 
 Copyright, 1897. 
 
 (3) 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 ScE^E — The Garden of a Tavern in the outskirts of an American 
 Provincial City. Landscape, with distant view of ivoods and 
 mountains. On left of Scene Veranda of Tavern. Trees, under 
 which are tables. A Waiter in attendance. 
 
 Enter George Marlowe, poorly dressed. 
 
 Mar., {glancing round). I have come too soon, it seems. Miss 
 Denham has not yet returned. Well, as she must know what 
 has happened, 1 must stay until she comes, I suppose — if that 
 waiter don't turn me out. He seems greatly outraged. \^Laughs.'] 
 Well, I can't blame him. It is an outrage to come with habili- 
 ments like these into a place so sacred to store clothes. ' Only 
 gentlemen admitted.' Well, here is sixpence worth of consola- 
 tion for him. \^Takes coin from his pocket, steps toward waiter and 
 then stops.'] No; I can't. With the wolf so near, I must not 
 part with even a penny. [Returns coin to pocket, sighs heavily, 
 and. walks thoughtfidly up and doivn.] 
 
 Waiter, {regarding Marlowe suspiciously). What seedy-look- 
 ing tramp is that who has althered his moind about givin' me 
 a cint? Ah, I see who it is. He is one o' them acthorin chaps 
 from the theayter. That's Misther Rugge, the walkin' gintle- 
 man. I didn't recognoise him in his street costume. Begorra, 
 he's got some cheek to come here in thim cloathes. Maybe he's 
 got jealous an' come afther the walkin' lady. If he has there'll 
 be an illegant row betune him an' the foine gintleman that 
 brmgs her here. I'll find out, an' if it's the acthress he's afther 
 I'll tell him something that'll put the foight in him. Hoo, 
 there'll be a foine shindy. 
 
 Enter Fanshawe. He regards Marlowe for a moment, then saun- 
 ters one side and sits down on the corner of a table. 
 
 Fan. [Aside : So, my elusive friend, you are cornered at last, 
 are you? — if I am not mistaken as to your being the man I 
 think you are. No, I'm not mistaken. It is George Marlowe and 
 no one else, but so strangely altered that it is really difficult to 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. O 
 
 recognize him. Quite down at the heel and out at the elbow, I 
 declare. Romance seems to have been a costly luxury. Love 
 for an actress, I suppose. And now, how am I to approach 
 him — so anxious he seems to shun recognition!] 
 
 Waiter, {approaching Marlowk). AVhat'll yer honor have, 
 sorr ? 
 
 il/ar. Nothing just now. I am only awaiting the arrival of 
 some one who will be here presently. 
 
 Waiter. Waitin' the arrival o' some one? 
 
 ilfar. Yes. 
 
 Waiter, (confidentially). It's a lady, isn't it? 
 [Maklowe does not answer. Continues his walk. Waiter follows. 
 
 Waiter. It's a lady, isn't it? 
 
 3far. I don't think it necessary, my friend, that you should 
 know who it is. 
 
 Waiter. Oh, mebbe not, sorr. Only I thought 5^ez moight 
 like to have the lady informed that ye're here. 
 
 Mar. Ah, true. You are quite right. Yes, it is a lady — 
 Miss Denham, from the theatre ; and when she arrives let her 
 know at once, will you, that Mr. Rugge is waiting here to speak 
 with her. [Gives waiter a coin.1 Don't delay. 
 
 Waiter. I'll not, sorr. I'll let her know before she puts her 
 foot out of the carriage door. [Aside: Yes, I knew it. It's the 
 acthress he's afther. Hoo! There'll be an illegant row. An' 
 now to rouse the divil o' jealousy that'll put the foight in liim.] 
 Yes, sorr; the lady'll arroive prisintly. But, me frind, I'm 
 afther thinkin' that it's not the loikes o' you she'll be wantin' 
 to see. 
 
 31ar., {indifferently, continuing his walk). Indeed ; and why not? 
 
 Waiter. Because she'll be engaged with other company — the 
 other feller, ye know— the gintleman as plays the Count off the 
 stage. He's the boy for her smoiles, an' she's the gal for his 
 money. 
 
 Mar., {stopping). What! You insolent hound ! Will you go 
 away from me or must I knock you down? 
 
 Waiter. Hoo ! It's knock me down, is it ? That's a different 
 chune, an' it's one that you can't step to, me foine — gintleman. 
 
 Mar. Can I not ? We shall see. How will this do as a starter 
 for a reel ? [Strikes waiter, who falls back among cJiairs and tables.] 
 
 Fan. Good ! That's mv man. That settles his identity. 
 
b THE POISONED CHALTCE. 
 
 Waiter, (getting up). Oh, the blaggard ! Oh, I'm murthered ! 
 Ho, Moike! Denis! Terence! Hans! 
 
 . [Some ivaiters rush in, followed by some ivell-dressed loungers. 
 Fanshawe, leaning against table, takes pistol from his pocket. 
 
 Waiter, {pointing to Marloave). Turn that murtherin' scoun- 
 drel out! It's afther killin' me he'd be! He would— so he 
 would. [ Waiters advance upon Marlowe, 
 
 Fan., (raising pistol). Hold on there ! Stop wliere you are, or 
 there will be some dead waiters here presently. Verdict of the 
 jury, justifiable homicide. [Waiters stop and step back.~\ So! 
 Now, off with you ! [ Rising and replacing pistol. Exeunt waiters. ] 
 
 Fan. The scoundrels ! But the affair serves my turn most 
 beautifully. It breaks the ice and gives me the opportunity I 
 want. [Approaches Marlowe, who advances to meet him.^ Sir 
 (saluting), am I mistaken in the belief that I address Mr. George 
 Marlowe? 
 
 Mar. You are not mistaken, sir; that is my name, though 
 not the one I bear at present. But before I offer any explana- 
 tion, sir, let me thank you for your interference here in my be- 
 half. You have saved me from being very roughly handled. 
 
 Fan. Doubtless ; but you need not consider that you owe me 
 any thanks on that account. On the contrary, you might regard 
 me as being indebted to you. 
 
 Mar. Indeed, sir ! May I know in what way ? 
 
 Fan. In the opportunity you have given me here for the re- 
 newal of a former very agreeable acquaintance. Surely, jNIr. 
 IMarlowe, it is not possible that you can have forgotten me — 
 Dick Fanshawe. Three years ago, if it is necessary to recall the 
 fact, you and I were frequently together in that circle that 
 gathered round the tables at Pfaff's, in New York. 
 
 Mar. No, Mi-. Fanshawe, I have not forgotten you. So far 
 from that, sir, I can say that there is no one of that circle of 
 whom I have a more lasting, and I may add a more pleasing, 
 remembrance. 
 
 Fan. May I ask, then, why you have so persistently kept out 
 of my way, as it seems to me you have done, since your stay 
 here in town ? 
 
 3fa,r. That is a charge, sir, to which I must plead guilty. But 
 let me say that it was not for the reason that a renewal of our 
 former acquaintance would have been in any way displeasing to 
 me. Quite the contrary. 
 
THii: POISONED CHALICE. 7 
 
 Fan. Well, then, if my curiosity can be excused, may I be 
 so bold as to ask the reason ? 
 
 Mar. Well, you must consider, Mr. Fanshawe, that our ac- 
 quaintance at the time you speak of was not such as to permit 
 us to know each other intimately ; that soon after it began we 
 separated, and that since that time circumstances have so greatly 
 changed with me that — really, sir — I 
 
 Fan. Oh, spare yourself the explanation. Perhaps I can un- 
 derstand reasons that you hesitate to give. You have been hard 
 pressed by misfortune since the time we speak of. 
 
 Mar. Quite true, sir. 
 
 Fan. And not having any reason to suppose that I was un- 
 like the rest of the world, that keeps out of a man's way when 
 Fortune deserts him, you have kept out of mine through fear 
 that you might meet a rebuff — that I might not wish to renew 
 acquaintance with one in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes. 
 
 Mar. Well, sir, I must confess to having had some such 
 thoughts, but I see now that I was mistaken ; that I ought to 
 have known better, and I beg your pardon most sincerely. 
 
 Fan. Oh, let it pass. It was not complimentary ; but in view 
 of the human nature that underlies it, it is easily overlooked. 
 You gentlemen of the artistic mould are such supersensitive 
 spirits — you shrink from even the suspicion of a slight. So, 
 with this regard, we will sa}^ nothing more about it, and if it is 
 agreeable to you, take a new hold of the old acquaintance. 
 \^Offers his hand.'] 
 
 Mar. With all my heart. [2Vd-mgr FANSHAWE's/ia?icZ.] Noth- 
 ing in the world could give me greater pleasure. 
 
 Fan. And a hold that shall stand the test of ill fortune — and 
 of good fortune, too, I hope. And now, that we are once more 
 on the old familiar footing, let us sit down here and have a julep 
 and a talk over old times. [.They sit down at a table under a tree 
 in front. ] 
 
 Enter the Waiter, with glasses and a pitcher, ivhich he places on the 
 table. He has a badly bruised eye from the blow received from 
 Marlowe. 
 
 Fan., {to waiter). So, Mr. Gilhooly, is it there ye are once 
 more? Sure, it's a foine oye ye hav€ intirely. 
 
 Waiter. Is it, sorr? Sure, an' I'm willin' to give one to yer 
 honor if yez consider it ornamintal. [Exit. 
 
8 THE POtSONED CHALICI^. 
 
 Fan., {filling glasses). Well, here is to the memories of the 
 past and the hopes of the future. [ They drink.l But before we 
 come to tender memories, there is a matter upon which I would 
 like some information. How is it that I find you here, an actor 
 in a roving company? Three years ago I left you a rising artist 
 in New York. 
 
 Mar. You find me here for the reason that three years ago I 
 ceased to be a rising artist. Not having any money — having 
 failed to be wise in the day of success — I was obliged to take to 
 some other means of earning a living, which I did by taking to 
 the stage and joining a strolling company. It is the old story. 
 You know how popular the dramatic profession is with people 
 who have failed in life. 
 
 Fan. Yes, it seems to be. But there is a mystery still unex- 
 plained. I can't understand how an artist of your ability should 
 fail to win success anywhere. 
 
 3[ar. That has also a simple explanation. It was due to a 
 discovery I made one day that my success as an artist was not 
 due to the merit of my work, but that it was altogether due to 
 the criticism, or rather the lavish praise, given to my pictures 
 by a couple of art critics of my acquaintance, presumed friends 
 of mine. 
 
 Fan. Oh, indeed ! 
 
 Mar. Yes; and it was a discovery so disheartening, onethat 
 hurt my pride, or perhaps my vanity, so much that I made an 
 attempt to convince myself that it was not true. So I hid my- 
 self awa}^ from the critics, and for a year or so painted in ob- 
 scurity, sending my work out under the assumed name of Rugge. 
 Well, the result was only to confirm the truth of the discovery. 
 I never sold a picture from the day I took leave of the critics. 
 I was then obliged to confess to the heart-breaking truth— that 
 my success as an artist had not been due to merit, but w^as purely 
 the result of newspaper laudation. 
 
 Fan. H'm ! You are not the first artist who has made that 
 discovery, I'm thinking. But did you not allow your friends, 
 the critics, to take you up again ? 
 
 Mar. I was quite willing that they should do so, so strong 
 was the persuasion of an empty pocket; but in the meantime 
 something had happened. It had been discovered that the 
 critics I mention had taken monev from artists whose work 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. V 
 
 would not justify tlie laudation these critics had given them, and 
 they had been discharged from their newspapers. In fact, I 
 had myself unsuspectingly lent money among them. 
 
 Fan. Which, it is not necessary to say, had not been repaid? 
 
 Mar. Not a penny of it. Well, I struggled on for a year 
 longer, earning a precarious living by painting for the auction- 
 rooms, and then, just as I was on the verge of actual starvation, 
 a friend of mine, a theatrical man, learning of my condition, 
 offered me a position in his compan3^ I accepted. In due time 
 we took the road ; and here I am, a stranded actor. And so 
 ends my story. 
 
 Fan. And a sad one it is, truly. [Aside: So, then, it was not 
 love for an actress that turned him into a stroller. So much the 
 better for the object I have in view.] But stranded actor, you 
 say? What! Has it^ come to this with you? 
 
 3Iar. It has. Bad luck and empty ben(!hes, resulting partly 
 from competition with a minstrel show here in town, have 
 brought us to the usual fate— break up and a midnight exit from 
 the stage door. 
 
 Fan. In which the walking gentleman don't seem to have 
 participated ! 
 
 Ma7\ That is for the reason that, as walking gentleman, I 
 want an exit more in keeping with my line of parts. I am in 
 debt for a board bill. I have not yet acquired the art of walking 
 away from that gracefully. Besides, there's my stage ward- 
 robe 
 
 Fan. Surely, you are in a bad plight. And now, if you will 
 permit the question, may I ask what you intend to do ? 
 
 3far. Hunt up employment of some kind— something in the 
 artistic line, if it can be had. The search for it is one of the 
 objects that has brought me here. 
 
 Fan. This is hardly the locality in which to find it. Nose- 
 painting is the only artistic work done on these premises. Fine 
 specimens on exhibition daily. [This to the listening loungers, 
 toJio take the hint and widh off.'] Nevertheless, I think something 
 in the line you want can be found if you will permit me to do 
 a friend's office and obtain it for you. 
 
 Mar. Willingly. And I don't mind saying that I am at so 
 low an ebb that I could accept a job at whitewashing, if nothing 
 better offered. 
 2 
 
10 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Fan. Something better will offer. I have in mind something 
 that I think would suit you. How would you like the position 
 of drawing master in a gentleman's family ? 
 
 Mar. It is not a question of liking, my dear friend. Beggars 
 must not be choosers. 
 
 Fan. Well, it so happens that I know where a drawing 
 master is wanted. It is in a gentleman's family, living a few 
 miles in the country. And I can say that you are already 
 known there by reputation. One of your pictures is in posses- 
 sion of the family, and the master of the house values it so 
 highly that he has more than once spoken to me about what he 
 calls the mysterious disappearance of the artist. 
 
 Mar. Let him but say the word and the artist shall reappear. 
 
 Fan. That word shall be said tomorrow. [^Aslde: And now 
 for the first step toward the grand object I am aiming at.] I 
 suppose, my friend, that you have not given up ambition— that 
 the hope of eventually winning recognition and success as an 
 artist is very dear to you. 
 
 Mar. So much so, my dear friend, that there is scarcely any 
 sacrifice I would not make to bring that hope to fruition. 
 
 Fan. Good ! I find thee apt. Would you regard mai-riage, 
 then, as too great a sacrifice to be made with that object in view ? 
 
 Mar. Marriage ? 
 
 Fan. Yes. With a young lady, say, who was very rich, 
 while you were very poor ! 
 
 Mar. I don't think I should regard that as much of a sacri- 
 fice at the present state of my fortunes. I confess there was a 
 time when I would have done so, but such romance has quite 
 vanished with me. Do you see these holes? {^Pointing to the 
 holes in Ids coat.] That is where it went out. 
 
 Fan. Well said, my lad. And that is where wisdom went 
 in. Contact with the sharp corners of the world, if it makes 
 holes in one's coat, lets the romance out of the best of us. 
 
 Mar. It has let the romance out of me, and something has 
 kept it company that I would much rather not have parted 
 with. [Siglis.j Not forever sweet are the uses of adversity. 
 
 Fan. Oh, cheer up. You are so much the better fitted for 
 the hfe of this world. We must be M'ise, yield to life's hard 
 conditions and make the best of them. Such is my creed. 
 
 Mar. I can find it easy to accept it for mine. And now, as 
 to this marriage you speak of 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 11 
 
 Fan. Well, in the family where I shall introduce you as draw- 
 ing master is a young lady, the daughter of the house, who is 
 heiress to millions. She will be your pupil. She is very beau- 
 tiful and romantic withal, and I can foresee that when she has 
 heard your story and knows you for what you are, she will fall 
 in love with you and you can marry her. Then, with fortune 
 and position yours, the artistic recognition you covet is within 
 your reach. Eemember, my friend, that you are in a country 
 where merit such as yours must buy its way to recognition or — 
 emigrate. 
 
 Mar. Well, really, my dear friend — what shall I say ? In 
 some respects— but to enter an honorable family with such an 
 object in view 
 
 Fan. Would not be the part of an honorable man, you would 
 say ? True ; I knew you would think so, and it was the answer 
 I expected. Now, hear me further. There are circumstances 
 connected with such a part that quite redeem it from anything 
 dishonorable, but, on the contrary, imj^art to it an element of 
 chivalry and romance. In marrying the young lady you would 
 save her from a terrible fate. 
 
 Mar. Indeed ! 
 
 Fan. Yes ; or what I regard as such. The young lady is 
 sought in marriage by a man who is unworthy of her, and who, 
 if he succeeds in marrying her — and there is great danger that 
 he will do so — will wreck her happiness forever. It is a fate 
 from which I would save my fair cousin Rose, as I would save 
 a dear sister. 
 
 Mar. Your cousin ? 
 
 Fan. Yes ; but that part has been changed. She is now the 
 sister to me. 
 
 Mar. Oh, I see. 
 
 Fan. Yes ; and naturally I feel some interest in her welfare ; 
 and I will further confess that the hope of saving her from this 
 man is the great object I have in view in placing you in her 
 father's house. Now, you understand me ? Will you undertake 
 the part ? 
 
 Mar., [after a moment's reflection). I will. \_They shalie hands. ^ 
 I will woo the young lady and save her from the villain — if I 
 can. 
 
 Fan. I can't say the man is a villain. As men go, he might 
 
12 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 be considered an honorable man, but secretly he leads a life that 
 would wreck the happiness of any woman he might marry. He 
 is prominent in social life here. He is the banker Carson. 
 
 Mar. I have heard of him. And the name of the young 
 lady? 
 
 Fan. Is Miss Rose Vaughn. 
 
 Mar. Is she the daughter of Colonel Vaughn? 
 
 Fan. She is. Do you know the Colonel ? 
 
 Mar. I have a partial acquaintance with him — made behind 
 the scenes of the theatre here. He only knows me, however, 
 as Rugge, the actor— to call me one. 
 
 Fan. He will soon know you in your true character — and 
 much sooner than I expected — for here he comes. 
 
 Enter Colonel Vaughn, escorting Miss Denitam. Engaged in 
 conversation, they cross the stage and go out at one of the exits. 
 
 Fan. The Colonel seems greatly taken with your leading 
 lady. I have noticed that every night of her engagement he 
 has occupied a private box at the theatre, and that every day 
 he comes here to take her out for a drive. And that leads me 
 to ask a question concerning her. She is very beautiful. Is she 
 a good woman as well ? 
 
 3far. I have no reason in the world for thinking otherwise. 
 
 Fan. Then perhaps a word of warning might not be thrown 
 away upon her. 
 
 Mar. A word of warning! Of what nature? 
 
 Fan. Well, Colonel Vaughn, although a vei'y honorable man 
 in other respects, is not very scrupulous as regards women. 
 He is very rich, and, besides, has personal qualities that make 
 him dangerous. A word of warning now might save some un- 
 happiness hereafter. 
 
 Mar. I don't think the lady will need it. On the contrary, 
 the Colonel might need a word of warning himself. She is not 
 a woman to be trifled with. Beauty is not her only charm. 
 She has intellect, education, and a strong will. Besides, she has 
 a fascination more potent still. She is difficult to read. Upon 
 my life I can't make out whether she is a woman of really noble 
 character or a superior kind of adventuress. 
 
 Fan. A woman not to be trifled with, I should say. But the 
 question arises. What has made such a woman an actress in a 
 roving company ? 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 13 
 
 Mar. The fascination of the stage, doubtless. It is a very 
 potent lure, you know, for brilliant and beautiful women— on 
 the hither side of the footlights. 
 
 Fan. Yes, and a fatal one in most cases. Brilliant moths 
 of that kind lie thick around those candles. And very badly 
 scorched — some of them. Well, I wish the Colonel w^ould come 
 in. I am impatient to let him know that the painter of the 
 picture he values so highly will become the drawing master he 
 is in search of. 
 
 Mar. And while we are waiting, suppose you tell me some- 
 thing about yourself. AVhy is it that I find you in this pro- 
 vincial town? I was greatly surprised to see you across the 
 footlights. 
 
 Fan. The town is my native home. I am practicing medi- 
 cine here— if a doctor can be said to do that who has no patients. 
 When I finished my hospital probation in New York I came 
 home to practice. I didn't find it, and so fell back on my former 
 trade of novel writing. My work I sell to local publishers, and 
 what with this and what with an occasional check from my dad, 
 I manage to eke out a living. 
 
 Enter Dunmore. He saunters in suUenli/, picks up a newspaper, 
 and sits down at a table. He and Marlowe bow distantly. 
 Waiter enters and serves Dunmore. 
 
 Fan. Well met. The very man I wished to see. [Takes 
 pistol from his ^wcket and approaches Dunmore.] Good day, Cap- 
 tain. 
 
 Dan. Good day. [Looking up.~\ Hello, Dick! You here? 
 Have a drink ? 
 
 Fan. No, thanks. I only want to return this pistol that I — 
 borrowed out of your hands last night during the rumpus at 
 Mason's. I must apologize for not having stopped to ask your 
 consent. 
 
 Dan., {taking pistol). It's all right, Dick, but I wish to God 
 you had let me alone. 
 
 Fan. It was a very fortunate thing for you that I did not. 
 [Aside, as he walks back to table : Or you would be playing the 
 chief part in a hanging exhibition some weeks hence.] 
 
 Mar. Are you not putting a pistol into dangerous hands? 
 That man is greatly struck with Miss Denham, and if he and 
 
14 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 the Colonel should meet here the consequences might be seri- 
 ous. 
 
 Fan. There is no danger. The man is the Colonel's nephew 
 and is living on him. Besides, the pistol is not loaded. Look 
 at him. He is interesting. He has been a pirate. 
 
 Mar. A pirate ! 
 
 Fan. Yes; or slave-trader, which is the same thing. He 
 wants me to join him in an expedition to the coast of Africa 
 {^laughs], to be his doctor. 
 
 Re-enter Col. Vaughn and Miss Denham. 
 
 Fan. Here come the people we are waiting for. Now, while 
 you engage the lady in conversation I will let the Colonel know 
 who you are. 
 
 [ CoL. V. and Miss D. coDie forward, meeting Fanshawe and 
 Marloave, wIlo rise. Salutations. Fanshawe and Col. 
 Y. converse apart. Miss D. and Marlowe walkasid,e. 
 
 Miss D. George, you have come to see me ? 
 
 Mar. I have. It is to let you know that what we feared has 
 happened. The company have gone. 
 
 Miss D, I knew of it. The newspapers give fall accounts of 
 it. Oh, the humiliation ! the disgrace! the shame ! And now 
 what is to be done ? 
 
 Mar. There is but one thing to do that I can see. tt is to 
 
 make such terms as w^e can with our creditors, and then 
 
 {^Aside : Now, Heaven forgive me for the blow I must inflict.] 
 
 Miss D. Then what, George? 
 
 Mar. Separate, as the others have done. Bid each other 
 farewell. 
 
 Miss D. Oh, no, George ! do not say that. Let us remain to- 
 gether. We can give readings. 
 
 Mar. It cannot be, Aliena. There is not a dollar between us. 
 
 .Miss D. But I. have my wardrobe and some jewelry left. 
 They will bring some money. 
 
 Mar. I will not touch a penny of it. It will enable you to 
 reach your friends. Leave me to extricate myself. I will find 
 some means of doing it. 
 
 Afiss D. My friends ! Alas, there is no one in this world who 
 stands in that relation to me save you, and if you desert me I 
 am desolate indeed. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 15 
 
 Mar. Desertion is a harsh word, xiliena. It is not desertion, 
 but hard, unyielding necessity that thrusts us apart. There is 
 no help for it. It is fate. We must submit. 
 
 Miss D. Well, then, let us do so ; but not to remain apart, 
 George. Let us keep that hope between us. 
 
 Mar. Would it not be best, Aliena, that that hope should 
 die? Come, let us look at the future we would have before us 
 should we marry. What would it be but a hard and bitter 
 struggle with poverty, from which there would be no hope of 
 escape? Have you the courage to face a future so hopeless? 
 
