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COLOUR; 
 
 OIFl, 
 
 The Question of To-Morrow. 
 
 DRAMA: IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 / 
 
 
 
 
 Inu fork: 
 
 John Polhemus, Printer, 102 Nassau Street. 
 
 1874. 
 
 7T 
 
*1 
 
 3 r 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, 
 by M. W. Hazeltine, 
 in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 
 
 TMP96-C06602 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 George Lemoyne. 
 
 Judge Fairfax. 
 
 Brand Fairfax (late Colonel C. S. A.) 
 
 Silas Bowles, M. D. 
 
 Black Job, "j 
 
 Gash Sillsbee, > Negroes. 
 
 Snaky Pete, ) 
 
 Miss Priscilla Endicott. 
 
 Virginia Fairfax (her niece.) 
 
 Maggie (Maid to Miss Fairfax.) 
 
 Quests, Field Hands, House Servants, &c. 
 
 Scene : In the first three acts, Nahant, Mass. In the last two, 
 Fairfax Manor, near Petersburgh, Virginia. 
 
 Time : 1873 ; Summer. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 Scene : The garden o/Miss Endicott's villa, at Nahant. At 
 the extreme right, a rocky cliff, with pathway. At the rear, the 
 sea. In the distance, Egg Rock. Time : forenoon. 
 
 {Discovered : Miss Endicott, seated, and Doctor Bowles.] 
 
 Miss JEJ. Doctor Bowles, you're the most provoking man on 
 earth ! Will you admit nothing ? 
 
 Dr. B. Madam, I admit facts. 
 
 Miss E. Ah, you will ! And if a fact defies your theory, 
 what then ? 
 
 Dr. B. Then, ma'am, I say, regretfully but firmly, I love 
 thee, but never more be theory of mine. 
 
 Miss E. Very good. Do you see this letter ? 
 
 Dr. B. I do. 
 
 Miss E. Do you know what it is ? 
 
 Dr. B. I do. It is an appeal from the financial committee 
 of the Female League. 
 
 Miss E. Appeal from fiddlestick ! 
 
 Dr. B. On closer view I see my error. It is a Report of the 
 Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Car-drivers. 
 
 Miss E. This letter is a bombshell. It will go off presently, 
 and there will be one doubt less in that skeptic head. Read it. 
 
 Dr. B. Hum ! Dated last Wednesday. [Beads.] " Dear 
 " Madam. Your letter acquainting me with my poor father's 
 " death reached me in Paris three weeks ago. The examinations 
 " for a medical degree had just been concluded, and it was my 
 " good fortune to obtain a prize of some distinction. Upon re- 
 " ceipt of your letter I left Paris immediately, and arrived in 
 "Boston yesterday. I hope to wait on you at an early day, and 
 " express that lively sense of my many obligations with which I 
 " have the honor to be, dear madam, your obedient servant, 
 " George Lemoyne." Well, ma'am ? I find nothing explosive 
 here. 
 
 Miss E. Oh, you don't ? Well, the writer, George Lemoyne, 
 is a negro ! 
 
 Dr. B. A nigger ! Nonsense. 
 
 Miss E. I said a negro. 
 
 Dr. B. Well, I suppose from the French West Indies — nine- 
 tenths a white man — -like Alexander Dumas ! 
 
 Miss E. That's like you candid men — so open to conviction ! 
 Give you an awkward fact, and you can't rest till you've whit- 
 tled it to nothing. I tell you the fellow is American born, and 
 brown as a chestnut. 
 
6 
 
 Dr. B. Well, ma'am!- Well! Do you know much about 
 him? 
 
 Miss E. Know George Lemoyne? Why, doctor, you must 
 remember old Jonas Lemoyne, that made such tasty cabinet 
 work ? Poor fellow, he was an old man — grown old in slavery 
 — when Farragut took New Orleans. But he saw light ahead 
 then, got on board one of our ships, he and his little boy, and 
 presently turned up in Boston. 
 
 Dr. B. And this young man, who writes like an ambassador, 
 is his son? 
 
 Miss E. Precisely. He was a lad of ten when his father 
 brought him to my house. I never saw a brighter, braver face ! 
 I liked the boy from the start, and tried to be of use to him. 
 
 Dr. B. Of course you did. I see it all. You dosed him, 
 petted him — sent him to school. 
 
 Miss E. No, I didn't. His father did that. He had the 
 pride of an honest man, old Jonas Lemoyne ! Besides, he was 
 an artist in his way. His work paid him well, and he toiled 
 and saved for George. 
 
 Dr. B. And sent him to France to finish his education? The 
 old darkey aimed high, didn't he ? 
 
 Miss E. No ! That was my idea. I told his father there 
 were larger opportunities in Paris. I could not tell him that 
 here — here in our own Massachusetts, which the old man took 
 for paradise — our prejudices had outlived our creeds. But I 
 knew well enough, if he sent George to a New England college, 
 what an atmosphere of gracious condesension, of good-natured 
 scorn, would kill his self-respect. 
 
 Dr. B. Miss Endicott, my heart honors you ! But after all 
 — frankly now — you have made a social experiment. You de- 
 serve to succeed, no doubt ! But success is not proven. 
 
 Miss E. Didn't George take a Doctor's degree, and prizes, 
 and all that, at the best school of medicine in the world ? 
 
 Dr. B. Madam ! Madam ! Many a man knows treatises by 
 heart, and writes them, too, for that matter, who can't handle a 
 lancet. I tell you, ma'am, in our profession mure book 
 knowledge, without a special talent to adapt and correct and 
 test it, is worse than useless, it is deadly ! 
 
 Miss E. Special talent, indeed ! What is that, pray ? 
 
 Dr. B. Well, patience for one thing ! And — wait a moment 
 — logic for another ! 
 
 Miss E. Dear, me ! 
 
 Dr. B. Don't smile, ma'am ! When you ask a man to ex- 
 plain, you must take the consequences. I say, a logic that 
 stifles imagination, a patience that defies distraction ! Has a 
 nigger these ? Ridiculous ! 
 
 Miss E. Doctor Bowles, you'll make me angry ! You've no 
 right to say that. Where are your facts ? 
 
 Dr. B. Why, if you consider the influence of climate during 
 long periods — if you glance at the skulls — 
 
Miss E. I knew it. Did you ever talk five minutes without 
 coming back to skulls ? Give you an edifying sermon, and you 
 hint spitefully at the wide difference — in skulls ! Show you a 
 pretty girl, and you fall to musing — upon skulls ! 
 [Enter left, Miss Faibfax and Maggie. The former is blind, 
 and pushes a cane before her.'} 
 
 Miss E. [Aside to Dr. B.] Talking of pretty girls, there 
 comes my neice ! Oh, doctor ! Man of science ! Can't you give 
 light to that young face ? 
 
 Dr. B. [Aside, <£c.] I fear not, ma'am. If I could give 
 her strength, I should be satisfied. She's too fragile for this 
 rough world. 
 
 Virginia. I was sure I heard auntie's voice ! 
 
 Miss E. Here, darling ; here I am. And here is another 
 old friend of yours. 
 
 Virg. I know who it is. Doctor Bowles, who always brings 
 me a noesgay ! And he has one now, hasn't he ? 
 
 Dr. B. Indeed I have. [Presents flowers.] So the old man 
 has a foolish place in his heart yet, and you've found it, eh ? 
 
 Virg. How kind you are. Do you know I think I must 
 enjoy flowers even more than you do — fragrant flowers, I mean. 
 
 Dr. B. Why so, my dear ? 
 
 Virg. Because, you know, I cannot see pretty things, as 
 others can ; and so sweet sounds and smells are doubly precious. 
 
 Miss E. Virgie, you must persuade Doctor Bowles to stay 
 and lunch with us. 
 
 Virg. Why, of course he will. He always does as I wish 
 him — don't you, Doctor ? And we will lunch out of doors, 
 mayn't we, where we can hear the waves breaking ? 
 
 Miss E. To be sure we will. But I've a letter to write first, 
 with some odious accounts in it. Oh, Doctor, I do wish you 
 would glance over them. 
 
 Virg. Aunt Endicott has no end of official business. 
 
 Dr. B. Your aunt, my dear, is treasurer of more impecunious 
 societies than any woman I ever heard of. Whenever their 
 funds run short, they elevate her to that position. 
 
 Miss E. [Going. ,] Now, Virgie, don't go near those dread- 
 ful rocks. Maggie, be careful of Miss Fairfax. 
 
 Maggie. Be aisy, mum. Wasn't I always that same ? 
 
 [Exeunt, left, Miss Endicott and Doctor Bowles.] 
 
 Virg. Maggie! 
 
 Maggie. What would ye have, darlint ? 
 
 Virg. Show me the pleasant seat you found for me yesterday. 
 
 Maggie. Sure I will, Miss. [Beads her.] There — sit ye 
 down. Isn't it the illigant sate ? 
 
 Virg. Oh, Maggie, I wish I had some of those nice smooth 
 things, that grow on the rocks, that feel like velvet — seaweed 
 you called them. 
 
8 
 
 Maggie. Sae wade, miss. Rest aisy now and ye'll have your 
 fill. [Goes among the rocks at extreme right.'} 
 
 [Enter Lemoyne, right.] 
 
 Virg. What is that ! A strange step ! [Starts np.] Maggie ! 
 
 Maggie Coming, miss. Sure, I'm afther the wades. 
 
 Lemoyne. I beg pardou. Let me not disturb you. [Aside.] 
 Poor girl, she's blind. 
 
 Virg. [Aside.] It is a kind voice. 
 
 Lemoyne. I fear I am mistaken. I came to see Miss Endi- 
 cott. The driver left me at the gate yonder. 
 
 Virg. You are quite right. This is my aunt's house. She 
 will be here in a moment, if you don't mind waiting ; or will you 
 go to the house ? 
 
 Lemoyne. Thanks. Nothing could be pleasanter than this. 
 I doubt if the scene could be matched anywhere. 
 
 Virg. Aunt Endicott would be pleased, I'm sure. She loves 
 to sing the praises of Nahant. And I, too, like it. One is never 
 lonely beside these waves. Sometimes they boom like the thun- 
 der, and sometimes they ripple merrily ; but they are never 
 silent. [Tries to regain her seat.] 
 
 Lemoyne. Permit me to assist you. And Miss Endicott is a 
 relative of yours ? She is well, I hope. I have not seen her 
 for well nigh ten years. 
 
 Virg. Aunty is in perfect health. Did you know her well ? 
 
 Lemoyne. She was — she is — the best friend I have. I think 
 there is no better woman on this earth. 
 
 Maggie. [Comes forward.] Now ye'll have the illigant wades, 
 miss. 
 
 Lemoyne. [To Maggie.] You have an armful. Let me re- 
 lieve you. [Takes seaweed from Maggib and places them be- 
 side Vieginia.] 
 
 Maggie. [Aside.] Sure and he's the foine gin tleman. But the 
 black face on him ! I'm thinking he's a Portygee, or a Mexican ; 
 they're black as divils ! 
 
 [Enter, left, Miss Endicott and Doctor Bowles.] 
 
 Virg. [To Lemoyne.] There is aunty. I know her step. 
 
 Lemoyne. [Advancing.] Dear Miss Endicott, don't you know 
 me — George Lemoyne ? 
 
 Miss E. Why, George, what a pleasure ! I would know yonr 
 voice at once. But how you've grown ! 
 
 Lemoyne. I've had time, you know. 
 
 Miss E. Doctor Bowles, Mr. Lemoyne. We were talking of 
 you, George. My niece, Miss Fairfax. 
 
 JJr. J3. [To Lemoyne.] Glad to hear, sir, that you have chosen 
 my profession. A doctor need never shut his eyes to truth. 
 I'm afraid our brothers of pulpit and bar can't say as much. 
 
 Miss E. [To Maggie.] Tell John he may serve lunch on the 
 terrace. 
 
Lemoyne. {Brings forward a rustic chair to Miss Endicott.] 
 
 Allow me. 
 
 Jlfws E. [Sits down.] And so, George, you ve come home to 
 your own country an educated man ! You must make your mark 
 
 for my sake. 
 
 Lemoyne. Believe me, I would work hard to win your ap- 
 
 Dr. B. That's right, young man. Work hard. Don't rely on 
 your education. It has given you tools, that's all ! But the 
 wise eye and the cunning hand, it can't give those. 
 
 Miss E. {To Virginia, who has risen and moved tov)ard the 
 right.'] Virgie, dear ; wait for Maggie. 
 
 Virg. I'll not go far. 
 
 Miss E. [To Dr. B.] I'm sure George has energy enough. 
 He has proved it. 
 
 Br. B. Well, Ma'am, I hope he has. {To LEMorNE.J What 
 line of practise have you thought of ? 
 
 Lemoyne. I should prefer, sir, to take up a specialty. 
 
 Miss E. Oh, no, George. Be a regular doctor,— like my old 
 
 friend here. „.,,.. ^ 
 
 Br. B. God forbid, ma'am ! I'm a family physician— that 
 
 is, a humbug. 
 
 ilfws 2& Ha, ha ! I'll remember that, when your next bill 
 
 comes in. 
 
 Z>r. B. And quite right, too. But at least I own my short- 
 comings. And when any man pretends to a competent know- 
 ledge of physic and surgery, in all their branches, I say he 
 lies, and knows he lies ! 
 
 Lemoyne. It is not easy, sir, as you suggest, to keep pace 
 with science, even in one direction. 
 
 Miss E. But what sort of a doctor do you mean to be ? 
 
 .Lemoyne. An oculist. 
 
 Miss E. An oculist V How delightful ! There are a thousand 
 questions I want to ask you. 
 
 Lemoyne. Doctor Bowles will tell you that a beginner should 
 ask questions, not answer them. 
 
 Dr. B. Young man, you talk well, and you have chosen 
 well. The field is large enough. Every third man you meet 
 
 rise TtTPfLK GV6S. 
 
 Lemoyne. Of late years, sir, diseases of the eye have been 
 much studied. 
 
 Dr. B. No doubt, sir. Unluckily, there are organic troubles 
 which defy treatment. I speak feelingly, as my old friend 
 knows. 
 
 Lemoyne. [To Miss Endicott.] Miss Fairfax has been blind 
 from birth ? 
 
 Miss E. No ; but she was a mere baby when she had a ter- 
 rible fever— typhus, wasn't it, Doctor ? The poor child recov- 
 ered, but her sight was gone. 
 
10 
 
 Dr. B. And lucky I thought her, to escape so lightly. There 
 was congestion, you understand, and inflammation. The eyes 
 got their share. In a word, the optic nerve was paralyzed. 
 
 Lemoyne. It well might be, surely. And yet, Doctor 
 
 May I tell you what I noticed just now? 
 
 Dr. B. Why not ? I gave up the case years ago. Say what 
 you please. 
 
 Lemoyne. Well, when this young lady moves, you see no 
 stooping, no painful uncertainty. She walks firmly, with head 
 erect. Am 1 not right ? And when you speak, her eyes con- 
 verge towards you, naturally. No vacant stare. 
 
 Miss E. [To Dr. B.] They do ; that's a fact. 
 