 Mm D. I have. The future would be a dark one, but not so 
 dark as the one from which love vanishes. 
 
 Mar. Aliena, I will not accept the sacrifice you would make 
 for me. It would be criminal in me to do so. Separated from 
 me, you have a future brilliant with promise. With me, noth- 
 ing but a poverty that^would make life a curse. So let us sepa- 
 rate while we can — before it is too late. 
 
 Miss D. Well, perhaps it is best that we should part, George — 
 if you think so. Where shall you go from here ? 
 
 3far. Perhaps I shall stay. I have met a friend here who 
 proposes something that offers the hope of a better future, and — 
 I think— it would be wise to— stay. 
 
 Miss D. Should you return to New York, would you go back 
 to our old boarding-house ? 
 
 Mar. I siiould, undoubtedly. 
 
 Miss D. Then we may meet again there. And if we should, 
 and there should then be a brighter future for us, we might 
 not — need— to part again. [Marlow^e does not answer. 
 
 Miss D. [Aside: Ah, he doubts me— distrusts me! And so 
 farewell to the dearest hope of my life. But better so, for the 
 part that I have now to play — that I must play — there is no help 
 for it. A loveless marriage.] 
 
 Fan., [approaching Marlowe). Good news, my friend. The 
 Colonel is wonderfully surprised to learn who you are, and over- 
 joyed to engage you. Tomorrow you are to begin your lessons. 
 Now, come home to dinner with me. I want to have my father 
 know you. 
 
 [Exeunt Fanshawe and Marlowe, Col. V. and Marlowe 
 sahding. 
 
 Col. v., {to Miss D.). Well, upon my life, here is a mostamaz- 
 
16 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 ing revelation. Rugge, your leading man, turns out to be Mar- 
 lowe, the artist, who so mysteriously disappeared some three 
 years ago. Why, for what strange reason did he give up his art 
 to take up with the life of a wandering player ? 
 
 Miss D. For no strange reason at all. He failed to win suc- 
 cess as an artist, and being poor was obliged to find some other 
 means of earning a living, which he did, or tried to do, by tak- 
 ing to the stage. And perhaps his failure was somewhat due to 
 the fact that he is an artist of an exceptional kind. He don't 
 run all over the country to hunt up a rock, a landscape, or a tree, 
 but paints the life that lays under his eyes. 
 
 Col. V. And paints it so well that he is not unworthy to wear 
 the mantle of the master in whose path he follows. Well, his 
 star shall shine again. 
 
 Miss D. [Aside: It shall, if your fortune can roll back the 
 clouds that obscure it.] 
 
 Col. V. But let us put that subject aside for the moment for 
 one in which I am more deeply interested. It is your intended 
 departure. Do you still adhere to that determination ? 
 
 Miss D. I do. I must. I have no alternative, and must de- 
 part at once. And now, sir, before we part, let me thank you 
 for the rare kindness and courtesy you have shown me during 
 my stay here. I shall never, never forget it. 
 
 Col. V. I am amply repaid in having been of any service to 
 you. But what will you do, my dear lady ? You are alone, and 
 I think without money ? 
 
 Miss D. Yes ; I am alone, and without money. 
 
 Col. V. Miss Denham, I cannot permit you to depart in this 
 distressed condition. You must allow me to assist you. 
 
 [DuNMORE listens over the newspaper. 
 
 Miss D. Dear sir, how can you do so ? You could only offer 
 me money. How can I accept that without humiliation from 
 one who is almost a stranger ? 
 
 Col. V. What! will you, rather than accept a favor that in- 
 volves a little sacrifice of pride, go forth unfriended and alone 
 to the desperate future that must await you ? 
 
 Miss D. I will. 
 
 Col. V. You are a brave woman. [Aside : And not the woman 
 I have taken you for. A woman of this stamp is certainly no 
 adventuress. It only increases my admiration for her.] Let 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 17 
 
 me see if I cannot find some way of assisting you, Miss Denham, 
 without offending that sensitive pride, which, let me say, I re- 
 spect and honor. If you would let me know what you intend 
 on leaving here 
 
 Mm D. It is to seek employment somewhere. 
 
 Col. V. And what then ? 
 
 Miss D. Sink back into the obscurity and poverty from which 
 I arose— or sought to arise — ^^and become the music teacher again. 
 
 Col. V. A most disheartening prospect, truly. But you have 
 shown me a way in which I can serve you. Such employment 
 as you intend to seek can be found here in this city. Will you 
 let me procure it for you ? 
 
 Miss D. Gladly. And will give you the thanks of one lifted 
 from the very depths of despair. 
 
 Col. V. And now I^have one more request to urge — that you 
 will become a guest in my house until the employment I shall 
 seek for you is found. Do you consent? 
 
 Miss D. It is au honor, sir, that I cannot decline. 
 
 Col. V. Many a bright star of the stage have I entertained 
 there— and there you shall shine the brightest of all. I have 
 no wife, but I have a daughter who will most kindly welcome 
 you. 
 
 [Exeunt Col. V. ,and Miss D. As they go out, enter John 
 Carson, from the veranda of the hotel. He salutes, and 
 steps aside to permit Miss D. and Col. V. to pass, then 
 turns and looks after Miss D. as if greatly surprised at see- 
 ing her. At the veranda exit Miss D., before going out, 
 tarns and glances back at Carson.] 
 
 Carson, {looking after Miss D.) What! Can it be possible? 
 That woman here ? Yes, it is she, and no one else — Julia Mon- 
 tague, as I live! What, in the name of all that is wonderful, 
 brings that woman to this town ? 
 
 Dun. Don't you know, John ? 
 
 Car., {turning). Hello, Jack ; you here? No, I don't know. 
 [Coming down front.} 
 
 Dun. Then you have not been to the theatre lately, I reckon. 
 
 Car. I have not been to the theatre in a month. 
 
 Dun. Then that accounts for your surprise at seeing the lady, 
 doubtless. She is an actress here, or was— the leading lady of 
 3 
 
18 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 a company that have been playing here for the past week— but 
 have skipped out. 
 
 Car. An actress ? 
 
 Dan. Yes. Miss Aliena Denham, she calls herself in the 
 bills. 
 
 Car. An actress ! Well, that is a new part for her — and a new 
 name, too. 
 
 Dan. From your remarks, John, I would infer that you have 
 had some previous acquaintance with the lady. [Carson takes 
 seat at table with Dun.] 
 
 Car. You would infer correctly. I have had some previous 
 acquaintance with the lady. [ Waiter enters and serves liqaor.~\ 
 
 Dan. Well, who is she, and what is she, and under what 
 interesting circumstances did you make her acquaintance ? I 
 am interested. 
 
 Car. Who she is is more than I can tell you. What she is 
 is not so difficult to know. She is an adventuress, and one of 
 the most brilliant and dangerous that it has ever been my good, 
 or bad, fortune to fall in with. 
 
 Dan. Oh, come, John, this woman is no adventuress. She is 
 too good an actress for that. 
 
 Car. An adventuress she is, or rather was when I knew her. 
 That was in Albany during a session of the legislature, two years 
 ago. She was not then an actress — at least not upon the stage — 
 though she played a part in the social scene of the capital city, 
 in which she was the heroine of as dark a tragedy as any she 
 will ever enact upon the boards, I am thinking. 
 
 Dun. A tragedy ! The interest deepens. What was the 
 tragedy ? 
 
 Car. Well, if I were to give it a name, I should call it after 
 the part she played in it, that of a Siren of the Lobby. The 
 tragedy was one that grew out of a lobby scheme, in which this 
 woman had a part. The object of this plot was to secure the 
 passage of a bill that a powerful railroad corporation was inter- 
 ested in. A certain member of the lower house stopped its 
 passage, and as money could not remove his opposition thig 
 Miss Montague, or Miss Denham, was introduced n})on the scene 
 and employed to use her charms upon him. The scheme was a 
 complete success. But it so happened that in removing his op- 
 position she had enmeshed him in such a toil of passion that he 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 19 
 
 fell in love with and wanted to marry her ; but this not being 
 in her part,. she refused him. The poor, infatuated man, dis- 
 covering that he had been made the victim of a plot and also 
 the victim of a hopeless passion for an adventuress, took the 
 matter so much to heart that he killed himself. 
 
 Dun. Poor devil ! Rather an odd kind of lawmaker, it seems 
 to me. lAside: And it is my notion that my noble friend liere 
 must have had a part in the business if he w^as anywhere upon 
 the scene.] You were a member of that session, were you not, 
 John ? 
 
 Car. I was; but its reminiscences are not pleasant, so let us 
 change the subject. I have come here to meet your uncle, the 
 Colonel, and when he reappears just make it convenient to leave 
 me alone with him, will you? 
 
 Dun. The Colonel will not reappear today, and I'm thinking 
 you will not see hiniTor the next month. 
 
 Car. No? Why not? 
 
 Dun. I^ecause he will be engaged wdth your Siren of the 
 Lobby, this Miss Montague, or Miss Denham, or whatever her 
 name is. Her company have skipped off, and the Colonel has 
 taken her to his house as his guest! 
 
 Car. What ! His guest? Then the Colonel is a lost man. 
 
 Dun. A lost man ? What do you mean by a lost man ? 
 
 Car. I mean that she will marry him if she should wish to. 
 She will inspire him with a passion so deep that if the cup of 
 bliss is only to be reached through the matrimonial noose he 
 will take it. 
 
 Dan. And trust to a divorce court law^yer to pull him out of 
 it when he gets dow'n to the dregs, eh ? That seems to be the 
 way in the North. But don't you think you could prevent the 
 marriage by telling the Colonel that story about her that you 
 have just told me ? 
 
 Car. I might, if I were mean enough to let him know it. 
 
 Dun. What would there be mean about it ? 
 
 Car. It would be a betrayal of the woman. I was not alto- 
 gether blameless in that lobby business. I am bound in honor 
 to keep her secret, and will do so unless foi'ced to reveal it. 
 
 Dun. With the object of frightening her off? 
 
 Car. No ; it will be with the object of making her useful in 
 averting the financial ruin that threatens me. 
 
20 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Dun. What do you say ? Financial ruin ! Are you threat- 
 ened with that ? 
 
 Car. I am ; and unless I can find the means of averting it 
 within the next thirty days I shall have to fly the country or go 
 to the State prison. 
 
 Dun. Good God, John, are you serious? 
 
 Car. I was never more so, Jack. I am on the verge of bank- 
 ruptcy, and what is worse, disgrace. 
 
 Dun. What, you ! Why, what in the devil's name 
 
 Car. Oh, it is the old story— Wall street — stock speculation. 
 I went down in the last panic with thousands of others. To 
 save myself I have embezzled the bank's resources to such an 
 extent that unless I can make good the deficit within the next 
 month the doors will have to be closed. 
 
 Dun. Well, John, you are a thoroughbred ; you never do any- 
 thing by halves. Well, what are you going to do if the crash 
 comes? Take the usual course and run for it? 
 
 Car. No ; I shall take the unusual course — stay and face the 
 consequences. 
 
 Dun. What, go to jail ? 
 
 Car. Possibly ; but not until after I have made an effort to 
 save myself. I have a plan by which I may be able to do so. 
 
 Dun. Namely ? 
 
 Car. I am going to get married. 
 
 Dun. Marry, eh? Instead of the prison chains, put on the 
 matrimonial fetters, eh? It strikes me they will rest rather 
 heavily on a man who has been a free ranger like you. It is 
 some woman with much money and no charms besides, I sup- 
 pose? 
 
 Car. It is one of the richest heiresses and the most lovely 
 woman in the State. 
 
 Dun. So ! Then I can guess who it is. It is my cousin Rose. 
 
 Car. It is. The marriage has been pending for some time — 
 a sort of family understanding that we were to marry some day. 
 Rose has only been waiting for me to make up my mind. And 
 now, Jack, I want you to spread the news of the engagement. 
 That will postpone failure, and the niarriage will save me. 
 
 Dun. I will spread the news, you may depend. But there 
 is something in this connection which, as your friend, I think 
 I ought to tell you. Come, pay attention. You seem to be 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 21 
 
 mightily distrait. This is a damned uncertain world, you 
 know. 
 
 Car. It is. Well ? 
 
 Bun. Rose is not the legitimate heir of her father. 
 
 Car. What do you mean ? 
 
 Dun. Well, thereby hangs a tale. Do you remember my 
 telling you about a month ago of the Colonel's betrayal and 
 ruin of a young woman — the daughter of a high family of Ala- 
 bama — when he was a I'esident of that State ? 
 
 Car. Yes ; I remember something of it. 
 
 Dun. Well, who do you suppose that young woman was? 
 She was my aunt — my father's sister ; and, furthermore, she 
 was the mother of Rose. 
 
 Car. Indeed? 
 
 Dun. Soon after Rose's birth she died — died in a negro 
 cabin on the Colonel's estate, to which she had fled on leaving 
 her home. Before she died the Colonel had married her. But 
 it was too late. Rose was born before the marriage ceremonj^ 
 took place. So, you see, if the Colonel should die without leav- 
 ing a will the estate would go to the next legal heir — who sits 
 before you. The affair led to a vendetta between the families, 
 in which several men were killed on each side, and to save his 
 own life and the life of his daughter the Colonel left Alabama 
 and settled in this region, where he had some relatives among 
 the Fanshawes. 
 
 Car. So, Jack, I thank,you for the information. 
 
 Dun. And now, I suppose that ivory and ebony scheme of 
 mine will have to be given up? 
 
 Car. Yes ; if you mean that slave-trading adventure that you 
 want me to advance the capital for. That will have to be given 
 up for the present, Jack. I cannot raise another dollar. 
 
 Dun. It is too bad. There is a mint of money in the trade. 
 
 Car. What made you give it up, if it was so profitable ? 
 
 Du7i. Some bad luck at cards one night in Savannah. I lost 
 my schooner and had to discharge my crew. It was with the 
 hope of raising some capital from my uncle, the Colonel, that 
 I paid him a visit last summer. 
 
 Car. Can't you get the money from him? 
 
 Dun. 1 may be able to do so next month, when he opens his 
 house to his summer guests. He has partly promised to let me 
 have it. 
 
22 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Car. But the trade is piracy under our laws, Jack, and a man 
 swings for it if caught. 
 
 Bun. The laws be hanged. A dozen slavers leave the port 
 of New York every year, and have for the last hundred years. 
 I can dodge a cruiser as easily as tack ship, and have done it 
 often. So much for the danger. 
 
 Re-enter Miss Denham. She goes to a table on vjJiich she had left a 
 veil and some flowers and takes them up. 
 
 Dun. Ah, John, here comes your Siren of the Lobby back 
 again. She has recognized you, doubtless, and perhaps wants 
 an interview with you. 
 
 Car. It may be. It is what I want with her above all things. 
 I Approaches and salutes Mrss D.] Ah, Miss Montague, I am ex- 
 tremely glad to meet you. Until today I was not aware of your 
 presence in town. 
 
 [Miss D. does not answer, but looks steadily at Carson. 
 
 Car. I assure you, Miss Montague, that this opportunity of 
 renewing an acquaintance connected with such pleasant asso- 
 ciations is most welcome. 
 
 Miss D. Mr. Carson, perhaps I can understand why you 
 should regard the associations you speak of as pleasing ; but to 
 me, sir, they are the most painful recollections of my life, and 
 I would gladly avoid all occasions that bring them to mind. 
 
 Car. But, Miss Montague, you mistake me. 
 
 Miss D. Evidently, sir, you mistake me. 
 
 Car. I think not. Miss— Montague ; and let me say that under 
 present circumstances it is not advisable for you to take this tone 
 with me. It might be embarrassing to you hereafter. 
 
 Miss D. It is a tone that I shall take with you, sir, under any 
 circumstances, nqw or hereafter. 
 
 Car. So ! Is this defiance ? 
 
 Miss D. As you may choose to regard it. 
 
 They stand regarding each other as the curtain descends, Miss D. 
 defiantly, C a rso'^ as if surprised. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 23 
 
 ACT II. — A Month Later. 
 
 ^CEyiE— Country Residence of CoF;. Vaughnt. On left, veranda of 
 house fronting garden. Vista of trees and shrubbery. ■ Under 
 a tree an easel, before which stands Marlowe, palette and brush 
 in hand, regarding a picture. Judge Crotchet seated apart 
 reading. 
 
 Enter Fanshawid from the house. Approaches Marlowe and lays 
 his hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 Mar., {turning). What, Fanshawe ! Yoaatlast? Why, you 
 are a strange fellow, to leave me here for a month without letting 
 me know what had become of you. I was beginning to think 
 that something very serious had happened to you. 
 
 Fan. Nothing more serious than hard work. I have been 
 rushing to completion a novel I had under way. But that is 
 finished, thank the Lord, and now here I am, ready to collabo- 
 rate with you in the progress of tliat romance in actual life that 
 we projected in the garden of that tavern a month ago. How is 
 it getting on ? 
 
 Mar. Well, I can't say that the romance, as you choose to call 
 it, is progressing very brilliantly. 
 
 Fan. Indeed ! And why not ? 
 
 Mar. For the reason that I find the part you gave me more 
 difficult to enact than I anticipated. I know I promised to un- 
 dertake it, but when I did so I was so desperate with misfortune 
 that I would have undertaken almost anything short of actual 
 crime to escape from the life I was leading and the future before 
 me. Now 
 
 Fan. Oh, I understand. Now that the road to success leads 
 some other way, and the lady is not to your liking 
 
 Mar. Oh, do not mistake me, my dear friend. The difficulty 
 of the part does not lie there. Nothing in the world would be 
 so dear to me as the hope of winning Miss Vaughn — one as 
 gifted in mind and heart as she is lovely in person— and one 
 whom I must confess I find it almost impossible not io love. 
 
 Fan. Then wli}^ do you hesitate ? 
 
 Mar. My friend, you do not seem to consider my position 
 
24 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 here. I am in her father's employ — a guest in his house. He 
 has loaded me with favor, caused me to be honored beyond my 
 desert. Then how can I with honor undertake to win his 
 daughter's love when it might not suit him and when he favors 
 another man ? 
 
 Fan. My dear boy, you put too low an estimate upon your- 
 self; you do, indeed. Why, you are a match for the proudest 
 family in the land. Then why not suppress a little of this all 
 too sensitive pride and save the woman you love — for, I am cer- 
 taiu that you love her — from a man who would make her life 
 miserable should he marry her? 
 
 3far. Can I do so ? It may be she loves this man Carson ; 
 and certainly her father favors him. 
 
 Fan. I do not believe she loves him. And yet there lies my 
 fear, too. The noblest women seem to have such an alacrity in 
 throwing themselves away upon scamps. But I mean to find 
 out this day if she lov^ him, and if she does not, and is free 
 for you to win, will you go on with the part? 
 
 Mar. I will ; and if she gives the least encouragement I will 
 do my best to win her. 
 
 Fan. Then cheer up, faint heart. I am certain that you will 
 win her, and I predict that within the j^^ear you will be married, 
 and here in this noble mansion take up your abode and go on to 
 the success and fame that I am certain await you ; and then 
 your country will hear of a great artist some time before he is 
 dead. 
 
 3far. You are such a courageous spirit ! Your very contact 
 inspires a mau with hope. But let me tell you that you are 
 reckoning without your host, so far as the noble mansion is con- 
 cerned. That is already bespoken for a pair of lovers. 
 
 Fan. Indeed! And what pair? 
 
 Mar. For Colonel Vaughn and his intended wife. Miss Den- 
 ham. 
 
 Fan. What ! The Colonel and Miss Denham ? 
 
 Mar. It is even so. They are engaged, and the Colonel has 
 already announced his coming marriage to some of his guests, 
 and will make a more formal announcement today. Does the 
 marriage surprise you ? 
 
 Fan. No ; on second thought, I cannot say that it does, con- 
 sidering the circumstances that have brought such a man and 
 such a woman together. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 25 
 
 Mar. She is not an unworthy woman, my friend. 
 
 Fan. I would not imply that she is. Know you aught of 
 her history ? 
 
 Mar. Nothing beyond the two years' acquaintance that I 
 have had with her. I first met her in a New York boarding- 
 house. She was then a music teacher, and studying for the 
 stage. She fell into the hands of the same theatrical adv^enturer 
 who sought me out. There was a time when I was somewhat 
 doubtful concerning her, but the more I understand her the 
 more I am convinced that she is a woman of really noble char- 
 acter. Of her past life she says little. 
 
 Fan. How does Rose regard the coming marriage of her 
 father? 
 
 Mar. She does not seem displeased with it. She and Miss 
 Denham appear to be excellent friends. 
 
 Fan. Then she certainly regards Miss Denham as worthy to 
 be her father's wife. And that is enough. And here comes the 
 angel. 
 
 E)der Rose Vaughn and Miss Belle Dunmore. 'fhey are fol- 
 lowed by some guests, ivho gatlier about Die easel. Miss Vaughn 
 and Miss Dunmore come forward, meeting Fanshawe and 
 Marlowe. 
 
 Rose V. Why, here is my dear brother Richard at last — my 
 long-lost brother. And where have you been, truant, for so 
 long? Though I do not suppose I need ask. You have been 
 at your old labor, doubtless, adding the sum of more to that 
 which hath too much — which means that you have been writ- 
 ing another novel. 
 
 Fan. You have guessed it. 
 
 Rose. Well, tell us all. about it, and be forgiven. What is it 
 like? We are sadly in want of amusement. 
 
 F'an. Well, it is like other novels that are like it. 
 
 Rose. Tlien it is like the rest of your novels, I suppose— one 
 giving a false color to life and making a dismal world appear 
 bright and joyous— all ending happily, with virtue rewarded 
 and the villain out in the cold. Is your new novel after this 
 fashion ? 
 
 Fan. Somewhat, 
 
 Rose. Then don't tell us anything about it. I am tired of 
 4 
 
26 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 sach novels. Why don't you portray men and women as they 
 are and hfe as it is— give us heroes and heroines who have their 
 faults, like other folks, and villains with some redeeming quali- 
 ties. It is so in actual life, though precious few of you novel- 
 writers seem to have found it out. And why don't you take the 
 subjects for your novels, as Mr. Marlowe does for his pictures, 
 from the life you live in ? 
 
 Fan. Well, for one reason, because I don't find the life I live 
 in very rich in romantic material. 
 
 Rose. Then you ought never to write another novel. What! 
 no romance, no story element, in the life of a country where 
 Fortune's lists are open to all comers, where all the prizes of life 
 are within the reach of the man who has the brains and the 
 courage to enter for them ; where a tinker who goes West may 
 return a Senator — like Mr. Brownsmith over there — and where 
 a shoemaker's apprentice may become President ! No romance, 
 no dramatic material in such a life ! Why, it is a life that Shakes- 
 peare would have revelled in, so full as it is of the ups and downs 
 of fortune, of heroic action, of the display of character and hu- 
 man nature in the struggles of men making their way from low 
 to high station, from obscurity to renown, through a thousand 
 fields of activity and adventure. Here, [taking a neivspaper from 
 a table,'] take this dramatic kaleidoscope, the American news- 
 paper, and write me a play from it within the next month. 
 
 Fan. I will, and will put your speech into it. But before I 
 begin it I want to know how^ a little romance in real life that I 
 am interested in is likely to end. [Aside : And now to discover 
 what truth there is in her reported engagement to Carson.] 
 
 Rose. Oh, then, it seems you have discovered some romance 
 in real life ? 
 
 Fan. Yes; and I can't sleep nights for anxiety as to how it 
 is going to turn out. I want you to tell me. You see there is a 
 young artist who is very poor, who is in love with a young lady 
 who is very rich. On account of his poverty he keeps his love 
 a secret. 
 
 Rose. Poor young man! But what kind of an artist is he? 
 All are not artists who are called such, you know. 
 
 Fan. ?Ie is a man of genius ! 
 
 Jiose. I>ut has he got any common sense? Genius without 
 that quality is like a ship without ballast. It makes a waver- 
 ing, inconstant man and a bad husband. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 27 
 
 Fan. He is not lacking in common sense. 
 