 Lemoyne. You must have observed, too, when she turns her 
 eyes toward the light, the pupils dilate just like yours and 
 mine. 
 
 Miss E. Yes, yes. What then ? 
 
 Lemoyne. Why then the retina must be sensible to light. It 
 may not be the optic nerve, after all, which is diseased. It may 
 be 
 
 Dr. B. Cataract. That's what you're driving at. [ To Miss 
 Endicott.] He means, ma'am, she may be cured. [Tp Le- 
 moyne.] Well, well, young man. I don't say it isn't possible. 
 
 [Enter Maggie, right/] 
 
 Lemoyne. [To Dr. B.] There are other tests which will occur 
 to you, Doctor. They would be decisive. 
 
 Miss E. Would they ? Oh, I'm crazy to try them. Maggie, 
 go find Miss Fairfax. 
 
 Maggie. Lunch is ready, mum. 
 
 [Exit Maggie, right.] 
 
 Dr. B. [Shakes hands with Lemoyne.] Sir, I am obliged to 
 Miss Endicott for your acquaintance. I'm the gainer by it al- 
 ready. I find I have plenty to learn. 
 
 Lemoyne. Only those, Doctor, who have taught many, will 
 confess that. 
 
 [During the last Jive minutes Virginia is seen moving 
 along the cliff at the extreme rigid of the stage.] 
 
 Maggie. \Mrnerging at extreme rigid.] Holy Vargin ! She's 
 aming the rocks ! Stop, Miss ! Miss Vargie ! 
 
 Virg. [Slips and catches upon a narrow ledge.] Oh, dear ! 
 Where am I ? 
 
 Maggie. Oh, murther ! Help ! She's kilt intirely ! 
 
 Miss E. Mercy on us ! She'll be over the cliff! Don't you 
 move, darling ! Doctor ! George ! 
 
 Lemoyne. Quick ! Give him your shawl ! Be calm, madam. 
 Quick, Doctor ! 
 
 [Lemoyne and Doctor Bowles run oid along the cliff.] 
 
 Lemoyne. Steady, Miss Fairfax ? [Jumps.] 
 
11 
 
 Dr. B. Good God ! — he's missed it ! No, he's up ! He has 
 her ! [Flings one end of shawl.] All right ! Hurrah ! 
 Miss E. Thank Heaven — and my boy ! 
 
 [Curtain falls.] 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene : Drawing room in Miss Endicott's villa. Long win- 
 dows opening on piazza. View of the sea. 
 
 [Enter, left, Doctor Bowles and Maggie.] 
 
 Maggie. Sit ye down, Docther, till I tell the misthress ye'z 
 come. 
 
 Dr. B. Thank you. How is Miss Fairfax to-day ? 
 
 Maggie. She's jist illigant. Sure she's afther walking in the 
 verandy wi' the furrin gintleman. Bless the black face on him. 
 
 [Exit Maggie, right.] 
 
 Dr. B. Foreign gentleman ! There's a shrewd compromise 
 with prejudice ! Tell my Irish friend here, that this Lemoyne 
 is a negro — the son of a slave — and she'd despise him. But 
 she sees us treat him like an equal, and so takes him for what 
 he is — a gentleman. 
 
 [Enter Miss Endicott.] 
 
 Miss E. Glad to see you, Doctor. Glad your patients can 
 spare you. 
 
 Dr. B. My patients, ma'm, could spare me much oftener than 
 they think. Talking of my patients, have you spoken to your 
 niece about this proposed operation ? 
 
 Miss E. You know I wrote to Judge Fairfax, and he ought 
 to have arrived before this. Her father can do it better than I. 
 
 Dr. B. I don't know that. By the way, I met some one 
 coming here from the telegraph office. He gave me this [pre- 
 sents telegram]. 
 
 Miss E. [Opens and reads.] My brother-in-law ill! Well, I 
 never. What am I to do now ? Read. 
 
 Dr. B. [Reads]. "Detained by illness. Will come soon as 
 possible. Go on with operation, if Doctor Bowles approves. 
 Eobert Fairfax." Hum ! "If Doctor Bowles approves." I don't 
 like this at all. 
 
 Miss E. Of course, you don't. We can't expect George to 
 wait much longer. And there's no telling when the Judge will 
 come.' Oh, dear, and I had been so sanguine. 
 
 Dr. B. Oh, yes. You had faith enough for two. But you 
 must wait, of course. You must make the best of it. 
 
 3flss E. But I decline to make the best of it. What, and 
 leave Virgie in her blindness ? How can you be so callous ! 
 What a fool I am to expect sympathy from a docter. 
 
12 
 
 Dr. B. My dear madam, I'm not callous. I'm only cautious. 
 
 Miss E. Cautious ! You saw George test Virgie's eyes. You 
 admitted his notion of the trouble was right ; you confessed an 
 operation was desirable. And now ! I do believe you're en- 
 vious. You don't want the young man to succeed. 
 
 Dr. B. Eh ? What ? You dear old pepper-box. 
 
 Miss E. Well, why shouldn't the operation go on? Why 
 not to-day ? George is in the house. You see her father's 
 telegram. 
 
 Dr. B. Would you have me shoulder the responsibility ? 
 
 [Enter Miss Fairfax and Lemoyne from veranda. Left win- 
 dow.'] 
 
 Miss E. Nonsense. Don't I share it ? Hush! There's Vir- 
 ginia. Come into the library. Oh, you obstinate, antiquated, 
 prejudiced old mule. 
 
 [Exeunt Miss Endicott and Doctor Bowles, right.] 
 
 Lemoyne. [To View.] This way. Pardon me; there is a step 
 here ; so. This, I think, is your favorite seat. 
 
 Virg. [Sits down on sofa <it left.] You are very good. But 
 tell me how you guessed I liked this seat ? 
 
 Lemoyne. [Leans on back of sofa.] Because — just here — you 
 may catch the sea-breeze and hear the waves. 
 
 Virg. Ah, yes. They are companions, in their way. Do 
 you know that utter silence really frightens me ? 
 
 Lemoyne. I can imagine it Much as a desert would fatigue 
 the eye. But how fond you must be of music. 
 
 Virg. It is the greatest joy I have. When I am alone I 
 dream of it. And the other day, when you described that mid- 
 night mass to Aunt Endicott, I seemed to hear it. I wonder 
 why it is, Mr. Lemoyne, that I like your stories of travel better 
 than other people's. Shall I tell you what I think ? 
 
 Lemoyne. Tell me. 
 
 Virg. Why, they always talk of what they saw, and that, you 
 know, I can't understand. But you speak oftenest of concerts, 
 operas, masses — things you have heard — and all these I enter 
 into and enjoy. And do you know 
 
 Lemoyne. Do I know ? 
 
 Virg. I fancied sometimes that you remembered how unfortu- 
 nate one of your listeners was, and out of good nature 
 
 Lemoy?ie. And if I did ? 
 
 Virg. Then I am grateful — indeed I am. Not many would 
 be so thoughtful. 
 
 Lemoynr. | After a, pause.] You seem pensive to-day. You 
 miss your Virginian home ? 
 
 Virg. Oh, no, if father were here. At Fairfax, you know, 
 music is out of the question, except plantation songs ; and the 
 slaves sing so absurdly. 
 
 Lemoyne. Slaves ! You do not mean — I thought 
 
 Virg. Of course not really. But the same negroes remain on 
 
13 
 
 the place, and sometimes one forgets, and calls them by the old 
 name- They are such a plague to us. Were you ever in the 
 
 South ? 
 
 Lemoyne. Yes ; many years ago. 
 
 Vira Then you know what negroes were ; but father says 
 they are far worse now. It is quite amusing to hear the epi- 
 thets he heaps on them. Deceitful, lazy, quarrelsome, are the 
 
 mi Lemoyne. They are very ignorant, are they not ? Ignorance 
 
 ^ °Vfrg .^sthat all, do you think ? Father says black men can- 
 not be educated. 
 
 Lemounc. Because they are black t 
 
 yZl suppose so. But, pray tell me-it has puzzled me so 
 often-what do they mean by white and black? What is the 
 
 m ZZlL The difference ? [Aside.] Answer her, wise law- 
 givers. Make the blind understand it, if you can. 
 m Virq There was my old nurse, Aunt Chloe. Her face was 
 hard and rough. Does black mean rough f 
 
 ^Has'S something to do with the voice ? I know 
 I never mistook a negro's voice. There were such coarse rude 
 tonelin it. 'Twas never clear and steady, like a gentleman s 
 voice — like — 
 
 V™g° y i shall no7flatter you, sir. I shall not say what I think 
 
 ^IZoyne. [Aside.] They have not told her what I am. 
 Must J do it? [Aloud, to Vim.] Miss Fairfax 
 
 Virg Do you not agree with me, that it is safe to judge of 
 
 ^t™l™ 6 [As7dh God help me! I cannot f tell her! 
 
 \ Aloud "to V kg.1 I think the voice is an mdex-of breeding, 
 
 ettalnly perhap's of character. But not always trustworthy. 
 Vira I Twhat they call complexion a better test; > 
 Lemoyne \ Aside] Will she go on? [Aloud, to Vibg.1 
 
 Thf expSon of a flee may be, but, I think, not the color. I 
 
 fear those words mean little to you. 
 
 Vira Ah, no. They mean nothing. I must trust my ear 
 LelyTe. Are you sure, quite sure-that you trust it fully ? 
 Vira Whv, how gravely you said that • 
 zlmoyne And you believe those base qualities your father 
 
 p^STbdongto the negro, because your ear detected them 
 
 in his voice ? 
 
 Sol/If But if his voice told a different story, if your ear 
 dweS ! wfthout auuoyauee, perhaps even wrth pleasure, ou hrs 
 accents, — then, what then ? 
 
14 
 
 Virg. Then I should believe him to be a gentleman — to be 
 really what they call white — like you and me. 
 Lemoyne. [Aside.] Heaven bless her. 
 
 [Enter, right, Miss Endicott and Doctor Bowles.] 
 
 Dr. B. [To Virg.'] How is my young invalid this morning? 
 
 Virg. Do I deserve to be called that, Mr. Lemoyne ? Pray, 
 Doctor 
 
 Br. B. My dear ? 
 
 Virg. Why is it that you are so nice and sympathetic to me, 
 and so incredulous — you know you are — of poor auntie's ail- 
 ments ? 
 
 Miss E. So you make fun of your old aunt, do you ? Oh, 
 Virgie ! As for the Doctor, he is a savage ! Well, gentle- 
 men, may I send you away for a few minutes ? I have some- 
 thing to say to my neice. 
 
 Br. B. [To Lemoyne.] Come, sir. It seems we are 
 banished. 
 
 Miss E. [iSits down on sofa at right.] You'll find lunch in 
 the dining-room. 
 
 [Exeunt, right, Lemotne and Doctor Bowles.] 
 
 Virg. What is it, aunt ? 
 
 Miss E. My dear neice, I had a telegram this morning, from 
 your father. 
 
 Virg. [Bises, and comes forward.] Oh, what is the matter? 
 He is not ill ? 
 
 Miss E. Not seriously, I think. But he may be detained a 
 week or two. He was on his way to us. 
 
 Virg. Father coming here ! Oh, aunt, I shall be 60 happy. 
 But you did not expect him, surely ? 
 
 Miss E. Perhaps I did. Sit down, darling, beside me. Vir- 
 gie, you love your old aunt, don't you ? 
 
 Virg. After father, best of all the world. 
 
 Miss E. You don't think I would do anything, recommend 
 anything, to harm my darling, my only sister's only child ? 
 
 Virg. No, dear ; no, indeed. 
 
 Miss E. Tell me, Virgie. When your father comes, would 
 you not like to see him? 
 
 Virg. You mean, meet him, don't you ? Of course I shall 
 not see him as others will. But he will take me in his arms and 
 kiss me, and I shall hear his voice again. 
 
 Miss E. But would you not like to see him, really see him ? 
 
 Virg. Oh, auntie, auntie ! What do you mean ? 
 
 Miss E. 1 mean that I think — we all think — your sight may 
 be recovered. 
 
 \ r irg. Heavens ! And I see my father ! With these eyes ! 
 See you ! See 
 
 Miss E. Listen, dearest. Mr. Lemoyne, as you know, is an 
 oculist. Well, Doctor Bowles and he have made up their minds 
 
15 
 
 that your blindness, dear, is not incurable. On the contrary, 
 they hope, they believe, it can be cured by a very simple opera- 
 tion. 
 
 Virg. Oh, let it be done to-day, dear aunt ? Why not to- 
 day ? 
 
 Miss E. Exactly what I think. Why not ? I expected your 
 father several days ago. Doctor Bowles has had everything 
 ready, and Mr. Lemoyne consented to put off his journey. And 
 now your father telegraphs to go on, if Doctor Bowles approves. 
 But I never thought to find you so willing. My own brave 
 girl. 
 
 Virg. Brave, auntie. Why do you say that ? Does it need 
 courage to accept a blessing ? 
 
 Miss E. But, darling, you do not understand. I did not tell 
 you — you may suffer pain. 
 
 [Enter Maggie, right.'] 
 
 Maggie. Did ye ring, mum ? 
 
 Miss E. No ; I did not. But you may ask the gentlemen to 
 come here. They are in the dining-room, I believe. 
 
 Maggie. They is, mum. And they've got a case of knives 
 betwixt 'em, mum — the sharpest ever you or I seen — and they're 
 handling them that free, they might be clothespins. 
 
 [Exit, Maggie, right.] 
 
 Virg. Knives ! What does she mean ? Tell me ! Tell me ! 
 
 Miss E. My dearest child. Don't tremble so. The opera- 
 tion will need a sharp instrument, but I hope— I am sure — the 
 pain is brief 
 
 Virg. My hand — hold my hand fast! Oh, aunt, I am 
 afraid. 
 
 [Enter, right, Lemotne, Doctor Bowles and Maggie.] 
 
 Miss E. I have spoken to my niece, and she is willing the 
 experiment should be tried — to-day — at once ; are you not, dear ? 
 
 Virg. I am. 
 
 Dr. JB. That's my brave girl! [Aside, to Lemoyne.] Well, 
 sir, shall we go on ? She'll grow more nervous every hour. 
 
 Virg. One word, Doctor ! Tell me the whole truth. Is there 
 no danger — of worse than pain ? 
 
 Dr. B. Eh ? What ? ' No ! That is, not with a trained 
 
 and steady hand. 
 
 Virg. I understand. And whose hand — will it be ? 
 
 Miss E. Mr. Lemoyne's, dear. 
 
 Virg. Does he — does Mr. Lemoyne — think it can be done ? 
 Stop, auntie, if you please ! I want to hear his voice. 
 
 Lemoyne. I do believe it can. 
 
 Virg. And will you do it ? 
 
 Lemoyne. With God's help, I will! 
 
 Virg. I am ready. [Music.] 
 