 Rose. Well, then, if he is a good man and she likes him, she 
 would be a great fool not to have him. 
 
 Fan. But there is a rival to whom it is said she is engaged. 
 
 Rose. A villain, of course! 
 
 Fan. No, not exactly a villain. To the world he is a gentle- 
 man, but in private life he is very much of a scamp. 
 
 Rose. Has the girl got any brains ? 
 
 Fan. She is as gifted in mind as she is beautiful in person. 
 
 Rose. Then it is not difficult to see how your romance is likely 
 to end. She will discover the love of the artist and find some 
 delicate, womanly way of letting him know she likes him, and 
 she will discover the scampishness of the scamp and send him 
 packing. \_Aside: And it is my opinion that she has done it 
 already.] And so all will end happily. 
 
 Fan. Ah, my dear cousin, how glad I am to hear this ! You 
 see, she is an angel, and you know how prone angels are to 
 throw themselves away upon scamps — through missionary mo- 
 tives, I suppose. 
 
 Rose. If she has got brains she isn't that kind of an angel. 
 So don't worry. And now, speaking of angels — I mean artists — 
 how is it that Mr. INIarlowe 
 
 Enter from the honse Coi^. A^aughn and Miss Den ham. 'The]/ are 
 folloired by Guests, who gather about the easel. Following them , 
 enter Carson and Dunmore, ivho come forward. Col. V., 
 Miss D., Fanshawe, Judge Crotchet, Rose, and Belle 
 Dunmore in a group apart on L. Guests express admiratio7i 
 for the picture and offer congratulations to Marlowe. Carson 
 seems thoughtful and depressed. 
 
 Fan., [to Rose). Now, what were you about to say concerning 
 Mr. Marlowe? 
 
 Rose. I was going to ask you to explain why so great an artist 
 as he is should fail to win success in his profession — for a great 
 artist he certainly is. Look at the portrait he has painted of 
 me. Why, he has made me immortal. 
 
 Fan. Yes, I could explain the cause of his failure, but the 
 Judge can do it better. Ask him. Since his defeat in the last 
 election he loses no opportunity to uncork the vials of his wrath 
 
28 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 upon his country and its institutions. That subject will afford 
 him an opportunit)^ and us some sport. 
 
 [Rose and Miss Dunmore turn to the Judge. Fanshawe calls 
 the attention of Col. V. and the Guests to them, and unob- 
 served by the Judge they gather behind Jam to listen. 
 
 Rose. Come, Judge [taking his ami] , you heard my question 
 and cousin Dick's answer. 
 
 Judge. Yes, I heard the jackanapes. Well, my dear, it is my 
 opinion that Mr. Marlowe's failure to win success as an artist 
 was due to the fact that he was too poor to emigrate to a foreign 
 country. 
 
 Rose. Emigrate to a foreign country ? Must our American 
 artists do that in order to win success ? 
 
 Judge. It seems that they must, my dear. The fact that so 
 many of them go there, and that we never hear of them until 
 they have won a reputation in Europe, seems pretty good proof 
 of it. 
 
 Eose. Why, Judge, I can scarcely believe it. Is it possible — 
 is it absolutely necessary that an artist must go abroad for that 
 purpose ? 
 
 Judge. Well, my dear, I can't say that it is absolutely neces- 
 sary. He might stay at home and buy a reputation from the 
 newspapers in his own country. 
 
 Eose. Buy a reputation from the newspapers? Can that be 
 done ? 
 
 Judge. Can that be done? Why, certainly, my dear — by 
 means of a press agent. Let him do as some of the foreign lit- 
 erary and theatrical people do who come to this country for our 
 dollars — put himself in the hands of a press agent. One of that 
 gentry could take the painter of a mere auction-room pot-boiler 
 and make him out to be the equal of a Hogarth or a Rembrandt^ 
 and, what is more, he could make our millionaire art patrons, who 
 pay fortunes for the rubbish of European studios with some 
 great name attached, pay some attention to him. It is only the 
 trumpets and drums of the advertiser, my dear, that bring suc- 
 cess to art in our democratic vanity fair. 
 
 Eose. But go a little more into causes. Judge. AVliy is it that 
 the artist has a better chance for recognition and success in Eu- 
 rope than in America? IXodding to Fanshawe. 
 
 Judge. In my opinion, it is due to the difference in the social 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 29 
 
 conditions of Europe and America, which gives to the artist over 
 there what he lacks here, a constituency in a permanent and. 
 cultured leisure class. 
 
 Rose. Why, Jud^e, I could almost think that you are a be- 
 liever in an aristocracy. 
 
 Judge. Well, whatever I may think of an aristocracy, my 
 dear, I am pretty certain that as the foster nurse of art and of 
 everything else that confers greatness and glory upon a nation, 
 it is mucli better than the unmitigated democracy that we have 
 adopted. 
 
 Fan. Hear the statesman ! 
 
 Judge, [turning). Oh, you heard me, did you, and I have got 
 an audience, have I? Well, ladies and gentlemen, I will not 
 take back a word. As regards aristocracy, lam not ashamed to 
 share William Shakespeare's opinion on that subject, and if he 
 was not a believer in aristocracy, and the most intense that ever 
 lived, then I am an idiot. 
 
 Fan., (jestingly). Well, if here isn't an open and avowed em- 
 issary of the Man on Horseback ! Colonel, have a rope pre- 
 pared, and we will take him to a tree. 
 
 Col. V. No, let him go on, Dick. We don't think of taking 
 him seriously since the last election. It is the old story, ladies 
 and gentlemen. The Judge is a defeated candidate. [Laughter.'] 
 
 Judge. Laugh, on, Colonel, while you can. If that is the 
 way with defeated candidates, your turn may come. I under- 
 stand that you are a candidate for Congress. 
 
 Col. V. Then let me correct you. Judge. I am not a candi- 
 date for Congress. It was my intention to be a candidate, but 
 I have altered my mind, and shall not accept the nomination. 
 
 Judge. Indeed, Colonel ! This will be a great surprise to 
 your party friends. Do you object to giving your reasons for de- 
 clining ? 
 
 Col. V. Not at all. It is for the very best reason in the 
 world. I am going to be married. 
 
 Judge. Well, that certainly is a good reason. An election 
 canvass cannot be regarded as the sweetener of a candidate's 
 honeymoon. 
 
 Col. V. It shall not embitter mine. x\nd now let me for- 
 mally present to you and to all of my guests the lady who is to 
 be my Avife— Miss Aliena Denham. Our acquaintance has not 
 
30 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 been long, it is true, but it has been long enough to let me know 
 Jier as one of the noblest of women, and in making her my wife 
 I shall make myself one of the happiest of men. 
 
 Judge. Well, Colonel, let me congratulate you on the posses- 
 sion of so fair a bride. 
 
 [Guests gather around Col. V. and Miss D. and ofer congrat- 
 ulations. 
 
 Danmore {to Carson, rousing liim). Ah, John! Do you hear 
 this? 
 
 Carson. Yes ; I hear it. It does not surprise me. It was 
 what I expected. 
 
 Dan. Well, let him marry her. I give my consent. It will 
 give a piquancy to dull family life to have a woman around that 
 a man would be willing to go to the devil for. 
 
 Car. Wliich is the very thing that you would do if the oppor- 
 tunity should offer. 
 
 Dun. I am bound to admit that I would go a long way in that 
 direction for such a woman as she is. 
 
 Car. Better not let your thoughts run that way, Jack. It will 
 not do for you. 
 
 Dan. I know it, John ; and I am going to get out of the way. 
 Besides, it is of no use of my staying around here any longer, 
 anyhow. 
 
 Car. Can you not raise the capital from the Colonel for your 
 slave-trading adventure? 
 
 Dun. I cannot. I was on the point of getting it, but Rose 
 heard what it was wanted for, and she went to her father with 
 some remarks about the hellish traffic, and he tore up the check 
 that was almost within my grasp. [Aside: Curse her, if I don't 
 get even with her for this I hope to rot alive.] And that is not 
 the only thing I have against her. I could have mari-ied my 
 cousin Belle had it not been for her. But look here, John ; 
 you might raise the capital from Miss Den ham after she is mar- 
 ried to the Colonel. With that knowledge of her past that you 
 possess she would be willing to do for you so small a favor as 
 that. Do you see those diamonds that she wears? They are a 
 gift from the Colonel and are worth fifty thousand dollars— so 
 the women say. 
 
 Car. There is no certainty that she is going to marry the 
 Colonel, 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 31 
 
 Dan. Then you think of telUng him that story about her that 
 you told me ? 
 
 Car. I can't say now what I shall do. It will depend upon 
 the result of a private interview that I intend to have with her. 
 If she consents to do what I shall ask of her, I shall remain 
 silent. If not, I go to the Colonel with her stor3'. 
 
 Dun. She looks to me like a woman who don't scare easily, 
 John. 
 
 Car. Then I shall have another card to play that will bring 
 her to terms— something that I have discovered since. 
 
 Dan. What does it happen to be ? 
 
 Car. It happens to be the fact that she is in love with the 
 artist Marlowe. 
 
 Dan. The deuce you say I How did you discover that? 
 
 Car. She betrayed herself. I suspected that she might be in 
 love with Marlowe, and for the past two days I have watched 
 her and have noticed that whenever he has been in her presence 
 her eyes have constantly followed him about. It seems to be 
 an unconscious action with her. He don't stir but her eyes 
 follow and rest upon him with a half sad, half reproachful gaze. 
 If that don't indicate love I know nothing of women. She 
 loves him and loves him intensely. 
 
 Dan. Is Marlowe in love with her? 
 
 Car. No; he is in love with some one else— as I have discov- 
 ered by watching him. 
 
 Dan. With wiiom else ? 
 
 Car. With Rose. 
 
 Dan. You have a rival, then ? 
 
 Car. Yes, and a successful one. Rose has broken off the en- 
 gagement. Some recent scandal concerning me had reached her 
 ears, and when I could not deny that it was true she plainly 
 told me that my proposal of marriage was an insult, and advised 
 me to go and marry my last mistress. 
 
 Dan. By the gods! did she say that? {^Laughter. ^ Well, 
 what are you going to do ? Give her up ? 
 
 Car. Give her up? Xo, not while my name is John Carson I 
 I cannot give her up. I must marry her. It is the only means 
 by which I can save myself from ruin and disgrace. 
 
 Dan. But what are you going to do ? 
 
 Car. W^hat I am going to do. Jack, is what j^ou must not 
 
32 THE POISONED CHALTCE. 
 
 know. But first of all, I must have an interview with Miss 
 Denham. She has avoided me so far, but we must now come to 
 an understanding. [Approaches Miss D. TfvifiMOKE. edges around 
 and listens.'] Miss Denham, permit me to offer my congratula- 
 tions on your coming marriage. I do so most sincerely, and 
 wish you happiness with all my heart. 
 
 Miss D., {coldly). I thank you, sir. 
 
 Car. Miss Denham, there is a matter of some importance 
 about which I wish to speak with you — alone. Can you grant 
 me an interview for that purpose ? 
 
 Miss D. I cannot, sir. Whatever you wish to say to me, Mr. 
 Carson, must be said here, or in the presence of others. 
 
 Car. But it concerns a matter upon which I cannot speak in 
 the presence of others. 
 
 Miss D. Then, sir, I cannot hear it. 
 
 Car. Miss Denham, it cannot be possible that j^ou misunder- 
 stand me. You must know upon what subject I wish to speak. 
 Am I to understand that you defy me ? 
 
 Miss D. You can so understand me, sir, if your words imply 
 any threat. 
 
 Car. They imply that I shall have a duty to do by a friend 
 unless you grant me the interview I ask for. What that may 
 mean you cannot fail to understand. 
 
 Miss D. Do that duty, sir, and then perhaps I shall have a 
 duty to do. What that may mean perhaps you may be able to 
 understand. ITurns away.] 
 
 Car. By the gods, she is bold ! What can make her so de- 
 fiant? Does she imagine that I do not know the ending of that 
 terrible drama in which she played the heroine? If she does 
 she must be undeceived, and it shall be done here and now. 
 
 Dun. [Aside: As I expected, she is a fighter; and now the 
 sport begins.] 
 
 Miss D. [Aside: Can it be possible that this man can be so 
 base as to betray me ? I cannot believe it, for to do so would 
 be to paint himself black with villainy and shame. It cannot 
 be that he knows of tlie fate of poor Dough ton, so I have noth- 
 ing to fear from any revelations that he may make.] 
 
 Car. , {approaching Judge). Judge, I want you to do me a favor. 
 I am going to make a speech here, and perhaps in that connec- 
 tion I shall have a story to tell. What I want is to have you 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 33 
 
 lead the conversation up to it, so that I can bring it in. Do you 
 understand me ? 
 
 Judge. Perfectly. 
 
 Car. Well ; no^Y go to the Colonel and urge him to recon- 
 sider his decision not to accept the nomination for Congress. 
 That is going to cause a great deal of confusion. In that con- 
 nection, speak of j^our experience in the State legislature of 
 two years ago. Dwell strongly upon that, for that will be the 
 cue for the speech I intend to make. 
 
 Judge. All right, John, I will follow your instructions. [^Aside : 
 And perhaps I'll better them.] [They walk hack to Coi.. V.] 
 
 Judge [to Col. V.) Colonel, excuse me. I want a word upon 
 a matter that will admit of no delay. Are you aware that your 
 withdrawal from the canvass is going to be the cause of a great 
 deal of trouble to your party friends ? 
 
 Col. V. I cannot see why, Judge. The nomination is not yet 
 made. So far as I am concerned, I would be willing to accept 
 the nomination, but it is against the wnshes of my Intended 
 wife, and it is also against the wishes of my daughter, so I will 
 not alter my mind now. 
 
 Judge. Well, then, Colonel, if you will not, that ends it. And 
 I cannot say that, political duty aside, you do not take the wisest 
 course. It would not increase your wife's happiness or your 
 daughter's to have you denounced as one of the greatest villains 
 that ever lived. Oh, the rancors of a party contest! I know 
 what they are, ladies and gentlemen. I have been a candidate. 
 In that canvass I was a gambler, a cut-throat, and a horse-thief. 
 And after a man wins his election — if he don't get cheated out 
 of it — what is he brought in contact with ? A trickery, a con- 
 spiracy, a bartering away of the rights of the people, and a strife 
 for spoils that develops all that is mean and villainous in human 
 nature. 
 
 Car. Come, Judge, you need not be so sweeping in your de- 
 nunciation. You are laying it on too thick. Don't take your 
 defeat so much to heart. 
 
 Judge. You mind your own business, John. I know what I 
 am talking about. ^ 
 
 Car. But j^our condemnation is too general. You have in 
 your mind the legislative session of two years ago, of which you 
 Avere a member— and so was I. It gained a bad rex^utation, but 
 as a body it w^as composed of honest men. 
 5 
 
34 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Judge. So are they all composed of honest men in the main. 
 But what chance have the honest men against the boodlers, the 
 bosses, and the lobbyists that infest them ? About the same 
 chance they would have in a game against a stocked pack. You 
 know as well as I do that no legislation can be had without a 
 compromise with such rascals. It is that which casts such a 
 stigma upon our State legislative bodies, which makes our Ameri- 
 can politics the scandal of the world, the terror of liberty. As 
 to this particular session you were speaking of, I was a member 
 of it, and if I didn't think I deserved the State prison for being 
 found in some of the company I was obliged to forgather with, 
 I am a Tombs lawyer. 
 
 Car. I must agree with you, Judge, as to that body. And it 
 was not alone villainy of a vulgar character that distinguished 
 it. It was made memorable by one of the darkest tragedies that 
 I think I ever heard or even read of. [Looking at 3fiss Denham.] 
 
 Judge. A tragedy, John ? What tragedy? I heard of none 
 connected with that session. 
 
 Car. No, Judge; you did not hear of it. It was kept secret, 
 so far as that could be done. 
 
 Judge. Relate it, John. 
 
 Car. No, Judge; I liad much rather not. It is too sad a story, 
 and throw^s such a lurid light upon some of our methods of legis- 
 lation that I think I ought, for the sake of patriotism, to say 
 nothing about it. 
 
 Judge. Oh, hang the patriotism. Give us the traged5^ 
 
 A Lady Guest. Do tell it, Mr. Carson. 
 
 Another Lady. Do let us hear it. 
 
 TIdrd Lady. Do, Mr. Carson. 
 
 Col. V. John, you have aroused the curiosity of the ladies. 
 You will have to tell the story. 
 
 Car. Very well, then, ladies, if you insist upon hearing the 
 story, I must comply, of course, but I think you will wish that 
 you had not heard it. Well, this tragedy that I speak of was 
 one that grew out of the plottings of the lobby that gathered 
 around that session that we were speaking of.. The object of 
 these plottings was to secure the passage of a bill that a power- 
 ful railroad corporation was interested in. The bill was appar- 
 ently a very innocent one, and was on the jioint of becoming a 
 law, when its progress was abrui)tly checked by a member, who 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 35 
 
 in a speech took it to pieces and showed that, cunningly stowed 
 away in its clauses, was a scheme to defraud the State. This 
 member was a man named Doughton. He was the hero and> 
 I ma)'' say, the victim of the tragedy. His speech apparently 
 killed the bill, but as great interests depended on its passage, the 
 railroad corporation determined to get it through at all costs. 
 Through their agents in the lobby they brought their influence 
 to bear in removing the opposition of Doughton. First, they 
 tried what money could do. That failed. Doughton proved 
 himself beyond its influence. Then party discipline was tried. 
 That failed also. Then patronage ; then personal friendship ; 
 then wine ; but each proved fruitless. He was not to be reached 
 by influences such as these. Doughton was a scholar and a 
 gentleman— in that body to guard the rights of the people, as 
 he said, not to traffic in them. The lobby were in despair, and 
 were about to abandon their efibrts to get the bill through, when 
 an accidental discovery revealed to them that the incorruptible 
 legislator did have a vulnerable side to his character after all. 
 As soon as this discovery was made the lobby changed their 
 tactics, and now began the real business of the tragedy. The 
 day on which this discovery of the weak side of Doiighton's 
 character was made he received an invitation to be present that 
 evening at a reception to be given at the house of a prominent 
 Senator of that session, who was secretly interested in the pas- 
 sage of the bill that Doughton had opposed. He accepted and 
 ^attended the reception. He found himself in a most brilliant 
 company, resplendent with fair women ; but conspicuous above 
 all for beauty, and for an easy, high-bred air that distinguished 
 her, was a lady from New York city, a Miss Julia Montague, a 
 relative of the Senator's family, or who was represented as such. 
 She was certainly the star of that assemblage, and would have 
 been conspicuous in any company in the world — not so much 
 for classical purity of feature, perhaps, but for the character in 
 her face, the expression of her eyes, and the irresistible charm 
 of her smile. She was another Recamier. To this lady Dough- 
 ton was presented by his host, the Senator. He found her com- 
 pany so agreeable that he did not leave her side for the whole 
 evening. Miss Montague seemed equally pleased with him. 
 When he left he asked permission to repeat his visit. It was 
 granted ; and for many an evening after that and for many an 
 
36 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 afternoon he was to be found by the side of Miss Montague. 
 But there is little use in lingering over the story. What hap- 
 pened was that which always happens when two intellectual 
 and sympathetic natures meet. Dough ton was soon in the 
 siren's power and moulded to her will, and one day, not long 
 after he had met Miss Montague, he arose in his seat in the 
 committee-room and announced that he withdrew his opposi- 
 tion to the bill, and even went so far as to say a few words in 
 its favor. That settled its fate. That very day it became a law. 
 With this Miss Montague's work was done, and she took her pay 
 and quit the scene ; for you must now understand, ladies and 
 gentlemen, that this woman was no relative of the Senator's 
 family at all, but a brilliant and fascinating adventuress, who 
 had been introduced upon the scene by the leaders of the lobby 
 with the object of beguiling Doughton of his opposition to the 
 bill. I wish I could say that my story ended here, for what 
 followed is too painful to relate. The siren had done her work 
 too well. In weaving her snares around Doughton she had en- 
 meshed the unsuspecting man in a toil of passion and fascina- 
 tion that he could not throw off, and when she left he followed 
 her. He told her that for her sake he was willing to give up 
 everything and go with her to the ends of the earth. Poor 
 fellow ! He felt that he was going to meet a passion as deep 
 and responsive as his own. He was not long in being unde- 
 ceived. She told him that she did not love him, and that in- 
 stead of being what she had seemed, she had only been em-" 
 ployed to deceive him ; that she was, in fact, a female lobbyist. 
 Doughton's blood almost froze in his veins as he listened to 
 her. When he left her it was as a broken man. The victim of 
 a legislative lobby, ensnared by an adventuress, tricked and 
 betrayed, laughed at and jeered at as he knew he would be, the 
 sensitive, proud gentleman had not the strength to return and 
 wear his disgrace in the face of the world. For two days he 
 wandered about the city, distraught with passion, shame, and 
 remorse, and when he could endure it no longer he went to an 
 obscure hotel, where the next morning, in a room in which he 
 had shut himself, he was found stretched upon his bed with a 
 bullet through his brain— dead by his own hand. 
 
 lA momentary silence, wldch is broken by e.vpressions of pity 
 among the women. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 37 
 
 3riss D. [Aside /Ah, I am betrayed. This man knows every- 
 thing — knows what I supposed was known only to myself^the 
 death of poor Dough ton. I am in his power and must submit.] 
 To Carson : Mr. Carson, your story is indeed a sorrowful one, and 
 interests me deeply, so nmch so that I would be glad to know 
 what became of this — Miss— Montague. [Touches Ids arm imtli 
 her fan, and they unobserved draw aside.'\ 
 
 Car. I can tell you this much — here — concerning her. After 
 Doughton's death she disappeared and was heard of no more— as 
 Julia Montague. Where she is now and what name slie bears 
 is to be a subsequent revelation, which will be made here, before 
 this company, if you do not grant me the interview I ask for. 
 
 Miss D. I will grant it to you. Meet me here a half hour 
 hence — alone. Dinner will soon be served. Do not go in. 
 Among so many guests you will not be missed. I will plead 
 illness and rejoin you. 
 
 [They separate and retire hack. A servant enters and announces 
 that dinner is served. Col. V. leads the way ivith Miss D. , 
 folloived by the Guests. Carson remains upon the scene. 
 
 Car. And so the first card is down in the desperate game ; 
 and what is it for? Staking the substance, honor, against the 
 shadow, reputation ; and if I win, I lose the substance. ■ Well, 
 there is no help for it. It must be played to the bitter end. 
 
 Re-enter Mrss Denham. She stands back, regarding Carson for a 
 moment, then comes forward. 
 
 3fiss D. Oh, you scoundrel! You heartless, conscienceless 
 scoundrel ! You mean scoundrel ! If you have one spark of 
 honor left — if you are not utterly lost to a sense of shame, how 
 could you be so base, so vile, as to tell my story ? You, the se- 
 cret director of that lobby — you who contrived the plot to en- 
 trap poor Doughton's honor, and which ended in entrapping 
 his soul, how dare you betray me, your confederate and vi(ttim ? 
 Yes, your victim! You know that by concealing from me the 
 devilish nature of the work 1 was doing, by tempting my pov- 
 erty, by opening to me a way of escape from the wretched life 
 I was leading, you lured me into a participation in that vil- 
 lainy. And now, when I had fled from the shame and desola- 
 tion it brought upon me — when I had found a refuge where by 
 a life of sacrifice and good deeds I might make atonement and 
 
38 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 find peace, you come to drive me from it, and by an act so mean 
 that the devils in hell would scorn you. 
 
 Car. Miss Denham, a desperate man may be driven to do 
 what from his very soul he abhors. I am a desperate man, 
 made so by the threatened loss of what is dearer to me than 
 aught else in life— so dear that it has driven me to resort to any 
 means that may save me. That I may do by your aid. Give 
 me that aid and you can become the wife of Herbert Vaughn. 
 Refuse it, and I will be guilty of the meanness of revealing to 
 him and his guests the identity of Julia Montague with Ali^na 
 Denham. 
 
 Miss D. It is your silence, then, that I must purchase? 
 
 Car. Yes. 
 