16 
 
 Dr. B. [To Maggie.] Darken the further window. Now 
 raise the shade here. [/Seats Virg. beside the bright window.'] 
 My dear young lady, allow me to place you in this position. 
 There ! [ To Lemoyne. ] Just a drop of belladonna, eh ? 
 [Touches Viug.'s eyes with hair pencil.] So. Many ladies do 
 that every day ! 
 
 Virg. Close, auntie, closer. My hand in yours. 
 
 Lemoyne. [To Dr. B.] Clasp the forehead; firmly — so. 
 [Stands at right side of Virg.] Now, I am ready. [To Vikg.] 
 I charge you, be very still. 
 
 [Music."] 
 
 Dr. B. Bravo, sir! I can't - help it. 
 
 Lemoyne. [Passes to left side o/Virg.] Hush! [To Virg.] 
 Courage. One moment more. 
 
 [Music] 
 
 Miss E. Is it done ? Is it over ? 
 
 Lemoyne. [Steps back a few paces.] Hush! [To Virg.] 
 Miss Fairfax ! 
 
 Virg. [Springs up and staggers toward him.] I see ! I see ! 
 George ! George ! 
 
 [Curtain falls.] 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 [Same scene as First Act. Moonlight. Guests in evening 
 dress traverse the stage. Music] 
 
 [Enter, left, Virginia, leaning on the arm of Doctor Bowles, 
 and Lemoyne. Vikginia carries in her hand a green shade 
 for the eyes, but does not use it.] 
 
 Virg. [To Lemoyne.] But why New Orleans? I'm sure 
 Richmond would be better. Would it not, Doctor ? 
 
 Dr. B. [Brings forward a chair.] Eh ? Here ; sit down, 
 my dear. What about Richmond ? 
 
 Lemoyne. I was saying to Miss Fairfax, sir, that I meant to 
 practice my profession somewhere in the South, and she sug- 
 gested Richmond. 
 
 Dr. B. What — for you ? Don't think of it. The worst place 
 in the whole country. 
 
 Virg. Don't let him abuse my people, Mr. Lemoyne. De- 
 mand his reasons. 
 
 Dr. B. It's plain enough. Because, why because [Aside.] 
 
 Oh, hang it, I can't fling a man's color in his face. [To Virg.] 
 The fact is, you know, that Richmond, since the war, has become 
 impoverished. — not the same place at all. 
 
 Lemoyne. [Aside.] What a true gentleman he is. That's not 
 his reason. [To Dr. B.] I think I understand your objection. 
 Does it apply to New Orleans ? 
 
17 
 
 Dr. B. No, sir. But there's another, just as good. You're 
 neither rogue, ruffian, nor demagogue — what else thrives in New 
 Orleans to-day? When taxes swallow the rent, where's the 
 doctor's fee to come from? No, young man. I like you, I wish 
 you well. Take my advice, try the West Indies. Go to Martin- 
 ique. 
 
 Virg. Oh, Doctor ! Leave his country ? 
 
 Dr. B. Nonsense, child. Where a man's happy, that's his 
 country. {To Lemoine.] I'm serious ; try Martinique. In the 
 first place, the people are French. That is, they haven't certain 
 prejudices which we Americans have. You know that. Then 
 they are rich, generous, hospitable. Cast your lot with them, 
 and you'll be happy. 
 
 Lemoyne. And if I stay here ? 
 
 Br. B. You are a doomed man. 
 
 Virg. Fie, Doctor; what an ugly word. {To Lemoyne.] 
 Don't listen to him. 
 
 Br. B. {To Lemoyne.] You guess what I mean. You happen 
 to be — well — a person of dark complexion. You also happen to 
 be a gentleman. That is, a social anomaly. That is, a social 
 victim. Don't submit to it ; go to Martinique. 
 
 Lemoyne. Never, sir. I am a son of this country, and, 
 though she prove a hard mother, I must bear with her, and 
 love her still. 
 
 {Enter, right, Miss Endicott.] 
 
 Miss E. Ah, gentlemen ! I hope you like my fete. Dear 
 me, how grave you look. Do you know, Virgie, there is dancing 
 yonder. On the terrace. The young people have formed a 
 quadrille. 
 
 Virg. Oh, charming ! I should love to look on. 
 
 Lemoyne. { Offers his arm.] Shall we go ? 
 
 Miss E. Wear your shade, dear. Ought she not, George ? 
 
 Lemoyne. Her eyes seem quite strong. — She has been so pa- 
 tient . 
 
 Virg. Thank you, sir. {To Miss E.] I don't need it, 
 really. {Exenut Lemoyne and Virginia, right.] 
 
 Miss E. {Seats herself.] What a relief to steal five minutes, 
 rest. 
 
 Br. B. Well, ma'am, your social experiment, I confess, 
 seems to have succeeded. 
 
 Miss E. Of course it has. My friends are sensible people. 
 
 Br. B. I was prepared, you know, to see them civil enough 
 to Doctor Lemoyne after what we said of him. But I ex- 
 pected, I must say 
 
 Miss E. Expected what, pray ? 
 
 Br. B. Why a tone of half-disguised superiority — of polite 
 endurance — the most galling thing in the world. 
 
 Miss E. I should like to know which of them is superior to 
 
18 
 
 George, in cleverness, education, or manners. He is a gentle- 
 man — he is a man. You can't beat that. 
 
 Dr. B. Still, ma'am, outside of Boston — as I was just tell- 
 ing him 
 
 Miss E. Outside of Boston, my dear, is a howling wilderness. 
 For my part I expect ignorance and prejudice from savages. 
 
 Dr. B. Ha, ha! Well, I think one of those savages, as you 
 call them, is pretty well converted to your opinions. 
 
 Miss E. Whom do you mean ? 
 
 Dr. B. A very gentle savage — Miss Fairfax. 
 
 Miss E. Virginia Fairfax is my neice. Besides, consider- 
 ing what the young man has done, she may well be civil to 
 him. 
 
 Dr. B. Civil ? I wish young ladies would be as civil to me. 
 What! Didn't you notice, the first word she uttered, when she 
 gained her sight, was his Christian name ? 
 
 Miss E. I noticed nothing of the kind. I had other things 
 to think of, at such a moment. Besides, what of it? She was 
 grateful to him. ./call him George. 
 
 Dr. B. You call him George ! Ha, ha ! [Vikg. and Le- 
 moyne traverse the stage, rear, and exeunt, left.] Seriously, 
 my friend, how would Judge Fairfax, think ye, relish that 
 sight yonder? 
 
 Miss E. Well, if he knew what we know, and I shall tell 
 him, he would consider it right and proper. Why shouldn't 
 he? 
 
 Dr. B. How old is he ? 
 
 Miss E. Let me see. The Judge must be near seventy, now. 
 
 Dr. B. Too old — to learn. Not too old — to remember. 
 
 [Enter Maggie, left.'] 
 
 Maggie. There's an old gintleman, Mum — -come in a kerridge. 
 Sure he says he's your brother. And a young man they calls 
 Kernel, mum. 
 
 Miss E. It's the Judge, at last. Maggie, find Miss Fair- 
 fax. Say her father has arrived. Come with me, Doctor. 
 
 [Exit Maggie, right.] 
 
 Dr. B. [Offers Jtis arm.] Who is the young man — this 
 "Kernel"? 
 
 Miss E. Oh, his nephew — Brand. The less said of him the 
 better! [Exeunt Miss Enpicott and Doctor Bowles, left.] 
 
 [Music. Guests traverse the stage.] 
 
 [Enter, left, (rear of stage,) Virginia and Lemoyne.] 
 
 Lemoyne. You are tired ; let me find you a seat. [Brings 
 chair.] Is it not charming here ? — that island — the bold coast 
 — and moonlight silvering the whole. 
 
 Virg. And that is moonlight. Think how wonderful it is to 
 me, when even common things are mysteries. Oh, I have 
 lived years in the last week. 
 
19 
 
 Lemoyne. And is the world as beautiful as you dreamed ? 
 
 Virg. A paradise! But do you know what corner of my 
 Eden I like the best ? 
 
 Lemoyne. I could never guess. 
 
 Virg. Those rocks yonder. 
 
 Lemoyne. They have a rugged grandeur of their own. 
 
 Virg. Ah, yes . But Aunt Endicott says ' twas there you 
 saved me from an ugly fall, the morning of your arrival. That 
 was in my sightless days. 
 
 Lemoyne. You lost your footing — that was all. You'll not 
 need help of the kind again. 
 
 Virg. Thank Heaven — and you. 
 
 Lemoyne. Believe me, you owe me nothing. The little I had 
 to do another would have done as well. 
 
 Lemoyne. Aunt Endicott and Doctor Bowles don't think so. 
 Oh, Mr. Lemoyne, how can I repay you ? 
 
 Lemoyne. By telling me, frankly, if you find your debt to 
 me — since you will call it so — a weight, a burden '? Does it not 
 — wound your pride ? 
 
 Virg. Pride ! Burden ! Let me tell you. When I look 
 about me, sometimes, at this brave, new world, I forget every- 
 thing, everybody, in my giddy joy. Then, suddenly, I remem- 
 ber that these delights were not always mine — that they were 
 opened to me by your hands! And I am happier for the 
 thought. 
 
 Lemoyne. You speak kindly, Miss Fairfax. Kind words are 
 very sweet — from you to me. 
 
 Virg. They are only words. If I might do something 
 
 Lemoyne. Do something ! You have done everything. I 
 was very lonely. You have been my friend. I was full of bit- 
 terness — ny, hatred — when I met you first. I have learned pa- 
 tience. Ah, you know not how bleak the future looked. While 
 now, this scrambling world, that seemed so hard, so base, 
 touched by your gentle hand is radiant with a noble meaning. 
 I see Hope there, and Justice. I see high aims, and gracious 
 charities ; what else could thrive in the fine atmosphere of your 
 kind thoughts ! 
 
 Virg. What help could I, a foolish girl — Oh, Mr. Lemoyne, 
 you needed none. 
 
 Lemoyne. Miss Fairfax, hear me. There are things which 
 I thought — I thought a man's pride could smother. But my 
 heart is swollen. Let me speak. I was a mere lad when they 
 sent me to Europe — young enough, they supposed to forget — 
 yet I carried some memories with me that were hard to heal. I 
 went to Paris. In that old quarter, where I lived, I learned 
 to love my fellow men, for they liked and encouraged me. 
 They were poor, those students, like myself; but they were rich 
 in hope and. joy — faith in the future and themselves — and that 
 wealth they shared with me. I was with them in their amuse-. 
 
20 
 
 ments, their studies, their aspirations ; the comrade of their 
 brighter and their graver hours. Brave, generous hearts ! 
 Virg. Go on. 
 
 Lcmoyne. They are terrible radicals, Miss Fairfax. Birth, 
 station, money — everything which prudent men respect — these 
 absurd youtl is despise. What has he done with his brain? 
 What can he do for his race ? They ask no more. These no- 
 tions are infectious. I caught them. I gained self-reliance, 
 self-respect. I began to work, to look forward; to aspire ; till at 
 length I grew to be like all the rest of them — a visionary, an en- 
 thusiast, a fool. I forgot my color, because they did. They 
 told me I was a man, and I believed theni. 
 
 Virg. And will not the whole world — believe it ? 
 Lemoyne. I soon found others were less credulous. You shall 
 hear. My student days were over. It was time to do man's 
 work with men. I was preparing to leave Paris, when I heard 
 of my father's death. It was a heavy blow, but youth is buoy- 
 ant. How could I measure my loss when I supposed all men my 
 friends ? I came to Havre. How my heart throbbed as I touched 
 the deck of the steamer which was to bear me home. The home 
 of freedom and equality ! Where caste, and privilege, and preju- 
 dice were only spectres of the past ! How often had my com- 
 rades pointed with rapture to that western land whose history 
 they called the Bible of Republics — whose very name was a 
 tocsin to the poor. Sail on ! they cried, into the sunlight ! the 
 mists and shadows are all behind ! 
 
 Virg. Oh, yes, yes ; and they spoke truly. 
 Lemoyne. That evening — the first night out — I went down to 
 dinner. I had scarcely taken my seat when several persons rose, 
 with indignant looks, and left the table. I asked a gentleman 
 next me — he was a Frenchman — what was the matter? He 
 shrugged his shoulders. They are Americans, he said, don't 
 mind them. Would you believe it, I was so naive, so dull, 1 
 never guessed the meaning of that scene. By and by I went on 
 deck, and found the same persons grouped around the captain. 
 They scowled and whispered as I passed. Presently a steward 
 approached and bade me. roughly, come aft, the captain wanted 
 me. I walked up to the captain. " Young man," he said, 
 " henceforward you'll take your meals alone." I did not under- 
 stand him. I reminded him that I was a cabin passenger, and 
 had the rights of one. " Eights ! " cried he, "What right have 
 you to eat with white men ? They'd sooner eat with a dog ! " I 
 forgot where I was. I forgot the man was captain of the ship, 
 and I felled him on his own deck. 
 I 7/v/. Oh, 'twas well done. 
 
 Lemoyne. 'Twas folly. That night I was in irons. 
 Virg. Just Heaven ! you ? 
 
 Lcmoyne. Oh, yes. They kept them on till we reached New 
 York. They meant to teach the nigger a lesson. Well, I learned 
 
21 
 
 it. Miss Fairfax, you have listened kindly. Is it strange, think 
 you, that I landed on my native shores a hard and desperate 
 man — that the trustful boy was dead ? 
 
 Virg. [ Weeping.] Do not — do not say so. Do not speak so 
 bitterly. 
 
 Lemoyne. Forgive me. I never looked for this. Heaven bless 
 you for those tears ! Indeed — indeed I am not bitter now. 
 
 Virg. And are you — happy here '? 
 
 Lemoyne. Happy ? With you ! 
 
 Virg. George 
 
 Lemoyne. Miss Fairfax ! Virginia ! Can you ? Do you ? 
 [Takes her hand.] My God, I thank thee. 
 
 Virg. [After a pause.] And do you really care for me ? 
 
 Lemoyne. I love you. As famished men love bread — as drown- 
 ing eyes love the last glimpse of sunlight. Do I love you ? 
 But you, dearest. Do you remember who you are and what I 
 am? 
 
 Virg. I know that you are dark and I am fair. That you are 
 wise, and brave, and noble — I need no eyes to tell me that. Did 
 you give me sight, sir, to blind my heart ? 
 
 Lemoyne. Those gracious words — too sweet, too gracious for 
 this stubborn world. Your father — you love him dearly *? 
 
 Virg. Oh, father ? He would never grieve me. Indeed, you 
 wrong him. Think, George, how much he owes you. And if I 
 ask him to pay the debt ? 
 
 Lemoyne. Ah, dearest, dearest ! Pray heaven you read him 
 rightly. 
 
 [Enter Maggie, right.] 
 
 Maggie. Is it yeself, darlint? Sure I thought ye was lost. 
 Yez wanted, Miss. There's an old gentleman at the house. By 
 the same token, he's yer own father. 
 
 Virg. Father here ! [Rises.] Oh, now I am perfectly 
 happy ! Come, George. Oh, hark ! I hear his voice ! 
 