 Miss D. And by what means? 
 
 Car. That you are not to know until the time comes to do the 
 work that I shall require of you. What it may be you may 
 partly surmise when I say that a man has stepped between me 
 and the woman T love. 
 
 Miss D. You have a rival, then, whom you wish to have re- 
 moved ? 
 
 Car. Yes. But be not alarmed ; I mean neither steel nor 
 poison. 
 
 Miss D. Is he among the guests ? 
 
 Car. He is the artist, Marlowe. 
 
 Miss D. What, sir! George Marlowe? I do not believe it. 
 It is not true. 
 
 Car. [Aside: Ah, that shot found its mark. She loves him, 
 and now she will do my work.] You do not believe it? Have 
 you been so blind as not to see that he and Rose Vaughn are in 
 love ? 
 
 Miss D. I have not been bhnd to the fact, sir, tliat George 
 Marlowe is a gentleman, and would not secretly seek to win the 
 love of the daughter of the man in whose house he is employed. 
 
 Car. Place no reliance upon that. What is honor in a con- 
 flict with love? Love would triumph ; there would be a secret 
 marriage, and so an end of my hopes. ' 
 
 Miss D. \_Aside: It maybe that he loves her. Well, let it be 
 so. I must give him up.] 
 
 Car. And that marriage must be prevented, or ruin and dis- 
 grace await me. It can be done with your aid. Give me that 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 39 
 
 aid, and tonight, in her father's house, before him and his guests, 
 shall be enacted a scene that shall separate Rose and Marlowe 
 forever and leave her free for me to win. 
 
 Miss D. And what part am I to enact in this scene ? 
 
 Car. It will be one which, I regret to say, will require all 
 your nerve and perhaps involve a little criminality. 
 
 3[iss D. Then, sir, we can bring this interview to a close. Go 
 to Herbert Vaughn ; tell him and his guests that Aliena Den- 
 ham and Julia Montague are the same. Drive me from here in 
 disgrace. Do your worst ; and be certain that I shall not fail to 
 do mine. 
 
 Car. \_Aside: She means it, and if she remains firm the game 
 is up. I will not betray her. iind now to play my last card — 
 her love for Marlowe.] Do not be so mad. Miss Denham, as to 
 refuse to do the work I ask of you. You do not realize the ruin 
 it would bring upon you; and if you do as I wish, there is a 
 happiness in store for you of which you do not dream. I mean 
 that Herbert Vaughn's life is destined to be short. He has a 
 malady whicth is certain to end his life within two years, and 
 now any prolonged mental or emotional strain would snap his 
 thread of life suddenly. He does not know this, but I know it 
 from his physician. And suppose he should be thus cut otf 
 after he is married to you, what a future would then be yours! 
 Mistress of his wealth, the world at your feet, and George Mar- 
 lowe free for you to win. Ah, you love that man. I know your 
 secret. Do ni)'^ work— aid me to recover the woman he has taken 
 from me, and he is yours. 
 
 Miss J). Oh, 3'ou scoundrel ! you devil ! How dare you make 
 such a proposition to me ? Out of my sight ! I will no longer 
 listen to you ! 
 
 Car. lAside : But you do listen, and the poison works. An 
 hour hence and you will be willing to do my work.] Well, I 
 will now leave you to think over what I have said. I will await 
 your answer in the library. [Exit, L., among the trees. 
 
 Miss D. Oh, the accursed villain ! I could kill him ! I could 
 kill him ! [Exit, R. 
 
 Eater Fanshawe and Marlowe, from the Jtonse. 
 
 Fan. Now for one of the greatest of sublunary jjleasures — an 
 after-dinner chat and smoke under the greenwood tree. 
 
 [ They take seats and light cigars. 
 
40 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Enter Judge G., singing a merry air. 
 
 Judge. Ah, my lads, here you are, eh? Escaped from the 
 after-dinner oratory and the eternal slavery question, eh ? Sen- 
 sible boys ! [Sits down. 
 
 Fan. Have a cigar, Judge ? 
 
 Judge. No, sir, I will not have a cigar, I have just eaten a 
 civilized dinner, and the bliss of digestion is not to be poisoned 
 b}^ tobacco. Just now I am at peace with all the world. Ten 
 whiffs of tobacco smoke and I could bite off a tenpenny nail. 
 I have come here for coffee, which will soon be served. 
 
 Fan. And while we are waiting, suppose you give us some 
 information. Being the Colonel's lawyer, you can doubtless 
 give it. Who is Miss Denhara ? 
 
 Judge. That, sir, is information that I can supply only to a 
 limited extent. tShe is a native of this State, the daughter of a 
 country clergyman. On the death of her father she went into 
 the world to earn her living by teaching in families. It was a 
 hard life, from which she sought to escape by taking to the 
 stage, in which venture she lost her friends and her money too. 
 She has letters, which she has submitted to Rose, from certain 
 high families, who recommend her highly as to character and 
 ability. She is all right in every way. She is a superior woman. 
 Beauty is the smallest of her charms. One half hour of her 
 company is worth a year of ordinary life. 
 
 [A servant enters and serves coffee. 
 
 Fan. And now for some other information. There are whis- 
 perings afloat as to Carson's financial embarrassment, with hints 
 of some crookedness. 
 
 Judge. ' I have heard them, but they are not true. They are 
 like the rumors of his engagement to Rose. There was no truth 
 in them. Carson don' t want to marry Rose or any other woman. 
 Such men as he don't marry until they are unfit to be the hus- 
 bands of any women who are fit to be wives — and then a damned 
 fine time they have of it. As to crookedness financially, there 
 need be no fear of that with him. He is a man of scrupulous 
 honor — that way. 
 
 Fan. I would not say anything to the contrary— that way; 
 but you must admit that he is leading a life whic;h runs peril- 
 ously close to the crooked path. 
 
 J 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 41 
 
 Judge. Yes, but I have no fears that he will overstep it ; but 
 if he does and becomes a rascal, he will be one to some purpose, 
 you may depend. He is a bold, strong man. But is it not time 
 that we returned to the house, if we are going to be present at 
 the concert ? There is to be some glorious music. 
 
 Fan. What is the programme of sports for this evening, 
 Judge ? 
 
 Judge. There will be the concert first, which was intended 
 to be given here in the garden, but there is a storm approach- 
 ing, so it will be given in the house. After the concert there 
 will be dancing, which will be kept up until daylight, I sup- 
 pose. 
 
 Fan. There is a very brilliant company assembled, is there 
 not? 
 
 Judge. x\s brilliant and distinguished as could be got together 
 anywhere in America. There is a distinguished leader of Con- 
 gressional debate, who will be the next President if he don't 
 get cheated out of it ; men prominent in literature, commerce, 
 and politics, with their wives and daughters, with many repre- 
 sentatives of the local society. There are also some army officers, 
 who served with the Colonel in Mexico, and a live lord. 
 
 Fan. A lord ! That accounts for the flutter among the gals. 
 I couldn't understand it. It is certain that he is the genuine 
 article ? 
 
 Judge. Oh, yes; or he wouldn't be here. \A piano note is 
 heard.] Ah, there are the first notes of the concert — and here 
 come a few drops of rain. It is time to go in. 
 
 [^Exeunt in the direction of the house. Scene darkens. Faint 
 sounds of distant thunder. Servants enter, who carry out 
 easel and picture. 
 
42 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene — Evening. Library Parlor, lighted up. Doors at hack of scene 
 opening into inner rooms. Rooms rigid and left. Room on 
 right is so constructed as to give a view ivithin, showing a cur- 
 tained couch and near it the door of a closet. Music from inner 
 rooms, a sad and plaintive air, during which Miss Denham 
 enters and stands in doorway listening for a moment. She then 
 comes fonuard, seats herself in a chair at a table, leans upon it, 
 despairingly bowing her head upon her liands. Music ceases. 
 
 Miss D., [rising). Oh, how my heart, my inmost soul, revolts 
 from the work I have to do — that I must do ! There is no escape 
 from it — none but such as I dread more than death itself — the 
 humiliation and disgrace of exposure and the contempt of the 
 one man from whom, of all men in this w^orld, I could the least 
 endure it. Oh, George Marlowe, your contempt would kill me ! 
 I cannot tare him from my heart. And the wild hope, born 
 from the words of this man Carson, that if he is separated from 
 Rose I may some day become his wife— shameful as that hope 
 is — I cannot fight against. It has subdued me. Oh, that one 
 fatal mistake of my life ! Its consequences follow me like a fate, 
 from which the more I struggle to be free the more I am ensnared. 
 
 Enter Cakson. He stands in doorway regarding Miss Denha]m. 
 
 Car. \_Aside : And now what has been the result of our inter- 
 view? ril venture that the hope of ultimately becoming the 
 wife of Marlowe has brought her to consent.] \Comes forward. '\ 
 And now, that you know the nature of the work you have to do, 
 what is to be your answer? The time is close at hand in which 
 that work is to be done*. Come, your answer. 
 
 Miss D. Oh, must this work be done, Mr. Carson? Have 
 mercy! Do not force me to do it. For your own sake, give it 
 up. Take some other way to the object you are seeking. 
 
 Car. It would be useless. There is no other way ; and as 
 there is not, I must go on in this. Rose must be separated from 
 Marlowe. And let me tell you that no such consequences will 
 follow as you imagine. Separated from Marlowe, I can win her, 
 
THE POISONED CH ALICE. 43 
 
 and within a few months the scandal will be hushed up and re- 
 garded as only the indiscretion of a pair of engaged lovers — 
 nothing more. And within two years you will be free, and with 
 Marlowe free— I need say no more. 
 
 Enter Marlowe with 'Ros^, foUoived by Fanshawk ivith Miss Dun- 
 more, Judge Ckotchet ivith an elderly lady. Some Guests 
 follow. All seat themselves about the room. Dunmore stands in 
 doorway bad'. Sounds of storm without. 
 
 Car., {to Miss I).) The concert is ended, and the ball-room is 
 being cleared for dancing, and when it begins it will be time to 
 attempt our work. I had intended to wait until the guests had 
 retired, but this storm favors my design, and we will begin now. 
 Look there ! Do you see what is passing between Marlowe and 
 Eose? AVhat is in Rose's eyes? It is love. The sight of it stirs 
 the murderous devil within me, and I swear to you if I cannot 
 rid myself of my rival in no other way I will kill him. Come, 
 your answer. 
 
 Miss D. I must do what you require of me. 
 
 Car. That is well. We will begin at once. [Advancing to 
 Duxmore.] Jack, I am in need of the services of a friend. 
 
 Bun. Count me in, John, for anything in that line. When 
 do you want the shooting to take place ? 
 
 Car. Oh, it is not a duel. I want this room cleared of every- 
 body except Rose and Miss Denham. Can you do it? 
 
 Dan. Easily. I am one of the managers of the ball. I'll go 
 in and confab with the fiddlers for a reel, and then rush in and 
 rush everybody ofi" to fill up sets. Will that do? 
 
 Car. That will do. Now, go in and arrange for the reel, and 
 when all is ready come in and stand back in the doorway there 
 and watch for a signal from me. When I wave my handker- 
 chief rush in and clear the room. 
 
 Dun. All right. [Exit. 
 
 Car., {to Miss D.) My plan is now nearly completed; but 
 Marlowe must be got off the scene by himself. Can you effect it ? 
 
 Miss D. I will send him away. [Advances to Mari>owe.] 
 George, I have mislaid a bracelet in the conservatory. Will you 
 kindly search for it ? 
 
 Mar. I will. [Exit, 
 
 Car. So ! Now for the others. 
 
44 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 [DuMMORE reappears in doorwai/. Carson waves his hnudker- 
 chief toward him. DuKSiom^ turns to ivard inner rooms and 
 iraves Jiis JiandkercJiief. A reel strikes vp. Then enter 
 DuNMoiiE linrriedhj. 
 
 JDun. Come, everybody. The dancing begins. Partners are 
 wanted to fill up sets for an old-fashioned Virginia reel. Come, 
 Fanshawe ; come. Judge. Partners all. 
 
 [Exeunt into the ball-room all except Rose, n'Jio remains seated. 
 DuNMOHE reappears in doorivay. Carson advances to him. 
 
 Car. Well done. Jack, Now, take out Rose and bring her 
 back in about five minutes. She will come to meet Marlowe. 
 
 Dun., (advancing to Rose). Come, Rose, will you not dance 
 one set with your cousin ? 
 
 Bose. With pleasure, John. [Exit with Dunmore. 
 
 Car., [to Miss D.) Dunmore will soon return with Rose, and 
 when she enters your work will begin. Are you sui'e that you 
 understand thoroughly what you will have to do? 
 
 Miss D. I am sure. 
 
 Car., [pointing to room on R.) That is Rose's room, is it not? 
 
 Miss D. It is. 
 
 Car. And who occupies the room opposite? 
 
 Miss D. That is my room. 
 
 Ca.r. And the guests, where will they be lodged ? 
 
 3fiss D. Mostly on the floor above this. 
 
 Car. Where will Marlowe sleep ? 
 
 Miss D. In his studio, on this floor. 
 
 Car. In case of any alarm here on this spot during the night, 
 would it bring him upon the scene ? 
 
 Miss D. It w^ould. What do you intend concerning him ? 
 
 Car. No bodily harm, if all goes well. And the sanie alarm 
 would bring many of the guests here ? 
 
 Miss D. Yes. 
 
 Car. So, then, the work is arranged. Now, when Dunmore 
 brings Rose in you must persuade her to retire for the night. 
 Some means besides persuasion may be necessary. [Hands 
 Miss D, a small f ask.] Take her into her room, place her upon 
 that couch, draw the curtains, then withdraw and leave the rest 
 to me. 
 
 Miss D. And look well to w-hat you intend, John Carson. If 
 that girl does not leave that room with her honor unstained I 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 45 
 
 will kill you. Do not doubt that I will do it, and know that I 
 am prepared to keep my word. [SJiOws dagger.^ 
 
 Car. Have no fear. Rose shall come out of that room a pure 
 woman. Bad as I am, I am not mean enough to stain the woman 
 I intend to make my wife. 
 
 Re-e)iter Dunmore with Rose. Slie takes a seat apart. 
 
 Car., {approach'mg Danmore). Now, Jack, go aw^ay, and never 
 hereafter breathe a w^ord of what I have told you concerning 
 Miss Denham or anything concerning her that you may learn 
 here tonight. Promise me this, and the capital for your slave- 
 trading adventure shall not be lacking. 
 
 Dun. All right, John ; I'll promise anything with that ahead. 
 
 Car., {handing Dunmore a note). Give this note to Dick Fan- 
 shawe. Tell him it is from his father. \_Exit Dunmore. 
 
 Car., {to 3Iiss D.) Now" to your work. 
 
 [Retires behind curtain hanging at doorway on JR. 
 
 Miss D., {approaching Rose). What, Rose, do you not dance? 
 
 Rose. Not this set. The places were all taken — and — I don't 
 like a reel. 
 
 Miss D. But, Rose, dear, are we not keeping late hours? 
 
 Rose. Oh, no ! — it is not late. It is not yet twelve. 
 
 Miss D. But it is close upon it, dear. x\nd think of what you 
 wdll have before you tomorrow. There will be the riding party, 
 with the picnic upon the river bank, and dancing again tomor- 
 row night, and you the mistress of it all. You must save your 
 strength. Rose, or you will break down, strong as you are. Let 
 me persuade you to retire. 
 
 Rose. Well, I ought to go to bed, really ; but those romps of 
 girls in there will not let me. They would hunt the house for 
 me if I should leave them now. And I could not sleep if I went 
 to l)ed ; I am so frightened by this terrible storm. 
 
 [Sounds of storm without. 
 
 Miss D. I can make you sleep, Rose. I have a quieting remedy 
 for excited nerves that I am often obliged to use. Take one 
 little breath of tliis and you will drop right off to sleep. [Ap- 
 plies flask to Rosens nostrils.] Be careful — not too much. 
 
 Rose. Why, that does have a quieting effect, truly. I feel 
 sleepy at once. Oh, I must lie down. Don't let— those— girls- 
 find me. 
 
46 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Miss D. They shall not disturb you. Come to your room. I 
 will be your maid for tonight. 
 
 [Miss D. raises Eose up. She leans her head on Miss D.'s 
 shoulder, who leads her to room on right, places her upon 
 the couch, draivs the curtains, and re-enters, meeting Caeson, 
 ivho comes forward from behind curtain. 
 Miss D. There lies your way, sir. 
 
 [^Crosses to room on right, where, through the partly-opened door, 
 she stands looking on. Dunmore 7iou> reappears at doorway 
 back, peering in. 
 Dun. What deep game is my deep friend playing here? 
 [ Withdraws back as C a rson approaches. Carson pulls together 
 the folding doors leading into the dancing-rooms, closes and 
 locks them. He then turns down the lights, enters Rose's 
 room, takes lighted lamp from table on side, goes to the couch, 
 draws the curtain and looks doivn upon Rose. 
 Miss B., {from room opposite). Alas, poor dove, you are in the 
 snare ! And I am in the snare. God help me. 
 
 [Carson closes curtain of couch, replaces lamp upon table, turns 
 down the light, goes to closet, which he enters, standing in 
 doorway listening. Knocking is now heard at ball-room 
 doors, vjith female voices calling, "Rose! Rose! " as cur- 
 tain descends. Storm continues. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 47 
 
 ACT IV.— A Year Later. 
 
 Scene I — Apartments of Fanshawe and Marlowe in New York. 
 Two easels, E. and L., on which are pictures. Other pictures 
 about the roovi. A Maid Servant dusting. 
 
 Enter Judge Crotchet. 
 
 Judge {glancing round). What aerial nook of Bohemia is this 
 that Dick has got himself into, I should like to know ? [Puffs.'] 
 Ten flights of stairs, if it's one. 
 
 3[ald. Why, the ould loir ! It's only foive. 
 
 Judge. A studio, eh? Then it is likely that he and Marlowe 
 are together. This girl will know. Young woman, does Mr. 
 Fanshawe live in this house ? 
 
 Maid. He does, sorr — sometoimes. 
 
 Judge. Is lie living in it at present ? 
 
 3faid. I don't know, sorr. I'll go see. 
 
 Judge. Well, if he is in and alive, give him this [Jiandlng girl 
 card], and say that I w^ould like to see him. 
 
 Maid. I will, sorr. [Exit. 
 
 Judge. Marlowe is here. These pictures are evidence enough 
 of that. [Goes to easel and puts on glasses.] Ah, a portrait of 
 Miss Denham, and a most marvelous one it is. So, she still 
 lingers upon the scene, does she? I am glad of that. She may 
 be able to throw some light upon the mystery that overhangs 
 Rose. And what is this? [Turns to other easel.] A portrait of 
 Rose herself, and a master work it is. What a beastly shame it 
 is that such an artist as Marlowe should remain in obscurity ? 
 Ah, Rose, Rose, poor girl, what has become of you ? Have the 
 tragic results of that terrible night a year ago led to your death 
 as well as that of your father? 
 
 Enter Fanshawe. 
 
 Fan. What, Judge Crotchet ! Is it possible ? [Shaking hands.] 
 Well, upon my life, Judge, I am mighty glad to see you. Why, 
 what extraordinary thing can have brought you to this wicked 
 
48 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 city? I would not have thought thal^anything short of oxen 
 and cart ropes could have done that. 
 
 Judge. Well, it is no pleasure excursion that brings me here, 
 Dick. On the contrary, it is but the beginning of a journey 
 which, I fear, is destined to end in sorrow and disappointment. 
 
 Fan. Why, Judge, what is this? 
 
 Judge. It means that I have started out in search of Rose. 
 The girl has most strangely and mysteriously disappeared, and 
 under circumstances that lead me to suspect that there has been 
 foul play. 
 
 Fan. Foul play! From whom, in God's name? 
 
 Judge. From Rose's southern relatives, the Dunmores of Ala- 
 bama, and especially from her cousin, John Dunmore. 
 
 Fan. What leads you to suspect them ? 
 
 Judge. Some very ugly circumstances. The first was a letter 
 written to Rose about nine months ago, shortly after her father's 
 death, which, as you know, occurred on the night that John 
 Carson was discovered in Rose's bed-chamber. 
 
 Fan. Yes, that I know. But before we come to the matter 
 of Rose's disappearance, I would like you to give me the full 
 details of what occurred on that night. I have an especial 
 reason for asking. While the dancing was going on a note was 
 put into my hands by Dunmore, who said it was from my father. 
 The note was a forgery. I found on reaching home that night 
 that my father knew nothing of it. 
 
 Judge. It was a terrible scene that followed your departure. 
 Some of the young romps of girls when they learned that Rose 
 had gone to bed determined to go to her room and make her 
 get up and come back. So off they started. They found the 
 doors opening from the ball-room closed and locked, but they 
 managed to get them open and groped their way through the 
 dark to Rose's sleeping-room, which was also unlighted, but 
 some one appeared with a light, and then there was a revela- 
 tion. Rose was found in bed apparently asleep, and on chairs 
 and on the floor was scattered some male wearing apparel, which 
 had the appearance of having been left behind in a hurried exit 
 from the room. At the same moment, attracted by some noise 
 in the adjoining closet, one of the girls threw open the door. 
 Then the murder was out. Carson was found there half dressed, 
 holding down his head in shame. On the instant the voices of 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 49 
 
 the girls ceased, and a ^ilence followed that was so tragic that 
 many of the guests in tlje ball-room, becoming alarmed, myself 
 among the number, hurried forward to see what it could mean. 
 We found the girls huddled together, with pale faces. Rose, 
 who had now risen up, and who acted as if half dazed, staggered 
 out into the room among the guests, sank into a chair, and gazed 
 wildly around, letting her eyes rest for a moment on Marlowe, 
 who stood looking at her, and then her head fell forward on her 
 bosom in a manner, as some thought, expressive of the deepest 
 contrition and shame. At this moment the Colonel came in, 
 and at the same moment Carson, as if the devil had sent him, 
 and half dressed as he was, appeared in the doorway of Rose's 
 room. The Colonel seemed very quick to comprehend the 
 meaning of the scene. His face grew white with rage, his eyes 
 flashed, and with the words, "You scoundrel! could you not 
 spare the daughter of^our friend ? " he seemed as if about to 
 rush upon Carson,, at which Miss Denham laid her hand re- 
 strainingly upon his shoulder. At this he stopped, clasped his 
 head in his hands, and exclaiming, " My God! " he staggered 
 back and fell to the floor. It was a stroke of apoplexy, brought 
 on by the excitement of the scene. In ten minutes he was a 
 dead man. As her father fell Rose, aroused from what seemed 
 her strange stupor, threw herself with a shriek across her father's 
 body, exclaiming in hysterical cries, "Oh, father! father! 
 father ! ' ' The scene was so painful that the guests quit the room , 
 leaving Miss Denham and Rose alone with the body of the 
 Colonel. Carson seemed inclined to stay, but Miss Denham im- 
 periously ordered him off, and he bowled and departed. There 
 was no sleep in the house for any one that night, and the terri- 
 ble storm that was raging did not lessen the night's horrors. 
 The next day, before ten o'clock, almost ever}^ guest had left the 
 house. 
 
 Fan. And that same day, I am told, Carson went to Rose 
 and proposed marriage. 
 
 Judge. He did. It was the last desperate card in the desper- 
 ate game he had been playing. He could not wait, for the next 
 day the fact that he had wrecked the bank came out, and that 
 very day he fled the town. In another day his arrest w^ould 
 have followed. Had Rose consented to marry him he might 
 have been saved. 
 
50 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Fan. Rose repelled him, I was told by my sister, with such 
 bitter scorn that he actually sneaked out of her presence. That 
 alone was proof of her innocence. 
 
 Judge. Yes, to us. But what is the use? The girl's reputa- 
 tion is gone forever. 
 
 Fan. I do not think so. There is a hope that the plot against 
 her may yet be revealed — for a plot it certainly was. But now 
 as to Rose's disappearance. The first circumstance connected 
 with it was a letter which you say she received shortly after her 
 father's death ? 
 