 [Enter, right, Judge Fairfax, Brand, Miss Endicott, Doctor 
 Bowles. J 
 
 Judge F. Quite so, my dear sister ; and you, Brand, ought 
 to feel, that for a young man in his position, to achieve such 
 distinction is highly creditable. But where is Virginia ? 
 
 Virg. [Coming forward.] Father! 
 
 Judge E [Embracing her.] My darling child! And you can 
 really see your old father ? Look, sister ; her mother's eyes ! 
 
 Virg. They are happy eyes to-day. Let me hold your face, 
 dear — so ! What a kind, handsome, old face it is. And to 
 think your little girl can see it ! Is it not a blessed change ?' 
 
 Judge E. I thank God for it. But Doctor Lemoyne — where 
 is he ? I must thank him, too. 
 
 Virg. Indeed you must, father. [Presents Lemoyne.] This 
 is the gentleman to whom we owe so much. 
 
22 
 
 Brand. [Aside to Miss Endicott. ] Gentleman ! Good God ! 
 
 Miss E. [Aside to Brand.] Silence, sir. 
 
 Judge F. [To Lemoynk. j You have done me a great service, 
 and yourself great credit. I'm told you mean to go South, to 
 practice among your own people. You can't do better. I may 
 not see you again, but I shall not forget my obligations. Re- 
 member that ; and hark ye, draw on me for what you like. 
 
 Lemoyne. You mistake, sir. You owe me no money. I was 
 a guest in Miss Endicott's house. What I did was done in a 
 friendly way, not professionally. 
 
 Brand. [Aside to Judge F.] You hear the fellow? Didn't I 
 tell you ? Guest ! D n his insolence ! 
 
 Judge F. [Aside to Brand.]" Be still, Brand. [To Lemoyne.] 
 I am sorry you'll accept nothing from me. Never mind, you 
 may think better of it. Should you ever want a favor, ask it. 
 
 Brand. [To Lemoyne.] Why don't you take your fee and be 
 off? 
 
 Miss F. [To Buand.J Eor shame ! 
 
 Lemoyne. [To Judge F.] I understand you. You shall un- 
 derstand me. I do want a fee, and I will ask it now. 
 
 Judge F. Name it. 
 
 Lemoyne. This lady, sir. 
 
 Judga F. What ! Great Heaven ! What do you mean by 
 that? 
 
 Brand. Let me deal with the black scoundrel. 
 
 Br. Bowles. [To Brand.] Will you keep still, sir ! 
 
 Lemoyne. [To Jui>ge F.] I mean that I love this, lady, and 
 she has promised to be my wife. 
 
 Judge F. You insolent rascal. | To Virg.] Tell him he lies. 
 
 Virg. [Clinging to her father's arm.] Dearest father, don't 
 you love me any more ? Don't you love your little girl ? Think, 
 dear, I had fallen on those dreadful rocks — come, I will show 
 you — and he saved me. I was blind — I could not see you, 
 father — and he gave me sight. I love him. 
 
 Judge F. Almighty Father! [Thrusts Virg. aside.] Miss 
 Fairfax, will you listen, if you please. That man may be a sur- 
 geon, but he is also a negro. The son of a slave — himself a 
 slave but yesterday. 
 
 Miss E. Judge ! Brother ! 
 
 Judge F. [To Miss E.] With your leave, madam. [To 
 Virg.] You hear now what he is. You know who I am Are 
 you my daughter ? 
 Virg. Father ! 
 
 Judge F. It is well. Now mark me ! Cleave to that — that 
 black rascal — and by the memory of your mother, ay, Virginia, 
 though it broke my heart, I will curse the day when you were 
 born. 
 
 Virg. [Falls fainting at his feet] Oh, father! 
 
 Miss E. Oh, brother, you are very hard. 
 
23 
 
 Lemoyne. [ To Judge F.] Sir, you love self better than that 
 poor girl. I love not so. I leave you. 
 
 Judge F. Go, sir ! 
 
 Lemoyne. I go. That God above us, who sees the color of 
 our souls, shall judge between you and me. 
 
 Curtain falls. End of Act 3. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene First : A country road near Fairfax Manor. At rear 
 of stage a tobacco field. In the distance the Manor House. 
 On the left Sillsbee's cabin. Field hands seen leaving 
 worh. 
 
 [Gash Sillsbee ant? Black Job discovered.] 
 
 Sillsbee. Out of work, Job ? How's dat ? Fust-class nigger 
 like you. 
 
 Job. Who gib work to me V 
 
 Sillsbee. Why, l'se heard old massa say dere warnt no better 
 blacksmith in all Virginny dan Black Job. 
 
 Job. What ob dat? I'se been in jail. Dey calls me jail-bird 
 now. 
 
 Sillsbee. Yer hadn't oughter go 'sultin ob de gals. 
 
 Job. Look o' yere, nigger ! I done had a good place yere — 
 good wages, good victuals — dat's so. Well, de Judge, he kick 
 me out. Den he gib information agin me, and dey trowed me 
 into jail a whole year. What for ? For kissin ob a colored 
 wench dat warnt no good nohow. 
 
 Sillsbee. 'Twarnt de fust time yer made de Judge mad. Yer 
 had warnin', Job. Now, yere's what yer do. Yer jest go to 
 massa ; tell him yer'e right down sorry, and mebbe he'll 
 
 Job. I ain't sorry, I tells yer. [.4sm&.] Gor Almighty gib 
 dis nigger a chance, I'll fix him. 
 
 Sillsbee. Yer must do somefin, Job ; yer'll starve. 
 
 Job. I'se gwine down to Souf Carliny, where de colored folks 
 has a show. Spose yer'll gib me somefin to eat for two or free 
 days. 
 
 Sillsbee. I will dat. But I don't want to hear nuffin agin de 
 ole massa. De Judge am good enuff for me. If 'twarnt for dat 
 Kernel, gwine bossin' aroun', cussin' an' strikin', jest like de ole 
 times 
 
 Job. Oh, yer doesn't like to be struck, does yer ? 
 
 Sillsbee. No man nebber struck me. I'se de foreman, nigger, 
 ob dem boys. 
 
 Brand. [From behind the scenes, right.] Come along, you 
 black devil. 
 
 Job. Hullo ! What's dat ? 
 
 Sillsbee. De Kernel, I reckon. Yer go inside, Job. Yer 
 haint got no business yere, yer know. [Fxit Job into cottage.] 
 
24 
 
 [Enter Brand and Snaky Pete, right, .] 
 
 Brand. [To Sillsbee.] What are you about here? Where 
 are the boys ? 
 
 Sillsbee. Please, massa, dey struck work. 
 
 Brand. Struck work ! D'ye know what time it is ? 
 
 Sillsbee. I reckon 'bout an hour 'fore sundown, massa. 
 
 Brand. Oh, it is, is it ? They are hired to work till sundown, 
 ain't they ? What are you hired for ? 
 
 Sillsbee. Well, I'se hired to watch de boys. But yer see, 
 sah, de ole massa, de Judge, he gib de boys leab to have a 
 breakdown dis evenin', and dey's gwine to git ready. 
 
 Brand. Call them back. 
 
 Sillsbee. Why — Massa - 
 
 Brand. Call them back. D'ye hear ? We have to pay the 
 black rascals, and d n 'em, I'll take it out of 'em. 
 
 Sillsbee. But, Massa Brand, de Judge, I tink he wouldn't 
 mind 
 
 Brand. See here. You talk too much. I've had my eye 
 on you for some time. You want to be taken down. [Shakes 
 whip.] 
 
 Sillsbee. Don't yer strike me, Massa Brand. 
 
 Brand. You impudent devil. Take that. [Lashes him.'] 
 
 Sillsbee. By God, sah. You'll pay for dat. 
 