 Judge. That letter was from her cousin, Isabel Dunmore, and 
 was written from Alabama. It was an invitation for Rose to 
 come and spend the winter with her on her plantation near the 
 Florida border. Miss Dunmore wrote that she was ill, and urged 
 Rose to lose no time in coming. 
 
 Fan. And Rose accepted that invitation ? 
 
 Judge. She did, although I did my best in persuading her 
 not to do so ; but it was of no use. Belle, she said, was the only 
 friend she had left among women, and she would not remain 
 away from her when she was ill ; and so ofi" she started, scarcely 
 taking time enough to make sufficient preparations for the 
 journey. 
 
 Fan. And you have heard nothing from her since ? 
 
 Judge. But once. From Mobile she wrote me a letter, saying 
 that she had been met there by her cousin, John Dunmore, 
 who you know went back to Alabama after the Colonel's death, 
 and that she was to set out with him the next day for the home 
 of Belle. 
 
 Fan. It is strange that she should have accepted his escort, 
 knowing the enmity he had for her. 
 
 Judge. Perhaps she didn't know it, and perhaps he had dis- 
 sembled with her as he had done with her father. Anyhow, 
 she accepted his escort and set out with him, and that is the last 
 I have heard of her. I have written to her, to Belle Dunmore 
 herself, and even to the local postmaster, but can get no answer. 
 My belief is that Dunmore has put Rose out of the w^ay — that 
 he has killed her. That, you are aware, would make him the 
 heir to her estate— as he claims. 
 
 tan. It certainly looks ugly. Have you made no other efforts 
 to trace her ? 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 51 
 
 Judge. Yes. After three months, hearing nothing from her, 
 I became alarmed, and securing the shrewdest detective in 
 Rochester, sent him in search of Rose. It was Johnson — you 
 know him. He knew Dunmore, but Dunmore knew nothing of 
 him. In about six weeks I heard from him. He wrote me that 
 he had succeeded in tracing Rose and Dunmore from Mobile to 
 a point within a few miles of Miss Dunmore' s plantation, where 
 he lost track of them completely. It was in a wild region, full 
 of blind roads that led now^here. He kept on until he reached 
 Miss Dunmore's house, Avhere he learned that she was not at 
 home, and that she had been absent ten months. Here his 
 search ended. There was not the faintest clue by which he 
 could trace them further. On his return he made his way to 
 Savannah. Here, one evening, in a gambling saloon, he en- 
 countered Dunmore. He got into play with him, and by those 
 methods that detectives know how^ to use he became intimate 
 with him, and within a week was in his confidence. He learned 
 nothing, however, that would give him any clue to the fate of 
 Rose. One day Dunmore received a letter from New York 
 which contained a draft for a large amount. With this draft he 
 purchased or hired a schooner, and telling Johnson that he was 
 going into the coasting trade, offered him a passage to New York. 
 Johnson accepted. Before the schooner sailed he wrote me an 
 account of his search for Rose, setting the time when the schooner 
 would probably arrive in New York. It arrived day before yes- 
 terday. Johnson immediately telegraphed to me, and I lost no 
 time in getting here. 
 
 Fan. Your object, I suppose, is to see Dunmore? 
 
 Judge. It is. I intend to question him in regard to Rose, 
 assume to believe what he shall say, and then slip quietly away 
 to Alabama and begin my search for her. And, Dick, I am 
 going to take you with me. 
 
 Fan. With all my heart. Judge. And if Rose is alive we 
 will find her, and if dead we will trace her murderers and have 
 a revenge as deep as the infernal pit. And now as to one other 
 point. Has it never occurred to you that that letter purporting 
 to be wiitten by Miss Dunmore to Rose might have been a 
 forgery ? 
 
 Judge. It has occurred to me ; but whose forgery ? 
 
 Fan. That of Dunmore himself. 
 
52 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Judge. Not he. He has not the requisite brains or the edu- 
 cation for it. It was a close imitation of Miss Belle's handwrit- 
 ing, and was the work of a person of education. 
 
 Fan. He might have had a confederate; and now, Judge, T 
 am going to startle you. It is my opinion that that confederate 
 was John Carson. 
 
 Judge. Carson ! 
 
 Fan. Yes. You know that he and Dunmore left Rochester 
 on the same day, and I am positive that four months later they 
 w^ere together in Alabama. 
 
 Judge. That is very important information. But where is 
 Carson now ? 
 
 Fan. He is not far off — no farther than the room on the floor 
 below this. 
 
 Judge. What! Carson in this house? 
 
 Fan. Yes ; and there is nothing strange in his being here. 
 You know that when I left Rochester I told you that the object 
 I had in doing so was to follow Carson. I had penetrated the 
 object of his plot against Rose, and I felt certain that he would 
 ultimately turn up in New York, that refuge of every played- 
 out scoundrel and adventurer in America. Well, I was not dis- 
 appointed. One night — it must have been soonafter-his return 
 from Alabama — T met him in a Broadway gambling-house. Of 
 course we were glad to see each other, and over a bottle we 
 warmed up to our old fauiiliarity. Naturally, we spoke of the 
 past and of that unfortunate aifair which had destroyed Rose's 
 reputation. I assumed to believe his explanation of it, that it 
 was unintentional, that he was drunk on that occasion, and that 
 he had done all he could to make reparation, and so forth, and 
 so let the matter drop. Well, I had a part to play. I got tipsy* 
 and so contrived that Carson brought me home. I insisted, in 
 a drunken way, that he should stay all night. To hnmor me 
 he consented. The next morning I had him to breakfast, and 
 learning from him that he was Mathout monej'^ I pressed some 
 upon him as an old friend, aiid then proposed that he should 
 take a room here in the house at my expense until lie could get 
 into funds again. He consented, came that day, and has been 
 here ever since. You know my object in this, Judge? 
 
 Judge. Yes; you believe that by keeping near Carson the 
 time will come when he will get into trouble with the law, and 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 53 
 
 that then a confession of his plot against Eose may be extorted 
 from him ? 
 
 Fan. Yes. 
 
 Judge. Oh, that is a wild hope, Dick. Carson is too secretive 
 in character ever to betray himself that way. 
 
 Fan. Nevertheless, I shall not give him np ; and it is with 
 that hope that Marlowe and I have followed him. He is living 
 on the very verge of crime, and I am not above pushing him 
 into it if the occasion offers. As nearly as I can, I lead the same 
 dissolute life that he does. I gamble with him, get drunk with 
 him, frequent the same haunts, waiting and watching for an 
 opportunity that I believe will some day come. Once in the 
 clutches of the law, he will need friends, and then a confession 
 of his plot against Rose maybe bought or extorted from him. 
 
 Judge. Dick, you are making a martyr of yourself, and though 
 I cannot think that it will be of any avail, yet I honor you for 
 it. It is your love for Rose, and I wish to God she had married 
 you. • 
 
 Fan. That was not to be. Rose could not bring herself to 
 think of me that way. And the man she does love is my friend, 
 and he is worthy of her. It was something to have saved her 
 from a marriage with Carson. And if I cannot regain the repu- 
 tation he has stolen from her I will kill .him. 
 
 Judge. What does Carson do for a living ? 
 
 Fan. Gambling is his principal source of revenue. He has 
 also a demi-monde connection — a woman who is another man's 
 mistress, and from whom Carson does not disdain to take money. 
 He keeps up a respectable appearance, but in reality he has got 
 dow^n very low\ 
 
 ■ Judge. Low indeed, if he has got down to living on the wages 
 of a courtesan. Good God, has it come to this with Carson, the 
 one-time social hero of his native city ! 
 
 Fan. To this complexion has he come. 
 
 Judge. And he was once a man of scrupulous honor. 
 
 Fan. Honor must have some other anchor than pride, Judge, 
 or it will not hold through such stormy trials as Carson was 
 subjected to. He never had any religious belief. 
 
 Judge. True, Dick. Religion is the strong anchor to wind- 
 ward. Is Carson in his room now, do you think? 
 
 Fan. No ; he is always out at this hour. He will be in at the 
 
54 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 six o'clock dinner. And you may be certain that Dunmore will 
 be in his company. And if you will stay to dinner, Judge, you 
 will meet another acquaintance of yours whom I am sure you 
 will be glad to see— Miss Denham. 
 
 Judge. Miss Denham ! What ! is she here, too ? * 
 
 Fan. She is; and that is also easily accounted for. This 
 house was her New York home before she went on her theat- 
 rical tour. Marlowe also lived here at that time. On their re- 
 turn they naturally came back to it. And Marlowe coming here, 
 I naturally came with him. 
 
 Judge. So, that accounts for you all being in the same house, 
 eh ? The dramatic cohesion is strong. Is Miss Denham friendly 
 with Carson ? 
 
 Fan. She seems to be, though she knows positively nothing 
 of his way of life. The part he plays with her is that of a re- 
 morseful and repentant man, and as Miss Denham is naturally 
 a generous and forgiving woman, he seems to do it successfully. 
 I greatly fear, however, that he has some design upon her for- 
 tune. She seems to have a small one. In fact, I know that he 
 has already engaged her in a speculation of some kind, though 
 what it is I cannot imagine. 
 
 Judge. As to her fortune, I can tell you something to the 
 woman's credit. It consisted of diamonds given to her by the 
 Colonel. After his death she went to Rose and offered to return 
 them. Rose insisted that she should keep them. 
 
 Fan. She is certainly an honorable woman. 
 
 Judge. Does she take the Colonel's death much to heart ? 
 
 Fan. It may be. There is something preying on her mind. 
 Seemingly, the only thing that gives her interest in life is her 
 ambition for making Marlowe known to the world for the great 
 artist he is. That seems to have become a passion with her. 
 She has one of those rare minds that understand art. 
 
 Judge. It is a dirty shame that such an artist as Marlowe can 
 find no recognition in his own country. And what a comment 
 on our democracy it is ! An artist who is not unworthy to wear 
 the mantle of Hogarth sinks into neglect and obscurity, while 
 the hero of a prize ring can hold a reception in the Senate cham- 
 ber. Well, there has been enough said upon that subject. And 
 now, Dick, come with me to my hotel round the corner. John- 
 son is there, and I want to see him before I meet Dunmore. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 55 
 
 Fan. Very good. I will leave a note for Marlowe, telling 
 him to send for us if Dunmore and Carson should come in dur- 
 ing our absence. 
 
 [Sits down and writes note, leaving it on table. Exeunt, R. 
 
 Enter Marlowe, L. He lays aside a portfolio that he brings in, 
 takes up note and reads it, then sits down at easel and begins 
 work. Then enter Miss Denham, reading. 
 
 Miss D. What, George, returned ? I thought j'^our studio was 
 deserted, and came here to read. I like this place to read in. 
 It is so quiet always — and if I tire of my book I can turn to your 
 work and read there what never tires. 
 
 Mar. Indeed ! And what do you find in my work that is so 
 especially interesting ? 
 
 Miss D. Human nature — human life — what it is that life and 
 time and passion write in human faces. 
 
 Mar. I think you have too high an estimate of my work, 
 Aliena. 
 
 Miss D. Indeed I do not. 
 
 Mar. Well, then, here is more reading for you — since you 
 like it so well. [Handing her portfolio. 
 
 Miss D. More comedies and tragedies from the streets, I sup- 
 pose — from bar-rooms, from hotel corridors, and from the haunts 
 of Circe — something to laugh over, to think over, and to weep 
 over. Ah, art fulfills her true function in your work, George. 
 And what a lesson is taught in these sketches here ! If it could 
 be brought to the eyes of those who need it, manj^ a lost one 
 might be turned from the path that leads to perdition. Here 
 in this first sketch, where prostitution is so luxuriously veiled 
 as to be scarcely suspected, to these others, that lead one by a 
 gradual descent through the vilest haunts of the city, where the 
 features of Circe are so hideous as to be sickening, you portray 
 one face through them all, that of a young girl, following her to 
 the last scene of all, a midnight leap from the dock to a death 
 in the river. Ah, what a lesson it teaches ! It makes me shud- 
 der. Ah, how faithfully does pencil hold the mirror up to life ! 
 And yet you are unknow^n. 
 
 Mar. Yes, and most likely to remain so. 
 
 Miss D. You shall not remain so. You shall yet come forth 
 from this obscurity that surrounds you. To that work' I have 
 
56 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 devoted my life, and I will accomplish it. AVhat is wanting to 
 bring you to the recognition of the world but the power that 
 wealth gives ? 
 
 3far. But that is a power that you have not. 
 
 3[iss D. True, I have it not, as yet. But it is a power that I 
 shall have, and the time is not far distant. Even now Fortune 
 is holding out her hand to me and tempting me with a scheme 
 of adventure in which there is the promise — nay, the certainty — 
 of wealth beyond my wildest hopes. 
 
 Mav. Indeed! Then you had best take hold of Fortune's 
 hand and lose no time about it. She is a fickle goddess. 
 
 Miss D. I intend to— or think I shall. I have only been 
 waiting to know what a dear friend of mine may think of the 
 adventure. Now, George, what do you think of the slave trade ? 
 
 Mar. The slave trade. Well, I can't say that I have a very 
 high oj^inion of that. 
 
 Miss D. Ah, I knew you would condemn it. But did you 
 never think how much of the popular feeling against it is due to 
 prejudice, not to say ignorance ? I once held it in utter detesta- 
 tion, but reflection and later knowledge have made me regard 
 it with quite different eyes. 
 
 Mar. It is a matter of reason and conscience alone, Aliena. 
 If they do not condemn, you need not hesitate. " There is noth- 
 ing either good or bad but thinking makes it so." Such is the 
 testimony of Shakespeare. 
 
 Miss D. It is not bad in my thinking. I can see in it some- 
 thing that far outweighs the evil —the design of Providence for 
 the spread of civilization in regions now in the darkness of bar- 
 barism. 
 
 Mar. There is some soul of goodness in things evil. There 
 is more of Shakespeare for you. And so it is a slave-trading 
 adventure that you propose to invest some money in, I suppose. 
 
 Miss D. It is. 
 
 Mar. Well, it is a trade that is carried on extensively, though 
 secretly, from this port. Many a colossal fortune has been built 
 up from the profits of it by men who own pews in churches. 
 
 Miss D. Then my mind is made up. I shall hesitate no 
 longer, but depart at once. Tomorrow you may not find me 
 here, George. 
 
 iliar.. Indeed ! Is it your intention to take a personal part in 
 the adventure ? 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 57 
 
 Miss D. Oh, no ! [Laughing.^ I am not going to sail for the 
 coast of Africa. I am only going to Florida, to be near the scene 
 of the enterprise, and do my best to see that it is conducted on 
 the most humane principles. In two years I shall return here. 
 And then I shall be no longer the poor music teacher, but rich, 
 and then — xlmerica shall know her artist. 
 
 Mar. Do not be too sanguine. And do you really go to- 
 morrow ? 
 
 Miss D. Tomorrow certainly ; and perhaps tonight. Every- 
 thing is ready and waiting for me to go on board, I am told. 
 And now, George, as there is a possibility that I may never re- 
 turn, there is something that I want you to promise me. Here 
 is the key of a writing desk that I will leave with you. At the 
 end of two years, if I do not return and you do not hear from 
 me, you may be certain that I am no longer living. Then un- 
 lock the desk. You wHl find a sealed paper addressed to you. 
 Read it. Do you promise me ? 
 
 Mar. I do. \_ Aside : Some one is entering Carson's room be- 
 low. Perhaps he and Dunmore have come in. I must know.] 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Miss D. The sad and bitter story of my life he will find 
 written in that paper, and he will read there what I had not the 
 strength to reveal while living, and when I shall be beyond the 
 sound of all earthly reproach. 
 
 Re-enter Marlowe. 
 
 Mar. \^ Aside : Dunmore and Carson are below. Dick and the 
 Judge must know of it at once.] And now, Aliena, I am called 
 away. As you go away so soon I may not find you here on my 
 return. 
 
 Miss D. Then let us say good-bye now. 
 
 \_She tal:es his hand and they go tovjard the door. Part way she 
 
 stops, leans her head upon Jus shoulder, and gives way to 
 
 tears. 
 
 Mar. Come, come, Aliena, my brave girl, this is not like you. 
 
 We are not parting never to meet again. We shall meet again, 
 
 never doubt it, and all shall be well. Good-bye. [Exit. 
 
 Miss D. Farewell! farewell! and forever farewell to the only 
 hope that has sustained me through so many bitter trials- 
 through so much sufi'eringand remorse, a hope for which I have 
 8 
 
58 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 sacrificed almost my hopes of heaven itself. I cannot give him 
 up — my heart will cling to him even in despair. [Iwrns to the 
 portrait of Rose.] Here is the face that he loves. Oh, Rose! 
 Rose ! with what reproach you seem to look upon me. Oh, God ! 
 is there not some way of making reparation to this girl, of re- 
 storing to her the reputation I have aided in stealing from her 
 without sinking so low in the esteem of the man I love ? — some 
 way of ending this long heartache and remorse ? No, there is 
 no way. I could not endure his contempt, his scorn. I must 
 suffer to the end — give my life to the only reparation I can make 
 to him — and then die. 
 
 \_Sinks into a chair at the foot of the portrait, leans forward, and 
 buries her face in her hands. Then enter Carson. He 
 walks aside and stands regarding her. 
 
 Car. lAside : Parting from Marlowe, it seems. Strange how 
 she clings to that fellow when she must know that she is but 
 cherishing a hopeless passion. But it seems ever the fate of 
 these women who sway all hearts to love some one man hope- 
 lessly. Well, so much the better — in this case. She will now 
 make Dunmore happy by going to Florida. 
 
 Miss D., {rising). Pardon me, Mr. Carson, I did not see you. 
 You have come, I suppose, for my answer to Captain Dunmore' s 
 invitation. I have decided to accept it. 
 
 Car. You will not regret it. The climate will restore your 
 health, and you will find every comfort awaiting you at his ren- 
 dezvous. Tne Captain is in my room below. Will you see him ? 
 
 Miss D. Not today. I have many preparations to make. I 
 shall meet him tomorrow on board his vessel. 
 
 Car. It has been arranged to have you go aboard tonight. 
 It is best to lose no time. A carriage will take yoa to a hotel 
 near the Battery, where the Captain and I will meet you and 
 take you on board. 
 
 Miss D. Very good. 
 
 Car. There is not the slightest obstacle in the way of our suc- 
 cess, Miss Denham. The enterprise will pay enormous profits, 
 it will be conducted on the most humane principles, and you 
 shall return with your investment increased to a million. 
 
 Miss D. I shall owe yoa a great debt, sir. 
 
 Car. You will owe me nothing. It will be but a slight return ' 
 for the generosity of your forgiveness for the great wrong I have 
 done vou. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 59 
 
 Miss D. Say no more of that, sir. I have learned to regard 
 the wrong you speak of as but the consequences of a fate that 
 ensnared us ))oth, and we are now seeking in the conduct of our 
 lives to make such atonement as we can. [Exit. 
 
 Car. Yes, that is what you are doing — treading the path that 
 leads to the heaven you believe in. As for me, I seem to be 
 going in the other direction. Well, both roads meet at the same 
 terminus, I'm thinking— over the brink of the grave into the 
 abyss of nothingness. And so believing, why should I not be 
 the man I am ? 
 
 Enter Dunmore. 
 
 Car. Ah, Jack, you are here, eh ? Couldn't wait, eh ? Must 
 see your charmer ? Well, you will have to wait until you see 
 her on board tomorrow. 
 
 Dun. And so she has consented to go to Florida, has she? 
 And I haven't come all the way from Savannah for nothing— 
 for it is on her account that I have come. 
 
 Car. Well, you will have a chance for your wooing now. 
 [Aside : But it is mighty little good it will do you, I'm thinking.] 
 
 Dun. And so she has consented to become a partner with 
 us, eh ? That suggestion I made to you up there at the Colonel's 
 was a good idea, John. 
 
 Car. It was. 
 
 Dun. Did you have any trouble in bringing her to consent? 
 
 Car. I did. At first she would not hear of it ; actually re- 
 volted at the idea; but I showed her how by the money she 
 could make in the trade she would have it in her power to make 
 Marlowe known to the world. That caught her. A few days 
 thereafter she consented to advance the capital we wanted, and 
 gave me that draft which I sent to you at Savannah. And now 
 she will argue a minister out of his pulpit on the subject of the 
 slave trade. [They laugh.^ And now sit down. I want to hear 
 how your scheme for getting possession of the Vaughn estate is 
 getting on. 
 
 Dun. It is getting on splendidly, though not exactly as I cal- 
 culated in the legal way, yet it is going on all right in another 
 way. In about a year I calculate that the principal obstacle will 
 be removed. Then the estate will be mine, and you will be half 
 a million richer. That decoy letter that you wrote, John-, was 
 a trump card. It is going to win, 
 
60 THE POISONED CHALTCE. 
 
 Car. So Rose did go South in answer to it, eh ? 
 
 Dun. She did ; and she went somewhat farther south than 
 she expected ; and her journey isn't ended j'et. 
 
 Car. Well, go ahead, but he cautious. Don't tell me any- 
 thing more. I am afraid, Jack, that you are a little too reckless. 
 And now, how long before we are to go on board ? 
 
 Dun. Tomorrow, I hope, though I am not certain. I lack a 
 few sailors yet, which I expect my mate will capture tonight in 
 a shanghaeing den. 
 
 Car. In a shanghaeing den, eh ? 
 
 Dun. Yes; but that will be an easy job. But there is one 
 thing I want mighty bad, John, and can't get. I want a good 
 doctor. 
 
 Car. Can' t you get one ? 
 
 Dun. Not one that is good for anything. I can get a swab 
 that calls himself a doctor, but he don't know as much of medi- 
 cine as a loblolly boy. Sometimes on these voyages one-half 
 the niggers die and have to be tossed to the sharks. A good 
 doctor on board would prevent all that. 
 
 Car. Then we must certa-inly have a doctor. I might be 
 tossed to the sharks myself, and so might you. 
 
 Dun. But how are we to get one? 
 
 Car. Shanghae one, as you propose to do with some of your 
 crew. 
 
 Dun. You are joking; but that is what I'd do mighty quick 
 if I could get the chance. 
 
 Car. The chance is easily got, it seems to me. Get up a case 
 of sickness in that shanghaeing den you speak of, call a doctor 
 in and nab him. 
 
 Dan. A good idea; and if you know a doctor who could be 
 got into one of those dens without a platoon of police to protect 
 him, we'll try it on. 
 
 Car. I don't know a doctor in the whole city, except Dick 
 Fanshawe, and he is not in practice. 
 
 Dun. And a mighty good doctor he is, as I liappen to know. 
 He saved my life once, after that cutting I got in a Rochester 
 den. But he is too wide awake to be got into a shanghaeing 
 den. 
 
 Car. I think it might be done. Dick is dare-devil enough to 
 go anywhere. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 61 
 
 Dun. But, then, John, it would be playing a low-down game 
 on a friend. 
 
 Car. Oh, Dick would soon get over that. He is a reckless, 
 devil-may-care Bohemian, and would soon come around. You 
 could rate him for high pay, and so smooth the matter over. 
 
 Dim. I could rate him for pay so high that it would make 
 him a rich man inside of two years. By the gods, John, we'll 
 try this, if you say so. 
 
 Car. I am agreed, Jack. We must have a doctor. That's a 
 sine qua non. 
 
 Dun. Then it is settled. And now, how is Fanshawe to be 
 got into that den ? 
 
 Car. That will be easy enough. We will invite him to a 
 supper at Pfaff's. After that take him for a stroll along the 
 docks. He'll go. He^s very fond of a spree in my company. 
 And then we can easily conduct him into that shanghaeing den 
 where you are going to nab your sailors. 
 
 Dun. And once in there he is caught. A little drugged liquor 
 will fix him, and the next thing he knows he will find himself 
 under hatches and well out to se^. When will Fanshawe come 
 in? 
 
 Car. At the dinner hour, which is not far off". Sit down and 
 have a cigar. 
 
 Dun. No ; I will go down and see the landlady. I want to 
 know if she got the fruit I sent her. \_Exit. 
 
 Car. So, then, Rose did go to Alabama, and was entrapped 
 b}'' Dunmore, eh ? Well, she must now go to whatever fate Dun- 
 more has in store for her. I know not what he intends, and it 
 is too late to interfere if I did. Good God ! to think that I 
 could take part in a plot against a woman T once wanted to make 
 my wife ! And I a man once so proud of my honor that I would 
 have killed a man who would have impugned it! That episode 
 of forgery, embezzlement, and conspiracy, and the subsequent 
 life into which I lapsed seems to have completely transformed 
 me. Is it the sensual life I have led, or is it the gambling pas- 
 sion that possesses me — that passion that swallows up honor' 
 pride, and conscience — that has wrought this change in me? 
 Perhaps. If I were superstitious I could easily believe in a 
 supernatural retribution that has seems to have followed me 
 from the day I plotted against poor Doughton. The money I 
 
62 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 gained in that scheme I invested in a speculation that swept 
 away my entire fortune. That led to forgery and embezzle- 
 ment ; that to a conspiracy against my friend and his daugh- 
 ter; and now here I am, almost at the bottom of the hill in my 
 descent to Avernus, down which I have followed by always 
 seeing ahead of me a way of escape. Well, what is the next 
 step in the dark way ? What is to come in this slave-trading 
 adventure ? Is it to be the same fateful sequence ? It is full of 
 peril. Something says pause, but there is something stronger 
 still that urges me on. [Street door-bell rings below.'] That must 
 be Dick. [Opens door and listens.] Yes ; it is he and Marlowe. 
 And who is this coming up with them ? Judge Crotchet, as I 
 live ! [Steps back.] So, more hypocrisy. __ 
 
 Enter Fanshawe, Judge Crotchet, and Maelowe. 
 
 Judge. What, Carson! Why, John, is this really you? 
 
 Car. Yes, Judge. Or the man who was once John Carson. 
 
 Judge. Well, upon my life, John, I am glad to see you. 
 
 Car. I am glad to hear you say so. Judge. It is more than 
 I would have had any right to expect. 
 
 Judge. Well, John, there was a time when I felt a little can- 
 tankerous toward you, but it was because you ran away. Why 
 didn't you stay and let your friends pull you through? They 
 would have done it. [Aside: That is on the raw, I think.] 
 
 Car. So I have learned since, Judge. But you know the old 
 adage, the wicked fly when no man pursueth; and thus con- 
 science dotli make cowards of us all. But there was something 
 I could not fly from — remorse and the memories of the past. 
 For the past year I have endured the torments of the damned. 
 
 Judge. Upon my life, John, I feel for you. Let us sit down 
 and talk matters over. [Tlieij retire back. 
 
 Re-enter Dunmore. 
 
 Dun. What, Fanshawe, old man, are you alive yet? Tip us 
 your flipper, my hearty. f They shake hands. 
 
 Fan. Glad to see you, Dunmore. Why, I was beginning to 
 think you had been washed under, you are so long overdue. 
 
 Dun. Well, you see I've been knocking about the Southern 
 coast in chase of a schooner I used to own. I've got her at last, 
 and now it is no longer the tar and turpentine lay, Imt ebony 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 63 
 
 and ivory. How d' do, Mr. Marlowe ? Hope I see yoa well, 
 sir. 
 
 Mar. Quite well, thank you, Captain. 
 
 [DuNMOKE sees the Judge and strikes a comic sailor attitude of 
 surprise. 
 
 Bun. Well, dash my toplights if there isn't Judge Crotchet ! 
 Howd' do, Judge? 
 
 Judge, {coldly). How do you do, Dunmore ? 
 
 Dun. Glad to see you, Judge. Though we parted in some- 
 thing of a miif, I hope there is no cantankerous feeling 
 
 Judge. Not on my part. Those missing papers that disap- 
 peared from the safe on the night of your uncle's death did not 
 complicate matters much. 
 
 Dun. Those missing papers, eh? So you still think 1 took 
 them, do you? 
 
 Judge. It is no matter what I think about it. Rose holds 
 the estate as her father's heir, and if you or any of your rela- 
 tives think she does not, just try to get it, that's all. 
 
 Dun. Brag is a good dog, Judge. 
 
 Judge. Holdfast is a good one too. 
 
 Dun. AVell, avast, Judge. You are ahead of us on the law 
 tack, as matters stand at present, so we won't discuss the subject 
 now. How is Rose? 
 
 Judge. You can best answer that question. You have seen 
 her since I have. 
 
 Dun. I haven't seen her since her father's funeral, a year 
 ago. 
 
 Judge. You have not? Did you not meet her in Mobile and 
 conduct her to her cousin Belle's plantation four months ago? 
 
 Dan. It is not likely, since I have not been in Mobile for the 
 past two years. 
 
 Judge. She wrote to me that she had met you there. 
 
 Dun. Then she wrote what was not true. But I think I can 
 explain the matter. There is another John Dunmore down 
 there, a first cousin to Belle and a second cousin to me, and it 
 was probably him she met. 
 
 Judge. H'm ! Perhaps. I didn't know of No. 2. 
 
 Dun. You see, Judge, the Dunmores are so numerous down 
 there that they use up all the Christian names and sometimes 
 have to double up on one. And so Rose went South to see Belle, 
 did she ? 
 
64 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Judge. She did. And it is very strange that I can't hear from 
 her. I am afraid something has happened to her. 
 
 Dun. I reckon not, Judge. She and Belle are doubtless galli- 
 vanting about the State somewhere, visiting relatives. There 
 is no end to the Vaughns and Dunmores down there, and post- 
 offices don't exist where some of them live. I reckon Rose is 
 all right. 
 
 Judge. I hope so. 
 
 Dim. Though I must admit that there are Dunmores down 
 there who would not scruple to put her out of her miser}' if she 
 came their way. You know what I refer to. 
 
 Judge. I do. But her father is dead and gone to his account. 
 AVhat revenge would it be to strike his innocent daughter? 
 
 Dun. Not any for me. But there are Dunmores down there 
 who are not so forgiving, who were engaged in the old vendetta, 
 and' who took an oath that not a member of the Colonel's family 
 should be left alive. 
 
 Judge. Yes ; and that makes it mighty strange that Belle 
 should have invited Rose down there among so many enemies. 
 
 Dun. It was rather queer. But I reckon she thought she 
 would be able to keep Rose out of harm's way. 
 
 Judge. I hope she will be able to do it. [Retires back. 
 
 Dun. lAside: The old duffer evidently suspects something, 
 but I reckon I've bamboozled him on to the wrong scent. But 
 how is his arrival going to stand in with our game to nab Fan- 
 shawe? [Approaches Carson. ^ See here, John, is the coming 
 of the Judge going to interfere with our scheme? 
 
 Car. It will not interfere. We will have to take the Judge 
 and Marlowe along after supper. They are not to be separated 
 now; and once on the ground you can easily pilot them into 
 your shanghaeing den. Can you separate them there, take Fan- 
 shawe and leave the Judge and Marlowe behind ? 
 
 Dun. Easily. 
 
 Car. Then the work is done. And now I will arrange the 
 programme for carrying it out. [Approaclies the Judge. ] Judge, 
 I hoi3e you intend to make something of a stay in town. 
 
 Judge. Only for a day or two, John. As soon as I have fin- 
 ished the business that brought me here I am off. 
 
 Car. Well, while you do remain you must let Dick and I do 
 the honors and show you some of the sights of the town. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 65 
 
 Judge. , Well, John [Faxshawe nudges the Judc^e to ac- 
 cept.^ Well, John, you know I am fond of being amused, and 
 I shall want something to tell the family. 
 
 Car. Well, then, what do yon say for a visit to the theatre 
 after supper ? We will make up a party and go and see the great 
 Charlotte in Old Meg, and after that we will have a quiet mid- 
 night stroll along the docks. Dick and Marlowe shall show us 
 some of their Hogarthian localities. 
 
 Judge. Very good, John. I shall be glad to have a look at 
 them. 
 
 Car. So ! Then it is arranged. You shall have dinner with 
 us here. [_Bell rings below.'] And it is already served. [To Dun- 
 #more: Now, Jack, go down to that den of yours and get every- 
 thing ready. I will be there with Dick, the Judge, and Mar- 
 lowe within an hour. After supper it will be too late to go to 
 the theatre, and we will leave here and go direct to your den. 
 
 Bun. All right, John. I will lay off for you in the region of 
 Fulton market. Now, gentlemen [goingi, I regret to say that 
 urgent business compels me to leave you. I will meet you after 
 the theatre, however, and join in the fun that will follow. 
 
 [Exit. Then exeunt Faxsuawe, Carson, the Judge, and 
 Marlowe, 
 
 [At the end of this scene the curtain falls for a few minutes.] 
 
 Scene II — The Interior of a Water Street dance-house. A long, low 
 room. On left a bar, behind luhich stands Bartender. On right, 
 benches and barrels. On a barrel is seated a fiddler. A mixed 
 collection of women, sailors, negroes, and dock-loafers. Enter, 
 from door on left, in front, Duxmore, Carson, Fanshawe, 
 Judge Crotchet, and Marlowe. 
 
 Dun. Now, boys, keep together and let the women alone, 
 and you are all right ; and don't drink anything but such as you 
 see me drink. [Goes back and converses with bartender. 
 
 Fan. Well, Judge, here you are in a Water street dance- 
 house. How do you like the looks of it ? 
 
 Judge. I don't like the looks of it at all, Dick ; and I'm 
 damned if I don't feel a little nervous. My God ! what a scene ! 
 I wish my wife could see this. It would cure her of ever giving 
 more money to foreign missions. 
 9 
 
66 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Fan. Now yoa are talking, Judge. Here is the tru^ mission- 
 ary field— here under the very shadow of the church steeples. 
 
 Judge. Then why don't they come here and work it? 
 
 Fan. They will, perhaps, when they get done quarreling with 
 the theatre and settling points of doctrine. 
 
 Judge. Now you are talking, Dick. 
 
 [DuNMORE comes hack and joins Carson and tlie others. 
 
 Judge. Look at that fiddler over there on that whisky barrel. 
 Did you ever see a more perfect likeness of the stage Mephis- 
 topheles ? 
 
 Fan., {laughing). I never did. And he is quite apropos to 
 the place. It is the devil's music that is danced to here. 
 
 Dun. I know the man, Judge. It is his fancy to get himseli* 
 up that way, and a devilish good fellow he is. [To Cakson: 
 That is my mate, Jones. I'll go over and give him his instruc- 
 tions. In half an hour the job will be done. [Ci^osses over to 
 Jones : Look here, Jones, do you see that good-looking, square- 
 shouldered chap over there in the shooting coat and felt hat ? 
 That is the man we want. That is the doctor. 
 
 Jones. All right, Captain. There will be a dance; after that 
 give me the signal, and in ten minutes he will be behind the 
 panel, and an hour later he will be on board. 
 
 Dan. Make no mistake now. Take him and the three sail- 
 ors I pointed out to you and no one else. And mind you, let 
 the bottle alone until your work is done. If you don't, damme, 
 I'll put you under hatches until we reach the coast. 
 
 Jones. Have no fears. Captain. I'll not touch a drop. 
 
 Dun. Very good. After the dance send that girl to me. 
 [Indicating one of the women.'\ She knows what to do. 
 
 [ Rejoins Carson and others. 
 
 Dun. Now, gentlemen, what sort of entertainment will you 
 have? Acrobatic, burnt cork, opera bouffe, jimcrackerie un- 
 limited, sailor's hornpipe, topic song — what shall it be? There 
 is plenty of talent in the company, specially engaged for this 
 occasion. 
 
 Fail. Don't give us anything of that sort, Dunmore. If it 
 should please the crowd, a half dozen handclappers would keep 
 it going for an hour. The Judge wants to get away. 
 
 Dun. Well, then, we'll have a dance to wind up with and 
 then go. [Raises his hand as a signal to Jones. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 67 
 
 Jones, {shouting). Gentlemen, take partners for a dance. 
 IStrikes up a tune. A grotesque dance folloivs. After the dance 
 one of the women approaches Dunmore. 
 
 Woman. Come, Cap, what is it going to be ? I 'spose you 
 know the rules of the shebang. 
 
 Dun. No, my beauty. [Chucking her chin.l What are the 
 rules of the shebang ? 
 
 Woman. It's treat, trade, or travel ; and there ain't a going to 
 be no let up on 'em, you bet. This ain't no church picnic. 
 
 Dun. Well, we'll treat, and travel afterwards. Come, bo5's, 
 let us give the gals a drink and then get away. [Aside- to Carson • 
 Now the trap is about to spring. The fight will be a put-up job. 
 Don't get mixed up in the scrimmage, or they'll dose you. 
 
 [DuxN'MORE, Fanshawe, Carson, Marlowe, and the Judge 
 approach the bar, led by the woman. Liquor is set out. Men 
 and women croivd up and drink. Dunmore lays bill on 
 counter. Bartender pwts- bill in drawer, returning no 
 ■ change. 
 Dun. Look, here, you bullet-headed shark, what do you 
 mean? I don't pay for all this crowd. 
 Bartender. Yez do pay for them. 
 
 Dun. I'm damned if I do. It's only drinks for the women 
 I pay for. 
 
 Fan. For God's sake, Dunmore, don' t quarrel here. It would 
 be as much as our lives are worth. Let him keep the bill. 
 
 Dun. I'm damned if I do. Give me my change, you slush- 
 eating swab, or I'll cave your lights in. 
 
 Bartender. Fwhat's that ? Ye' 11 cave my lights in, will yez ? 
 Begorra, ye' re just the man I'm looking for. 
 
 [Leaps over tlie counter and attacks Fanshawe, icho knocks Jiim 
 down. At this the crowd, yell and a general fight begins. 
 Dunmore and Carson step one side. Fanshawe shouts: 
 " Strike out, boys, and make for the door." He, Mar- 
 lowe, the Judge, and three sailors are crowded back against 
 the wall in rear of room, where a panel opens, through which 
 they are pushed. Some of the crowd make an attempt at 
 rescue. Dunmore, standing at entrance of panel, holds 
 them back with raised pistol. 
 
68 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 ACT v.— Ten Days Later. 
 
 Scene I — Dunmore's slave-trading rendezvous on the coast of 
 Florida. On left an old plantation house, with veranda, whicli 
 projects into a garden, in which are branching oaks, palmetto 
 trees, and slirubhery. The scene is apparently on the verge of a 
 plateau, lohich slopes gently down to a wide lagoon, in which, 
 inshore, on right, rising above the trees, are seen the masts of a 
 schooner. Looldnq across the lagoon, the view stretches aivay over 
 a tropic swamp until it catches a far-off glimpse of an island- 
 studded bay ivhich sets in from the sea. 
 
 Enter Fanshawe and Marlowe, who come apparently from the 
 schooner. 
 
 Fan., {looking around). So, here we are at last, are we, in the 
 pirate's home, the slave-trader's rendezvous? 
 
 Mar. And a most enchanting spot it is— a veritable paradise, 
 so far as scenery goes. 
 
 Fan. And so here it is that Dunmore will land his wild Afri- 
 cans, is it ? Quite a romantic sequel to our adventure in a Water 
 street dance-house often days ago, is it not? 
 
 Mar. It is ; and a sequel that I would think more character- 
 istic of tlie days of Kidd than of these peaceful commercial days 
 of 1857. 
 
 Fan. It is just as characteristic of these days, my boy, as of 
 the days of Kidd and his pirates. New York is and has been 
 for a hundred years and more the secret fitthig-out place for 
 slavers; and as for the kidnapping of crews, that is and has 
 been an every-day occurrence- And if Dunmore kidnapped a 
 sailor, why should he not kidnap a doctor, if he wanted one 
 and could get him in no other way? 
 
 Mar. Yes; that I can understand ; but why should he kidnap 
 an artist and a lawyer ? To what possible use can he put me 
 and the Judge ? 
 
 Fan. You and the Judge were taken by mistake, and con- 
 trary to Dunmore's orders. After the fight in that Water street 
 den, and after we were shoved behind the panel and chloro- 
 formed, Dunmore and Carson left the place, leaving the rest of 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 69 
 
 :he work to be done by that old pirate, his mate. The mate got 
 drunk and confused his orders, with the result that you and the 
 Judge were brought aboard the schooner along with me and 
 three sailors. Dunmore did not discover the mistake until the 
 next morning, when he came to take a look at me in the hold. 
 The schooner was then well out to sea, and rough weather set- 
 ting in, it was too late to set you ashore. Such is the statement 
 I get from Carson. I have not had a chance to speak with* 
 Dunmore as yet, the voyage has been so rough, and he has seem- 
 ingly kept out of my way. 
 
 Mar. Well, I suppose we must make up our minds for a voy- 
 age to the African coast. 
 
 Fan. Possibly, though we need be in no hurry about it. 
 
 Mar. What do you mean ? 
 
 Fan. I mean that we may find some means of escape before 
 the schooner sails. 
 
 Mar. Not much hope of that. Dunmore will doubtless sus- 
 pect some such attempt and will watch us closely. 
 
 Fan. Yes ; most likely. But I think I can find a way of put- 
 ting his vigilance to sleep, and perhaps put him to sleep and all 
 his crew. 
 
 3far. Indeed! How would you do that ! 
 
 Fan. By means of a very powerful opiate that I have found 
 in the schooner's medicine chest. With that I propose to drug 
 some of the liquor, of which the schooner carries a large supply. 
 By watching my chance, I think I can so manage as to get Dun- 
 more and all hands to take a drink with me at a favorable time. 
 If they do that they will sink into a stupor that will last long 
 enough to carry out my design. Dunmore will wake to find his 
 schooner burned to the water's edge, his boats stove, and his 
 prisaners beyond his reach. My novel-writing taste has made 
 me fruitful m expedients. 
 
 Mar. It is a scheme that might succeed. 
 
 Fan. And I have already made a discovery that will aid me 
 greatly in carrying it out. I have discovered a brother among 
 the crew. 
 
 3far. What ! a brother among the crew ! Is it possible? 
 
 Fan. Yes ; a brother — Mason. 
 
 Mar. Oh! 
 
 Fan. I am a member of the order, you must know. On the 
 
70 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 voyage down it occurred to me that there might be some Masons 
 among the crew. I made signals, and sure enough, one popped 
 up. He proved to be one of the three sailors who were captured 
 with us. If I need any help he will come to my aid, you may 
 be certain. 
 
 Mar. But why does Dunmore come here ? Why did he not 
 sail for the coast of Africa direct from New York? 
 * Fan. He comes here for some kind of a cargo, so I am in- 
 formed by Carson, though what it is is more than I can imagine. 
 
 3far. Perhaps it Is something that he has got stored in that 
 negro cabin that you can see in that grove of oaks and palmet- 
 toes yonder [pointing'], with an armed sailor on guard before 
 the door. 
 
 Fan. I see the grove, but no cabin and no sailor. Ah, yes ; 
 I see them now, very dimly, through the trees. Well, it may 
 be. He has evidently got something there that he is very careful 
 of, and apparently very much afraid that somebody will see. 
 And the cabin window boarded up, too. 
 
 Mar. And I wonder if what he has there had anything to do 
 with his mysterious visit ashore last night after the schooner 
 arrived in the lagoon. 
 
 Fan. Possibly. And so you saw that, too, did you? I saw 
 that myself. For two hours I lay awake, watching through a 
 porthole of the schooner the gleaming of mysterious lights 
 through the old mansion here and among the trees, being carried 
 back and forth apparently between the house and that cabin. 
 And it is a circumstance that has put a strange and most painful 
 fancy into my novel-writing head. 
 
 3far. Indeed ! What is it ? 
 
 Fan. Never mind now. It might be paining you needlessly. 
 Wait until I look into the secret that is locked up in that cabin. 
 
 Mar. Don't you think it best not to meddle with it? 
 
 Fan. I do not. Secrets are very attractive to me, and I am 
 of a very meddlesome disposition, anyhow. 
 
 Enter Dunmore, followed by the crew, who carry casks, baskets, guns, 
 oars, and coils of rope. Then enter Carson, Miss Denham, 
 Judge Crotchet, and Old Dan, who carries shatuls and port- 
 manteau. Jones follows, luith a patch over his eye. An old 
 negro woman and a mulatto girl come out of the house. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 71 
 
 Dun., [to crew). Lay the things on the veranda there. {^Crew 
 deposit casks, oars, &c., on the veranda.] We will stow them when 
 everything is ashore. Stand those rifles against that tree. So ! 
 Now put those cases of liquor at the other end of the veranda. 
 That will do. Now cover them w^ith that tarpaulin. 
 
 Fan., [to Marlowe). Dunmore don't think it safe, apparently, 
 to leave the liquor and arms on board. Well, so much the bet- 
 ter for the object I have in view. Those cases of brandy are 
 just handy. [Exeunt crew. 
 
 Dun., {coming forward' . Well, gentlemen, here we are at last, 
 after a very stormy passage, safe in what you would call the 
 pirate's home, I suppose, Fanshawe. Well, I hope you like the 
 looks of it. 
 
 Fan. It is a most enchanting spot, Dunmore. 
 
 Dan. And how do you like it, Mr. Marlowe ? 
 
 Mar. I find it in every way delightful, Captain. 
 
 Dun. I am glad you like the place, sir, and sorry that it is not 
 in accordance with my plans to have'yon stay here through the 
 winter. You and the Judge were taken by mistake, which I 
 suppose has been explained to you. It Avas only Fanshawe I 
 wanted. 
 
 Fan., {to Marlowe). And I reckon he will prove a Tartar be- 
 fore you have done with him. 
 
 Mar., {to Fan.) Now, Dick, you are going to quarrel with 
 him. For God's sake, don't do that. He has the temper of a 
 tiger, and he might kill you. 
 
 Fan. Never fear. I know how to tame a tiger. There will 
 be a method in my madness, and I will turn the quarrel to 
 good account. Besides, I must vent my overflowing gall. I 
 must tell him to his teeth my opinion of the dirty trick he has 
 played upon us. [To Dunmore: Captain, you just remarked to 
 Mr. Marlowe that it was only me you wanted for this vo^^age. 
 
 Dun. Only you, Dick. You see I was obliged to have a doc- 
 tor, and as I could get one in no other way I took you, trusting 
 that I could make it all right with you finally. It was a rough 
 deal on a friend, but I couldn't help myself. 
 
 Fan. A rough deal, you call it. Yes, it was all that, and as 
 dirty a trick as ever was played upon a man under the guise of 
 friendship. 
 
 Dun. What, Fanshawe! [Laying his hand upon his knife.'] 
 Have a care. This is not language to use to me now. 
 
72 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Fan. I repeat what I sa^^, Dunmore, and add that it was not 
 only the act of a villain, but the act of a mean villain. 
 
 \_The Judge, who has been walking moodily up and down, pauses 
 and becomes interested. 
 
 Dun. By the gods, Fanshawe ! 
 
 [Drawing ids knife. Fanshawe stands unmoved. Carson 
 comes forward and grasps Dunmore's hand. Miss Den- 
 ham comes forward. 
 
 Miss D. Gentlemen, for heaven's sake, don't quarrel. 
 
 Fan. Not while you are present, Miss Denham. 
 
 Miss D. Mr. Fanshawe, will you hear a few words that I wish 
 to say ? 
 
 Fan. Assuredly, Miss Denham. 
 
 Miss D. In what I have to say, sir, I shall not attempt to ex- 
 cuse the treatment you have received. I knew nothing of the 
 design to entrap you, and had I known of it I would have had 
 nothing to do with this voyage until that design had been given 
 up. Do you believe me, sir? 
 
 Fan. I do, most positively. 
 
 Miss D. I thank you, sir. And now let me add a few Words 
 of personal explanation. You doubtless think it strange to find 
 me here engaged in this enterprise. I can see no wrong in it. 
 To me the slave traffic seems the process of social evolution — the 
 bringing of lower races in contact with higher. I think God's 
 hand is in it. Some day there will be a backward flow of freed 
 and Christianized slaves from this continent, and then civiliza- 
 tion and religion will be planted in regions now in the darkness 
 of savagery and barbarism. I do believe it, sir. 
 
 Fan. [Aside : Ah, how beautifully this plays into my hands ! 
 And now for a bold card in the game.] Upon my life, Miss 
 Denham, I am deeply impressed by what you say. You place 
 the slave traffic before me in a new light. I had not thought 
 of regarding it from this point of view. 
 
 Miss D. Can you not regard it as the correct view ? 
 
 Fan. lean — and do from this moment. [Aside: God forgive 
 me!] 
 
 Miss D. Then, sir, why can you not take the position of sur- 
 geon on yonder vessel, if by your skill you could save hundreds 
 of poor wretches from disease and death and for contact with a 
 higher life ? 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 73 
 
 Fan. I can take that position, Miss Denham — can regard it 
 as a duty— and in that spirit I accept it. Captain Dunmore, I 
 will be your sui-geon, if it suits you. And here let me retract 
 the rough words I used to you. John, I ask your pardon. 
 
 [Carsox turns away with a shrug of indifference. 
 
 Dun. Never mind the rough words you used to me, Fan- 
 shawe. I make allowances for a good deal of rough lingo when 
 I come across a man in a foul way, as I did you. But I don't 
 mean to carry it out that way. After a few voyages I intend to 
 set you ashore a rich man. Besides, you are a plucky one, and 
 that's the kind of man I like. It did me good to see the way 
 you tumbled some of the swabs in that den where I took you. 
 You gave my mate Jones an eye that will last him the voyage. 
 He will need your services. I will make you better acquainted. 
 Mr. Jones, this way, if you please. [Jones comes forward.'] Jones, 
 give the doctor a glimpse of that starboard blinker of yours that 
 he closed up so beautifully the other night. 
 
 [Jones lifts the patch over his eye. 
 
 Fan. Well, that must have been a blow, indeed. Did you 
 get it from me ? 
 
 Jones. I did, sir, and it lifted me right off my feet, sir. 
 
 Dun. Knocked out in the first round. But he bears you no 
 malice, doctor. Do you, Jones ? 
 
 Jones. Not in the least. Captain. It is what we look for on 
 such occasions. 
 
 Dun. Jones, the doctor is a book writer. Maybe he'll write 
 your life. 
 
 Fan. I should certainly be pleased to be the biographer of 
 so remarkable a navigator as Mr. Jones seems to be. 
 
 liSalutes Jones, who boivs loiv. 
 
 Dan. Now, Mr. Jones, you can get the crew together here in 
 the garden. I have a few words to say to them, and I reckon 
 I'll say it now. {^Exit Jones. 
 
 Fan., {to Marlowe, as they ivalk aside). The quarrel was a bold 
 card, but it seems to have won. Dunmore will have no suspi- 
 cion now that we intend to run for it. 
 
 Mar. What ! Were you not sincere in accepting the position 
 of Dunmore's doctor? 
 
 Fan. Not a bit of it. That was merely diplomacy. When 
 you are in the devil's grip, tickle his palm if you want to get 
 10 
 
74 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 out of it. I accepted the position, but I will discharge myself 
 at a convenient time. And now to see how the land lays with 
 the view to skipping. [To Dunmoke : Captain, this place seems 
 well adapted to your purposes. 
 
 Dun. A better place could not be found on the whole Atlantic 
 coast. It is one my old uncle Tom found out when he was en- 
 gaged in the trade. When he died I got hold of it. Secret and 
 landlocked, and the entrance to the lagoon know^n only to me, 
 I could turn a thousand negroes loose here and not one of them 
 could get away. 
 
 Enter Jones, followed by the crew. They range themselves on one 
 side, facing Dunmore and Jones. 
 
 Dan., (to crew). Now, men, I've got a word to say to you be- 
 fore we sail. I suppose you all know what sort of a craft the 
 Sea Hawk is. She is a slaver, and if any of you haven't found 
 it out it is too late to do so now. That's the long and the short 
 of it. Before we sail I'm going to give you all a frolic ashore. 
 You shall have all you can eat and plenty of grog. Now you 
 can look around and see what the place is like. But I warn you 
 all, and every man that hears my voice, to keep away from that 
 grove yonder, where you see that cabin. Don't go within twenty 
 rods of it, or you will get a bullet through you. That's all I've 
 got to say. Now disperse and get ready for a high old time 
 tomorrow. 
 
 \_Crew disperse, seemingly elated. Carson ivalks back. Dun- 
 more and. Jones, engaged in conversation, ivalk to a tree, 
 behind which Fanshawe places himself unobserved and 
 listens. 
 Dan., [to Jones). Now, you can go and relieve Short, who is 
 on guard at the cabin there. You will have to take the duty be- 
 tween you, for there is no one elsel can trust. The girls mustn't 
 be discovered. They must be taken over pure or the dealers on 
 the coast w^on't have 'em. I can get a thousand niggers for one 
 of the girls over there. When we get ready to sail we must get 
 'em on board secretly at night, and they must be kept out of 
 sight for the entire voyage. We have done the same thing be- 
 fore, and I reckon we can do it again. 
 
 Jones. Easily, Captain. It was often done by your uncle, 
 with my assistance, and no one else on board any the wiser. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 75 
 
 Dim. Good. There is one of the girls that must be kept 
 mighty close. If she should get out, hell would be to pay here. 
 Xow go and relieve Short at the cabin. I will keep you pro- 
 visioned. 
 
 [Exit Jones. Duxmore retires back. Fanshawe comes from 
 hehind the tree. 
 
 Fan. Well, it was certainly very-kind of Captain Dunmore 
 to let me overhear that conversation. Now I understand what 
 his mysterious cargo is composed of. He has got some girls in 
 that cabin — white slave girls, doubtless — that he intends to take 
 over to the coast and exchange for wild negroes. Verily, Cap- 
 tain Dunmore is a slave-trader somewhat in advance of his age. 
 But why should hell be raised here if one of them should be 
 discovered ? Good God ! can it be possible ? A dark suspicion 
 enters my mind, and now I will have a look into that cabin. 
 George ! [Maelowe approaches.'] Come, get ready to follow me. 
 I am going to see what that cabin contains. 
 
 Mar. Don't attempt it, Dick. You heard Dunmore's com- 
 mands to his crew. They were intended for us as well. 
 
 Fan. Nevertheless I am going to have a look into that -cabin, 
 if I risk m}"^ life in getting it. 
 
 Mar. But why are you so determined on that? 
 
 Fan. That will be explained before the door of the cabin — 
 and perhaps the explanation will walk out of it. Come, we will 
 take some guns and^pretend to be going after game. I see that 
 by making a detour we can get into the rear of the grove with- 
 out being seen from here. [Tb Dunmore: Captain, I've a no- 
 tion that game must be plentiful around here. 
 
 Dun. There is no end of it. This is a regular hunter's para- 
 dise. 
 
 Fan. Well, shooting is a sport that Marlowe and I delight 
 in ; so if you will let us have some guns we will see what we can 
 find for an hour or so. 
 
 Dun. There are guns enough — those breech-loading 'rifles 
 against the tree and some muskets on the dock. 
 
 Fan. We will take the rifles. 
 
 Dun. Cartridges you will find in that box there at the foot 
 of the tree. But the rifles are loaded. Empty guns with so 
 much liquor around won't do for the crew I've shipped. 
 
 [Fanshawe and Maelowe take rifles. 
 
ib THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Dun. Return in time for breakfast. It will be served at 12. 
 
 Fan. Well, as no true sportsman would leave the hunt for 
 breakfast, suppose we take some lunch along. 
 
 Dun. Very good. I'll send Uncle Dan after you w'ith some. 
 Uncle Dan, go to the cook and have him put up some lunch for 
 the hunters. At same time have some put up for Mr. Jones at 
 the cabin. Take it to him, and then follow after the doctor. 
 
 Old Dan. Yes, mars'. [Exit. 
 
 [Exeunt Fanshawe and Marlowe. 
 
 Scene II — The grove of oaks and palmettoes. On left a negro cabin, 
 with windows, boarded up. Jones is seated at a small table be- 
 side the door, dozing. A gun, with bayonet attached, is leaning 
 beside the cabin. 
 
 Enter Old Dan, carrying two small baskets. Goes to the cabin and 
 sets one of the baskets on the table before Jones. 
 
 Old Dan. Dar be some lunch for you, sah, dat de mars' Cap'n 
 bid me bring you. 
 
 Jones. All right, uncle. [Opens basket and looks in, then shuts 
 it with an indignant slayn.] The Captain seems damnably afraid 
 I'll have a little hquor. 
 
 Old Dan. P'raps he know better dan to give it to you, sah. 
 
 [ Wcdking airay. 
 
 Jones. What's that you say, you grijining old baboon? 
 Hyar! [Throiving toward him a tin cup uMch he takes from the 
 basket.] Bring me some w^ater from the spring, and be quick 
 about it. 
 
 Dan., {picking up the cup). Yes, sah. 
 
 Jones. What have you got in that other basket? 
 
 Old Dan. Some lunch for de doctor an' de oder man, 
 
 Jones. Let me look at it. 
 
 Old Dan. No, sah. 
 
 Jones. Bring it hyar, I say. 
 
 Old Dan. No, sah. [E.rit, R. 
 
 Enter Fanshawe and Marlowe, R. They stcoid behind a free, 
 luhere they can see Jones, but are unseen by him. 
 
 Mar. What a w^eird and spooky spot! so secret and so mys- 
 terious! What in the w^orld can Dunmore have in that cabin 
 that requires such precaution ? 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 77 
 
 Fan. Something that all his precaution will not prevent being 
 discovered. And it is going to be done here and now. Now, 
 don't start or make an v outcry when I tell you that Rose Vaughn 
 is in that cabin. 
 
 Mar. Good God, Dick! How can it be possible? How in 
 the world could she get there? 
 
 Fan. It is easily accounted for. Call to mind where it was 
 that Rose disappeared. It was in a wild region close upon the 
 Florida border. Between that region and his rendezvous here 
 there must be some connection— some route by which he runs 
 his wild Africans into the upper slave States. Then how easy 
 would it have been for Dunmore, instead of conducting Rose to 
 Miss Dunmore' s plantation, as he was pretending to do, to bring 
 her forcibly along that route to this spot ? 
 
 Mar. Oh, Dick, you distress me beyond measure ! But for 
 what object can Dunmore have done this ? 
 
 Fan. For an object that fairly chills my blood with horror. 
 He intends to take her to the African coast and sell her there 
 for a slave. I overheard him confess as much to the old devil 
 who sits over there. 
 
 Mar. Good God! could Dunmore do anj^thing so horrible? 
 
 Fan. Could he do it? Why, he could put his sister on the 
 block had she been born to a slave's condition. Dunmore would 
 have two objects in carrying out this design against Rose. One 
 would be to wreak vengeance upon her for some wrong that he 
 claims she has done him, and for which he hates her intensely ; 
 the other, to get possession of her estate, of which he claims to 
 have been defrauded. 
 
 Mar. But this design shall not succeed. No ; not if I must 
 sacrifice my life in an attempt to prevent it — not if I have to kill 
 Dunmore in his tracks. But can we not rescue her ? Is there 
 no way to do it ? 
 
 Fan. There may be. But first, let us be certain that Rose is 
 in that cabin. There is just a bare possibility that I am deceiv- 
 ing myself. And now for a scheme to find out the truth. I will 
 work my way up to old Mephisto there, and contrive to stumble 
 against the cabin door and force it open. Then a look within 
 may be had. Come ! 
 
 [They leave the tree and come out to the view 0/ Joxes. 
 
 Jones. Ah, Doctor, is that you ? I hardly expected to see you 
 here. You know this is forbidden ground. 
 
78 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Fan. It is not forbidden to us, Mr. Jones. We were passing 
 the spot on the lookout for game, so I thought I would step in 
 and get a few details for that life of j^ours that I intend to write. 
 
 \_A}:)proacMng the cabin. 
 
 Jones. I can't tell you anything here, Doctor. It may be all 
 right for you, but it would be as much as my life is worth if the 
 Captain found it out. 
 
 Fan. Well, then, we will wait until a more fitting opportu- 
 nity. [ Walking back. 
 
 Re-enter Old Dan. He takes water to Jones. 
 
 Fan., {to Marlowe). So, that scheme fails. Now I am going to 
 see if something can't be got out of the old darkey here. He 
 goes about as if he had some weight on his mind, and I've a 
 notion that it relates to that cabin. Uncle Dan ! 
 
 Dan. Yes, mars' doctor. \_Coriies forward. 
 
 Fan. You have got our lunch there, have you? Well, let us 
 see what it is. \_Takes basket and opens it.'] Sandwiches and 
 oranges, a bundle of cigars, and a bottle of brandy. I wish the 
 Captain had sent claret instead of brandy. 
 
 Dan. Dere was no claret handy, sah. Mars' Captain say he 
 t'ink you worry along on de brandy. 
 
 Fan. We will make it do. Would you like a glass of brandy, 
 uncle ? 
 
 Dan. Dat I would, sah. 
 
 [Fanshawe takes bottle and cup from basket, pours out a drink, 
 and gives it to Old Dan. Jones seems agitated. 
 
 Dan. 'Tank you kindly, sah. [Drinking. 
 
 Fan. Now, uncle, can you bring us some water from the 
 spring ? 
 
 Dan. Yes, sah. [Takes cups and exit. 
 
 Fan. Now, when the old fellow comes back I will question 
 him as to Dunmore's movements during the past four months 
 and see if I can trace him from Alabama to this place within 
 that time. 
 
 Re-enter Dan, uitk ivater. 
 
 Fan. Thanks, uncle. How long liave you lived here, uncle? 
 Dan. About seben year, sah. 
 
 Fan. Taking care of the place while your master was away, 
 I suppose ? 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 79 
 
 Dan. Yes, sah. 
 
 Fan. You were here, then, about four months ago, when your 
 master came down from Alabama ? 
 
 Dan. Yes, sah. 
 
 Fan. Did he come alone ? 
 
 Dan. No, sah. He bring a young lady wid him an' an octo- 
 roon girl. 
 
 Fan. So! A young lady, eh, and an octoroon girl! Was 
 the young lady a handsome, dark-eyed lady? 
 
 Dan. Dat she was, sah. 
 
 Fan. The octoroon girl was a slave, wasn't she? 
 
 Dan. She was, sah. 
 
 Fan. Well, uncle, what did your master do after he brought 
 the young lady here? 
 
 Dan. He go away for about two months, sah. 
 
 Fan. And last nighrhe came back on the schooner? 
 
 Dan. Yes, sah. 
 
 Fan. And what did he do last night when he came ashore 
 alone ? 
 
 Dan. I can't tell you nothin' 'bout dat, sah. Mars' Dunmore 
 forbid me to talk, an' he kill me for shuah if he 'spicion dat I 
 say a word. 
 
 Fan. Oh, you need not tell me, uncle. I know what he did. 
 He took the young lady and the octoroon gii-1 out of the house 
 and shut them up in that cabin. 
 
 Dan. Lord, sir, how you find dat out ? Dat was 'zactly what 
 he do. 
 
 Fan. Did the young lady have anything to say ? 
 
 Dan. Yes, sah. Dere was an awful time, sah. She talk to 
 •Mars' Captain powerful hard. Den he read to her some papers 
 dat he hab, which make her out to be his slave. Den she quiet 
 down and say no mo', an' den he take her an' de oder girl an' 
 shut 'em up in de cabin dere. 
 
 Fan. His slave ? What can that mean ? Did the young lady 
 look like a slave, uncle? 
 
 Dan. No, sah. Dough she might ha' been one. Plenty o' 
 slave girls in de Souf, sah, dat be well raised. 
 
 Fan. His slave ? The mystery deepens. 
 
 Mar. Wemay be deceiving ourselves, Dick. She may indeed 
 be some handsome, well-reared slave that has come into Dun- 
 
80 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 more's possession. There are thousands of such girls in the 
 Southern States. 
 
 Fan. Well, the mystery is going to be solved before we leave 
 this spot. Now, uncle, you can go to the spring for water, and 
 wait there until we come to you. 
 
 Dan. Yes, sah. {^Takes cup and exit. 
 
 Ian. Now for the key that shall unlock the mystery of that 
 cabin. [Takes bottle from basket.'] And one that Dun more has 
 himself placed in my hands — this bottle of brandy. I have 
 discovered that old Jones's weakness is liquor. I will leave this 
 bottle exposed on the fallen tree so that he can see it, and then 
 we will walk off as if going to the spring for water. Instead of 
 doing that we will place ourselves out of view of Jones, and we 
 shall see the old devil walk right into the trap set for him. Now, 
 take a sandwich and a cup and go off as if going to the spring. 
 I will call to you, but don't answer, and I will soon join you. 
 [Marlowe takes sandwich and a cup and goes out. Fanshawe 
 then takes bottle, pours liquor into a cup, then puts bottle back 
 into the basket, with the neck projecting over the side, and sets 
 it upon the fallen tree. 
 Fan., {calling). Ho, George! is that old darkey ever coming 
 with that water ? I can't drink this brandy without some. Ho, 
 uncle ! H'm ! I must go after him. 
 
 [ Takes sandwich and cup and exit. Jonhs rises from chair, looks 
 cautiously around, then crouches and creeps to basket, lifts out 
 bottle, and takes several pulls at it. Replacing bottle, he creeps 
 back to cabin arid lays himself across the threshold of the door. 
 
 Re-enter Fanshawe, Marlowe, and Old Dan. 
 
 Fan. The cunning old devil ! Foreseeing that he w^ould be 
 drunk, he has laid himself squarely across the threshold of the 
 door, so that it w^ill be impossible to get into the cabin without 
 passing over his body. 
 
 Mar. Will you try to enter ? 
 
 Fan. No, it would be too hazardous. Nothing must be risked 
 now. I will try another plan, one that my novel-writing fancy 
 has put me up to. Now go and stand under the cabin window 
 and sing a verse of some song. If Rose is there she will recog- 
 nize your voice and may answer. 
 
 Mar. Fortunately, I know a song that I have often heard 
 her sing. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 81 
 
 [Marlowe goes to the cabin, stands under the boarded window 
 and sings in a low voice, " Oh, sad were the moments when 
 my love and I parted," then listens witli his ear to the win- 
 dow. There is no response. He then tapssoftly on the boards, 
 sings another verse, and again listens, but no answer is re- 
 turned. The cabin door is slightly opened, but Jones stirs 
 uneasily and it is quickly closed. M a rlowe comes forward. 
 Fan. No answer ! Can it be possible that we are deceiving 
 ourselves after all ? 
 
 Mar. I cannot think so. And the thought that she may be 
 there is too maddening. I cannot endure the suspense, and I 
 will know. [Starts toward cabin. Fanshawe grasps him. 
 
 Fan. Stop ! You will only bring destruction upon yourself 
 and make certain her fate if she is there. Wait and trust to 
 me — to my chance of drugging Dunmore and his crew tomor- 
 rows Everything depends upon that. Now let us go back and 
 await events. 
 
 [Fanshawe and Marlowe take rifles a.nd exeunt. Old Dan 
 follows with baskets. 
 
 Scexe III — Same as Scene I in Act V. A table under the trees on 
 left, at which Dunmoke and Carson are seated playing cards. 
 Miss Denham seated apart reading. Judge Crotchet walking 
 moodily up and down. Several of the crew lounging about. 
 
 Enter Fanshawe, Marlowe, and Old Dan. 
 
 Dun. Hello ! here come the hunters, and without game. 
 How is this, Dick ? Couldn't you find anything to shoot? 
 
 Fan. No, nothing worth shooting at. And w^e found our- 
 selves in no mood for shooting, anyhow. The languid influence 
 of the clime, the etherial sunshine, and odor-laden air, took the 
 murderous impulse out of us, and so we sat ourselves down 
 under a tree to chat and smoke and listen to the far-off roar of 
 the surf. And so the time slipped away until it was too late to 
 do any hunting, and we come back. But we got on the track of 
 some game, however, that w^e hope to bag tomorrow. If we 
 don't do so you can make game of us, and probably will. 
 
 Dan. Well, I am sorry I can't offer you some breakfast. It's 
 over, and the cook is on another of his periodical drunks ; but 
 you are in time for coffee and a cigar. 
 11 
 
82 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 [Fanshawe and Marlowe p/ace their rifles against the tree, 
 then sit down at table. As they do so there is some com- 
 motion outside the scene, and a woman's voice is heard 
 exclaiming, "Let me go, you devil! let me go! I will 
 see him!" Then Rose Vatghn, ivith disheveled hair 
 and in a torn and dirty dress, rushes in and stands gazing 
 round in a dazed ivay. All rise in consternation. Jones 
 staggers in, grasps Rose by the ivrist, and ivith the luords, 
 " Hyar, you she devil, come back ! " attempts to drag her 
 off. At this Miss D. and the Judge, recovering from their 
 surprise, start toward Rose, The Judge thrusts Jones 
 aside. Rose, with a hysterical cry, throws herself into Miss 
 D.'s arms. The Judge turns and confronts Dunmore. 
 Miss D. Rose ! Rose Vaughn ! In God's name, what do 
 you here ? Have you dropped from the clouds ? 
 
 Dun., [advancing to Jones ayid taking him by the throat). You 
 drunken, miserable, slush-eating swab ! How did that girl get 
 out of that cabin ? 
 
 Jones, [crouching). I got asleep in the doorway. Captain, and 
 the cunning she devil crawled over me. 
 
 Dun. Got asleep, did you ! [Raising his fist.] I have a great 
 mind to brain you here on the spot ! Stand up ! [Jones rises.] 
 You shall have sleep enough. Tomorrow you will swing to an 
 oozy bed in the bottom of the lagoon. Now, go aboard and get 
 ready for it, for by God you shall take it. 
 
 [Gives Jones a push that sends him reeling off the scene. Dun- 
 more then walks to table, against wJiich he leans ivith folded 
 arms, and defiantly waits ivhat is to follow. Carson walks 
 aside. 
 Fan., [to Marlowe). So! She was there! Now, George, con- 
 trol yourself. Don't look at Rose or utter a w^ord. We must 
 make no mistake now or everything is lost. 
 
 Mar. Don't fear for me, Dick. I shall control myself, if it 
 is only for the purpose of killing John Dunmore, if Rose can- 
 not be saved. [A sliglit pause. 
 Dun. Well, ladies and gentlemen ! 
 
 Judge, [advancing to Dunmore). Now, John Dunmore, what is 
 the meaning of this ? Why is that lady here? 
 
 Dun. She is here because she has escaped from the place 
 where I saw fit to confine her. She is my slave. Judge, if that 
 makes my meaning any clearer. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 83 
 
 Judge. Your slave ! John Dunmore, if you say that girl is 
 your slave you lie to the depths of your malignant heart. 
 
 Miss D. My God ! AVhat does this mean ? This girl a slave ! 
 
 Dun. Yes, Miss Denham, my slave. She was born in a negro 
 cabin — born her father's slave — and when he died I got hold of 
 my property the best way I could. 
 
 Judge. No, Miss Denham, she is no more his slave than you 
 are. Born in a negro cabin she was, but not born her father's 
 slave. That was a story put forward to cover a family disgrace. 
 Well he knows who her mother was, and well I know it. As 
 her father's lawyer, I was made acquainted with all the details 
 of that sad history. 
 
 Dun. I don't care what you have been told or what you say. 
 I say that she is my slave, and I say that I can prove it. 
 
 Judge. I say that you cannot prove it. 
 
 Dun. I can, and T will do it here. Here are the proofs. 
 Examine them for yourself, and disprove them if you can. 
 \_Takes papers from his coot and throws them upon the table. 
 
 Judge. I will examine them — and you shall see how easily 
 I will tear in pieces your pretended proof and expose the mesh 
 of fraud and perjury by which you have ensnared and seek to 
 make your slave the daughter of your kinsman and benefactor. 
 
 Dun. Do so ! [Sneeringly. ) 
 
 [Judge takes up papers and looks them over. While he does so 
 the crew, attracted by the scene, come in and gather in a 
 group at back near the veranda. 
 
 Judge, {throwing papers upon table). Pah ! Just what I ex- 
 pected to find — a flimsy chain of fraud and perjury, contrived 
 with the design of wreaking revenge upon that girl and getting 
 her estate under cover of the forms of law. But you will fail, 
 Dunmore. Your pretended proof is not worth the paper it is 
 written on. 
 
 Dun. Don't be quite so certain of that, old man. They are 
 enough to satisfy the law, and that is enough to satisfy me. 
 
 Judge. They are not enough to satisfy the law. The law has 
 been cheated — outraged. Who was the judge whose name is 
 signed to these papers? One of your own kindred — one who 
 knew he was putting the stamp of legality upon fraud in order 
 to avenge upon this girl a wrong done by her father and for 
 which he had done his best to atone. 
 
84 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Dun. It is easy enough to say all this. What proof have you 
 got of it? 
 
 Judge. I have proof that will overwhelm you. Let us go 
 back to the time when, in the confusion following her father's 
 death, you sneaked away to his safe, tore the signature from his 
 will, and stole the certificate of his marriage to Eose's mother. 
 You got the original certificate, I admit, but you left behind you 
 a copy of it, which was engrafted in a legal document, duly wit- 
 nessed and sworn to and as valid in law as the original itself. 
 In your nervous haste it was dropped from the other papers, 
 and there, under a corner of the safe, it was found by me on the 
 very day you left the house. 
 
 Dun., (apparently off Ids guard). That paper was a fraud. The 
 man who performed that marriage ceremony was a fraud. He 
 was a cross-roads justice, whose time had run out and who was 
 not re-elected. 
 
 Judge. Not so fast, my friend. No one was elected in his 
 place, and his act was afterward declared legal by the highest 
 court of the State. Her father took good care to guard the 
 rights of his daughter against enemies that he knew, in case of 
 his death, would rise up against her. • So you are baffled there, 
 and you are baffled everywhere. I saw through your design 
 the day I found the paper you had left behind you, and that 
 very day I caused Rose to make a will by which, in case of her 
 death, her property would go to other relatives. And there 
 stands one who witnessed that will, and who can prove what 
 I say. [Pointing to Miss Denham. 
 
 Dun. Miss Denham, is this true? 
 
 Miss D. It is true. 
 
 Dan. Then the fate of that girl is sealed. I would go on 
 now in what I have undertaken if the very devil bade me stop. 
 [To the Judge: You talk to me of my revenge. Have I noth- 
 ing to avenge on the woman who prevented my marriage to a 
 lady who would have been my wife? AVho deprived me of 
 a chance of fortune that her father held out to me, and who 
 drove me to become a beggarly clerk in your office, and wlio 
 wills away from me an estate which in justice should be mine, 
 and of which I was robbed by a wrong done to my family — a 
 wrong so deep that my own mother made me swear to avenge 
 it. The time to avenge that wrong has come, and by heaven 
 I will not let it uass. 
 
thp: poisoned chalice. 85 
 
 Judge. Dunmore, you know that in opposing your marriage 
 to her cousin, Rose was but doing her duty. But enough of 
 this. You are master here and your will is law. Let us know 
 for what purpose you have brought Rose here, and the nature 
 of the revenge you intend to inflict. [Duxmore does not answer. '\ 
 Come, speak, man. 
 
 Rose. He will not tell you. He dare not. I will tell you. 
 By a forged letter he lured me into his power. By lies and 
 treachery and violence he has brought me here, where he holds 
 me for a fate worse than death itself He intends to take me 
 to the African coast and sell me there as a slave. 
 
 Judge. That he shall never do. 
 
 Miss D. My God ! Can this be true ? No, no. I cannot 
 believe it. \_ Advancing to Duxmore.] Captain Dunmore, why 
 do you not speak ? Does she speak the truth ? ^ 
 
 Dun. Miss Denham, I intend to dispose of my own property 
 to my best advantage. [Turns away. 
 
 Miss D. My God ! Can it be possible that this man can enact 
 such villainy ? Ah, now I see it all ! I, too, have been tricked 
 and betrayed. Mr. Carson, have you nothing to say ? Are you 
 a confederate in this plot against this girl ? 
 
 Car. No, Miss Denham. I — have — had nothing to do with 
 this. [Aside : I dare not tell her the truth. 
 
 3Iiss B. Ah, thank God, that you can say this ! And now let 
 us save Rose. It is in your power to do so. Oh, look back to 
 the beginning of this dreadful business ! See in it the direct 
 result of your crime and my crime against her. Oh, now let us 
 make some reparation for that crime ! Oh, save her ! Save 
 yourself ! Save me ! 
 
 Car. Miss Denham, I would save Rose if it were in my power. 
 Nothing that I can say or do would have the least effect with 
 Captain Dunmore. And let me remind you of something that 
 you seem to overlook. Do you not see that with Rose out of 
 the way a great obstacle to your happiness is removed ? 
 
 Miss D. What! Do you say this to me? You! Can it be 
 possible that you have fallen so low — that you can think so 
 meanly of me as to believe that I would again yield to that 
 temptation ? No ! and to redeem myself from the guilt and the 
 shame that it has brought upon me I would shed my heart's 
 blood upon this spot. And if you have tricked and betrayed 
 
86 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 me into a participation in the plot against this girl I would shed 
 yours with as little remorse as I would crash a viper under my 
 feet. 
 
 [Carson turns away and joins Dunmore. They walk aside and 
 confer. As they do so there is some movement among the 
 creiv. One of them, who stands near the baskets of brandy 
 on the veranda, lifts up the tarpaulin covering them and 
 looks in. Then, looking cautiously around and seeing that 
 he is unobserved, he takes out a bottle and passes it to one of 
 the crew standing by his side, who quickly conceals it in his 
 clothing. He then takes out other bottles and passes them 
 along the line until each of the crew has one concealed in his 
 clothing. He then covers the baskets. The crew stand for a 
 moment as if trying to appear unconcerned, but a panicky 
 feeling seems to spread among them, and they make a hur- 
 Hed exit. During this action on the part of the crew Miss 
 Denham has been ivalking thoughtfully up and down. 
 Miss D. [Aside: Yes ; I will make the sacrifice. It may save 
 Rose. Better a life-long expiation as the wife of this man than 
 to have upon my soul the burden of such a crime as this. [Ap- 
 proaches Dunmore.] Captain Dunmore, will you let me have a 
 word with you apart? [They step aside.^ Captain, you have 
 asked me to be your wife. Your proposal — I — saw fit to decline ; 
 but if I were now to alter my mind, would you, after what has 
 passed, renew your proposal ? 
 
 Bun. I would. Miss Denham, with all my heart. 
 Miss D. Then I withdraw my refusal to marry you. But you 
 must grant me one request. You must give up this design against 
 Rose. It is not alone for her sake or mine that I ask it from 
 you. It is for your sake as well. If you persist in this work 
 the day will come when the thoughts of it will rise up in judg- 
 ment against you. Conscience will awake, and you will curse 
 the day you were born. It will drive peace from your home, 
 sleep from your pillow, and end in driving you to madness and 
 death. So sure as you live this day, so sure will be your fate if 
 you go on in this work. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I 
 will repay. Oh, for the sake of your eternal peace, give it up! 
 Destroy those papers. Set Rose free, and — call me your wife. 
 Dun. Miss Denham, so great is my desire to call you my 
 wife that I would make almost any sacrifice to possess you, and 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 87 
 
 I will say that if I were alone in this business I would set Rose 
 free. But I am not alone. 
 
 Miss D. Then God's vengeance fall upon you all — as it surely 
 will ! But one thing tell me, Captain. Is Mr. Carson a con- 
 federate with you in this design against Rose? He says that he 
 is not. 
 
 Dun. He says so, does he ? Then I say he is as deep in it 
 as anybody else. [ Turns away and joins Carson. 
 
 Miss D., {looking at Carson), Oh, the villain! The cursed 
 villain ! The hypocrite ! The liar ! I will kill him ! I wdll 
 kill him ! Oh, angels in heaven, must this horrid work go on ? 
 Is there no way to save this girl ? Oh, Mr. Fanshawe ! George ! 
 Can you do nothing ? 
 
 Fan., {spoken so as to be overheard by Dunmore). It would be 
 of no use, Miss Denham. Rose knows that we would save her 
 if we could. But it is impossible. Therefore the least said the 
 soonest mended. 
 
 Miss D. Oh, she is lost! She is lost! [Returning to Rose,] 
 Oh, Rose, Rose ! we cannot save you. Your tyrant will not 
 relent. 
 
 Eose. Plead not with him. As well plead with devils in hell. 
 Leave me to my fate. It cannot be averted. George — Cousin 
 Richard — farewell ! We shall never meet again ! 
 
 Mar., {stepping from behind, the concealment of a tree and taking 
 Rose in his arms as she passes). No, no, Rose, my dear one, it 
 is not farew^ell. We shall meet once more. An attempt will be 
 made to save you. If we fail, you shall not be unrevenged. I 
 W'ill kill John Dunmore, and we will die here together. Now 
 go back, and wait and pray and watch. [Exit Rose, 
 
 [.4s Rose goes out the Judge sits down and buries his face in his 
 hands. Miss Denham walks thoughtfully up and down. 
 Carson goes to table, takes up bottle, and finding it empty, 
 goes to baskets on veranda, lifts up tarpaulin covering them, 
 and finding the liquor taken, returns to Dunmore, who is 
 walking moodily about. Miss D, pauses and secretly takes 
 knife from table. 
 Car. Jack, the crew have carried off your brandy. 
 Dun., {distrait). What? 
 
 Car. The crew have got away with the brandy. There isn't 
 a bottle left. 
 
88 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Dun. What ! Carried off the liquor ? Then they shall give 
 it back or I'll kill a dozen of them. [Takes one of the rifles. 
 
 Car. You will find j'-ourself a little too late, I'm thinking. 
 Your crew will be as drunk as tinkers by the time you reach 
 them. 
 
 [Exit D[JNx\[0RE hurriedly in the direction of the lagoon. Miss 
 Denham, in passing, stops near the rifles and overhears the 
 remark of Carson. In a seemingly half-dazed way she 
 gives attention to what he is saying. Carson ivalks aivay. 
 
 Miss D. Oh, my prayer is answered. This thought is inspira- 
 tion. These weapons ! We may save Rose. 
 
 [Keeping her look fixed upon Carsox, she cautiously hurries to 
 Fanshawe and Marlowe. Fanshawe, 2vith his back 
 turned toward her, is leaning despondingly against a tree. 
 
 Miss B., {cautiously). Mr. Fanshawe! George! Our chance 
 has come ! We may save Eose — and save ourselves. 
 
 Fan., (despairingly). There is no chance to save her. She is 
 lost— and we are lost. 
 
 Miss I). , {speaking hurriedly) . She is not lost ! For God's sake, 
 listen to me ! Our enemies have delivered themselves into our 
 hands ! The crew have carried off the liquor and are drunk and 
 beyond the power of resistance. Do you not see what you can 
 do with these rifles in your hands? Seize them! Shoot that 
 devil dead wliere he stands ! [Pointing to Carson.] Dunmore 
 and his crew will then be at your mercy — and we can save Rose 
 — save ourselves ! 
 
 Fan. By the gods, you are right ! There is a chance indeed — 
 if the crew are drunk. But of that we must be certain. [A shot 
 is heard outside the scene.'] George, see what that shot means. 
 
 [ Takes rifle and examines it. 
 
 Mar., {standing among the trees at back). The crew are not 
 drunk. Dunmore has them corralled on the wharf, and is par- 
 leying with them. 
 
 Miss D. But this does not defeat us! Is there no chance — 
 no hope ? 
 
 Fan. Yes, Miss Denham, there is a chance ; but it is a most 
 desperate one. With the crew sober, we shall have at least 
 twenty to fight, and we are but three. 
 
 Miss D. We are four to fight, sir. [Showing knife.'] Give me 
 but the opportunity to use this weapon, and you shall see how 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 89 
 
 I will do it. I am no coward, sir. Oh, Mr. Fanshawe ! George ! 
 let us make the attempt ! Heaven will send us aid. 
 
 Mar. For God's sake, Dick, let us try it. It is our only 
 chance now. 
 
 Fan. Oh, I am agreed. It is a fight that I want — a fight to 
 the death — and such it will be. But, Miss Denham, are you cer- 
 tain that you realize the consequences that will almost certainly 
 follow— the fate that will await you women ? The most that we 
 can hope for is to kill Dunmore and Carson. That we shall surely 
 do. Then, our ammunition exhausted, for there is little of it, 
 the crew will rush upon us with their knives and we shall be 
 slaughtered in our tracks. What will then await you women? 
 Do you understand me ? 
 
 3fiss D. I do. It is a fate that we will escape in death. We 
 will fight by your side, and if overcome, we will not survive 
 you. 
 
 Fan. You are a brave woman — and a noble woman. And 
 now to the work before us. 
 
 [Fanshaw^e and Marlowe take rifles and stand looking at 
 Carson, who is walking thoughtfally about. 
 
 Fan. George, this is your shot. 
 
 Mar. No; I cannot shoot him in cold blood. Let him go and 
 take his death in the fight that is to come. 
 
 Fan. He must be got ofi" the scene. \_To Carson: John, 
 Dunmore is having some trouble with his crew. He may need 
 help. 
 
 Car., {looking up). True; he may. [_Exit toward the lagoon. 
 
 Mar., {taking position among the trees). Be ready, Dick, Dun- 
 more, with some of the crew, are coming up the slope. 
 
 Fan., {taking position with Marlowe). Let them come. One 
 of them comes to his death if my aim proves true. Wait! A 
 little closer. And now, John Dunmore, God have mercy on 
 your soul. i Aims and fires. Marlowe j?res. 
 
 Fan. Good shot ! He is down ! 
 
 \_Steps hack to rifles, examines and loads them. 
 
 Mar. No! Dunmore is up again. He is only wounded. 
 Now^ the crew are rushing back to the wharf, taking Dunmore 
 with them. 
 
 Fan. The devil must guard him. He moved his head just 
 as I fired. 
 12 
 
90 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 The Judge, {ivho is aroused by the filling). Dick, what does this 
 mean ? 
 
 Fan. It means vengeance, for one thing. Judge, and a possi- 
 ble escape, with the chances a thousand to one against us ; but 
 vengeance anyway. 
 
 Judge. Then I am with you in that if it takes me to the gates 
 of hell itself. Give me a rifle, and give me a sight of that 
 
 damned scoundrel 
 
 [Takes rifle and places himself beside Marlowe. 
 
 Fan. We must be certain that these guns not fail us. [To 
 Marlowe : What are the devils doing now ? 
 
 Mar. They are loading the muskets on the wharf. Dunmore 
 is binding his head with a handkerchief. He don't seem to be 
 much hurt by your shot. Now he commences to harangue his 
 crew, and is pointing this way. Now they have started up the 
 slope toward us. 
 
 Fan., {joining the Judge and Marlowe). And now the battle 
 begins. Now they are within range! Let them have it. 
 
 [Fans HA WE, Marlowe, and the Judge fire. There are return 
 shots, and then a pause. At tJiis moment three sailors 
 appear upon the scene in rear of Fanshawe and Marlowe, 
 
 First Sailor. Ahoy, doctor ! 
 
 Fan., {turning and meeting them). What! Hiram, Jackson, 
 Maloney ! Have you come to help us ? 
 
 First Sailor. We have, doctor. We want to get even with the 
 Captain for shanghaeing us, and we don't like this slave trad- 
 ing. We were getting ready for a run when we heard the firing. 
 We knew what it meant, and got here as quick as we could. 
 
 Fan. Ah, thank God ! thank God ! Brave men and true 
 sailors ! Now we shall win ! Does Dunmore know that you are 
 here ? 
 
 First Sailor He does not, sir. He is wounded, and has got 
 no more ammunition. But he will attack you, sir. It is his 
 only chance. But I don't think the crew will make much of a 
 fight, sir. 
 
 Mar., {from the trees). Dunmore and his crew seem to be get- 
 ting ready for a rush, Dick. They have left their muskets and 
 are creeping through the bushes this way. 
 
 [The Sailors take rifles, and with Fanshawe place themselves 
 by the side of the Jud(^,e and Marlowe. 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 91 
 
 Fan. Reserve yonr fire until the}^ are close upon us. Then 
 drop the man in front of you, club your guns and rush in, and 
 we will drive them to the sharks of the lagoon. 
 
 J/m D., {standing apart), j^ow the fateful moment comes. A 
 few minutes more and we shall be free or dead. But whatever 
 the end is to be, it shall be the end of you, John Carson. Though 
 I am hacked to pieces, I will live until I have wreaked vengeance 
 upon you. 
 
 [Takes position apart at a tree. A sliort pause foJloics, then 
 with a yell Dunmore and his crew rush to the attack. They 
 are met with a volley. A confused struggle follows, which 
 is indistinctly seen amid the trees. Miss Denham, with 
 knife drawn, starts forward and engages in the fight. The 
 crew give way and fly . Fanshawe ancZ the others pursue. 
 A few shots are heard in the direction of the lagoon. For 
 a few moments the scene is deserted. Then — 
 
 Enter Carson, as if inflight. He is strijjped of coat and vest and on 
 his shirt are marks of blood. He staggers to a tree. 
 
 Carson. Ah, it is all over ! The cowards made no fight at all. 
 [Leans heavily against the tree and lets fall his knife.'] Ah, that 
 fury of a woman I I may yet get away. 
 
 [Starts forward. As he does so — 
 
 Fnter JNIiss Denham, with hair disheveled and in disordered dress, on 
 which are marks of blood. With knife in hand, she confronts 
 Carson. 
 
 Miss D. No, John Carson, do not think to escape from me. 
 Here you are to end your miserable life. 
 
 Car., (putting out his hand). Stop ! Your work is done. Give 
 me — a — few moments' life. I have — something to say 
 
 Miss D. Ask no mercy at my hands — from the woman whose 
 life you have ruined! Die, coward and hypocrite ! [Stabs him.] 
 Betrayer and murderer of your friend ! Thief of his daughter's 
 good name ! Die ! die ! 
 
 [Stabs him successively. With a groan, Carson sinks down. 
 Miss Denham stands over him. 
 
 Miss D. And so my work is done. He is dead. The end is 
 here. [Raising aloft her knife.] Oh, spirits of the dead I — 
 
92 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 Doughtoii ! — Herbert Vaughn ! Do you look down upon this ? 
 Are you avenged ? 
 
 [_As she stands over the body of Carson eider Fanshawe, with 
 gun in hand, leading Rose ; Marlowe. Judge Crotchet, 
 and Oi.D Dan, who is leading an Octoroon girl, follow. 
 
 Miss D., {starting for^card ivith an hysterical cry of joy and clasp- 
 ing Robb in Iter arms). Oh, Rose! You live! you live! You 
 are free ! You are saved ! Thank God ! thank God ! 
 
 Mar., [seeing the blood on Miss D.''s dress). Ahena, you are 
 hurt! \_Taking her in his arms. 
 
 Miss D. Yes, George ; I am hurt ; and hurt to death. [Lay- 
 *ing her head upon his shoidder.] I have not another hour to live. 
 
 3far. Oh, no, no ! Do not say this ! Dear girl, you must not 
 die now^ — in the very moment of victory. 
 
 Miss D. Yes, George, my time has come. 1 must die here ! 
 
 Mar. Oh, too bad! too bad! Dick, can you do nothing for 
 her? 
 
 Miss D. No, dear, he can do nothing for me. I am beyond 
 all earthly hope. No, it is not too bad. It is better that I should 
 die here and now. For so ends the heartache, so ends the long 
 remorse. But my work is not yet complete. I have something 
 still to do. 
 
 Mar. What do you mean, .^liena? 
 
 Miss D. I mean that I have a work of expiation still to do — 
 some dregs of a bitter cup to drain. [Turning to the others.'\ 
 Now hear me— hear me all— hear the last words of a dying 
 woman, who before she passes to her account would free her 
 soul by an act of reparation to one whom she has greatly 
 wronged. Rose, the man who lies there, and who stole from you 
 your reputation, was not alone in that work. I was confederate 
 with him and aided him in it. I placed him in your bedcham- 
 ber on that fatal night. It was a plot to separate you from the 
 man you loved. But do not think that it was of my own 
 free will that I joined in the plot against you. I was com- 
 pelled to do so. I had previously known this man, and he 
 knew of something in my past life which as an honorable woman 
 I could not greatly blame myself for, but which if made known 
 would from the niisconstruction that would have been placed 
 upon it have taken from me friends that I dearly loved and de- 
 stroyed my peace of mind forever. This secret this man threat- 
 
THE POISONED CHALICE. 93 
 
 eiied to reveal unless 1 aided him in his design against 3'ou. 
 Terrified by his threats and overpersuaded by his arguments, 
 I yielded and did his work. The end of that work is here. 
 There lies the man who stole from you your good name, and 
 here stands the woman who killed him. Oh, Rose, Rose, when 
 you shall think of this hereafter, do not forget the tears I have 
 shed, the remorse I have suffered, for the work of that fearful 
 night. Remember what I have done to avenge you and make 
 a reparation that shall clear your name to the world— and re- 
 store you to the man you love. And now, if you can, let me 
 have your forgiveness. , 
 
 Rose. Forgive you? Yes, yes, noble woman, you have my 
 forgiveness for whatever wrong you have done me! Oh, do 
 not die ! but live, live, to be my own loving, dear sister. 
 
 Miss D. George, can you forgive me? Do not think too 
 harshly of one who lost her way through this dismal world, who 
 fell before a temptation she could not resist, but who in death 
 redeemed herself. 
 
 Mar. Forgive 3^ou, Aliena? Yes, yes! You have my for- 
 giveness, and with it my tears — tears that will never cease to fall 
 when I shall think of you. Redeemed yourself! Yes, Aliena, 
 with high, heroic noble sacrifice! And was it not you who 
 saved us all— you who found the way to do so when all hope 
 was lost? 
 
 Miss D. Oh, God bless you, George, for these words. They 
 ease the bitterness of parting. \_Leans her head upon Marlowe's 
 shoulder.'] And now, if I have earned the forgiveness of 
 Heaven— I — 
 
 [Rosi<2 and Marlowe seat her upon a bench. She dies. 
 
 Ease. Oh, she is dead ! she is dead ! Oh, angels, take her to 
 your rest. 
 
 [As they stand with uncovered heads round the body of Miss 
 Denham, enter the three sailors, bringing in Dunmore 
 bound. Fanshawe, Marlowe, and the Judge stand aioay, 
 and Dunmore is led up to the bodies of Carson and Miss 
 Denham. 
 
 Fan. And so, Dunmore, you have come to look upon what 
 your villainy has led to. 
 
 Dun. Traitor ! 
 
 Fan. Call me so, Dunmore. I am proud of such treason. 
 
94 THE POISONED CHALICE. 
 
 But you are the traitor, and have earned a traitor's fate. Your 
 treason has recoiled upon your own head. 
 
 Bun. H'm ! Well, the game is up. 
 
 Judge. It is up indeed with you, Dunmore ; and has ended 
 as all games end that are played with the devil. He stocks the 
 cards in all games that are played with him. And his stake he 
 will receive at the hands of the hangman, I'm thinking. The 
 law has yet to deal with you, Dunmore. 
 
 Dun. I reckon not, Judge. 
 
 [Dunmore's head falls upon his breast, his knees give way, and 
 he sinks down. Sailors ease him to the ground. Fanshawe 
 bends over him. 
 
 Rose. Pray for him. His soul is passing away. 
 
 Fan., (rising). He is dead. 
 
 Judge. And so ends the long, dark drama of revenge and 
 hereditary hate. There lies the last victim of the vendetta. 
 
 Fanshawe and the Three Sailors come forward. 
 
 Fan. Where did you find the captain? 
 
 First Sailor. Lying in the bushes by the lagoon, sir, badly 
 wounded. The mate was lying by him, dead. We thought 
 best to make the captain prisoner and bring him in. 
 
 Fan. What has become of the rest of the crew ? 
 
 First Sailor. Those who were not killed got away in one of 
 the schooner's boats, sir. 
 
 Fan. Do you think you can, with the assistance we can give 
 you, take the schooner back to New York ? 
 
 First Sailor. We can, sir. 
 
 Fan. Then we will sail tomorrow. 
 
 \_They retire back, and stand uncovered round the bodies of the 
 dead. The sun is setting. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
aUDB & DCTWEILCR, PRINTERSc 
 WASHINQTON, D. C. 
 

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