 Brand. Like old times, aint it? Come along, Pete. No, 
 stay and watch that nigger. Mind he sets the boys to work. 
 
 [Exit, Brand, left.] 
 
 Pete. [After a pause.] I say, Gash, I say. — Ain't yer gwine 
 to call dem boys ? 
 
 Sillsbee. No. 
 
 Bete. Why, Gash, yer heerd Massa Brand. 
 
 Sillsbee. I hain't got no massa. I go leab dis place, right 
 away. Don't yer say massa to me. Git out. 
 
 Bete. Don't yer git mad, Mister Sillsby. I'se reel sorry for 
 yer, I is. 
 
 Sillsbee. Shut up, I tell yer. Where's Job ? 
 
 Job. [Comes forward front cabin.] I seen it. How yer feel 
 now ? 
 
 Bete. [Aside.] Oh, jiminy ! If dere aint Black Job. 
 
 Sillsbee. Oh, Job, I'se gwine away. I aint no good now. I 
 won't nebber be no good no move, f Crying. | I'se lost some- 
 fin here. I'se gwine along wid you right away, Job, down 
 Souf. 
 
 Job. Dere ain't no hurry. Don't dey owe yer wages ? 
 
 Sillsbee. I'se done got my wages. Look o' yere. [ Shows 
 arm. \ 
 
 Job. Forshoo, boy. I reckon yer'll wait two or free days. 
 Yer'd like to git eben wid him. 
 
 Sillsbee. Eben wid him ? Show me how 
 
 [Job and Sillsbee whisper.] 
 
25 
 
 Job. [Aloud, to Pete.] Come yere, nigger ! Yer's one ob de 
 house darkies up yonder, I knows dat. 
 
 Pete. Yaas, Mister Job. 
 
 Job. Yer can unlock de doors, when yer wants to— I knows 
 dat too ? 
 
 Pete. Ya-as. 
 
 Job. I seen yer come down one night, when de old Judge, he 
 went Norf. Yer had somefin in yer hand — jewls, and a gold 
 watch, warn't it ? 
 
 Pete. [Trembling^] Yer — yer — made me do it, Mister Job. 
 
 Job. What de matter wid yer? Yer see, Mr. Sillsby and 
 me, we's gwine to pay yer a visit one of dese nights, when de 
 white folks am gwine to bed. Ain't yer glad ? 
 
 Pete. Yer — doesn't mean — to go — for to do nuffin ? 
 
 Job. In course not. Nuffin ! Just take a look roun'. We 
 haint nebber seen de house — nebber — has we, Gash ! 
 
 Sillsbee. Dere's somebody comin'. Let him go, Job. 
 
 Job. [To Pete.] Yer be here tomorrer evenin'. If yer 
 
 don't 
 
 [Exit Pete, left. Job and Sillsbee withdraw toward cabin.] 
 [Enter, right, Lemoyne and Doctor Bowles.] 
 
 Pi: B. That must be the house yonder. You ought to turn 
 back now. 
 
 Lemoyne. Wait one moment, sir. [Musingly.] And there 
 she dwells. 
 
 Dr. B. " The cynosure of neighboring eyes " — eh ? Yes, 
 my young friend, and what is more to our purpose, there dwells 
 her father. We shall see, before I am much older, whether one 
 old friend can pursuade another. 
 
 Lemoyne. Oh, dear sir, what do I not owe you for this 
 journey ! 
 
 Dr. B. Nothing — if I fail. There are nine chances to one 
 against me. But if I succeed, recollect your promise. You're 
 to come into my office and practice with me. Stop ! Not a 
 word, but — good-by. You'll find lodgings, doubtless, at the 
 tavern we passed just now. 
 
 Lemoyne. Good-by. I shall hear soon V 
 
 Dr. B Within twenty-four hours. 
 
 [Exit Doctor Bowles, left.] 
 
 Lemoyne. He will fail. But at least, he will see her 
 
 Job. [Aside to Sillsbee.] I tells yer he's one ob dem gem- 
 men from way down Souf, where de colored folks am de big 
 bugs. 
 
 Sillsbee. [Aside to Job.] I likes de looks ob him fustrate. 
 I'll ask him somefin'. [To Lemoyne.] 'Scuse me, mister. 
 
 Lemoyne. Well ? [Aside.] I wonder if these, likewise, find 
 lreedom only half a blessing V 
 
26 
 
 Sillsbee. Yer see, sah, we's gwine to leab dis — me an' my 
 frien' — an' we's tinking ob Souf Carliny. I t'ought niebbe 
 yer knowed de folks down dere. 
 
 Lemoyue. I'm sorry, my friend — I've never been in South 
 Carolina. Still, I might advise you. Tell me, can you read 
 and write ? 
 
 Sillsbee. Yaas, sah. Tank de Lord. 
 
 Lemoyue. Then you would have a chance. But — have you 
 strong reasons for leaving Virginia V 
 
 Sillsbee. Please, mister, don't yer ask dem reasons. Dey's 
 good uns. 
 
 Lemoyue. [Looks at his toatch.] I should like to talk with 
 you again. I must go now. - Call and see me this evening. 
 You'll find me at the tavern, a mile back. 
 
 /Sillsbee. 'Scuse me, sah. Dat aint no place for a gemman, 
 dat ain't. Dey's pore white trash ober dere. Dey'U go for 
 sultin ob yer, sartain sure. 
 
 Lemoyne. I dare say. But I must find lodging some- 
 where. 
 
 /Sillsbee. If yer'd be willin', mister, to stop along wid me — 
 dere's my cabin. 
 
 Lemoyne. My friend, you're very good. But I couldn't 
 think of it. I'm a perfect stranger to you. 
 
 /Sillsbee. I'se only a pore nigger, I knows dat. But de ole 
 mudder, she done fixed de cabin fustrate. Yer see, sah, she 
 wur nuss to Miss Virginny up at de big house, and de white 
 folks gib her heap o' tings t 
 
 Lemoyne. You say your mother was nurse to Miss Fairfax ? 
 
 /Sillsbee. Yaas, sah. Well gib yer de best room, where Miss 
 Virginny, she sits when she come see de ole mudder. Dere 
 ain't nobody goes in dar but her. 
 
 Lemoyne. I thank you heartily. I accept. 
 
 /Sillsbee. Come right along. [Lemoyne and Sillsbee move 
 toward cabin.] 
 
 Job. [To Lemoyne.] I reckon yer wasn't nebber roun' dese 
 here diggins, was yer ? 
 
 Lemoyne. Never. 
 
 Job. [To Sillsbee. | Mebbe de gemman like see de fun dis 
 evenin'. [To Lemoyne.] Dey's gwine to hab a ole-fashion 
 breakdown, de boys is. Cash an' me wasn't a gwine ; but if yer 
 want to 
 
 Lemoyne. Much obliged. I'd prefer a quiet evening. 
 
 /Sillsbee. Yer'd be right pleased, sah. De ole Judge and Miss 
 Virginny, dey alluz comes out to hear de singin' an' sich. 
 
 Lemoyne. [Aside.] Why shouldn't I go ? [ To Sillsbee. j I 
 would join you willingly, but I don't wish, for reasons, to wear 
 this. | Points to his coat. ] 
 
 Sillsbee. We'll fix dat. De ole woman'll scare up somefin. 
 Come right in, sah. 
 
 [Exeunt into cabin, Lemoyne, Sillsbee and Job.] 
 
27 
 
 Scene Second : A reception 'room in Judge Fairfax's house. 
 Table,- covered with letters, documents, <&c. 
 
 Miss Endicott. [Discovered writing.] Talk of business men. 
 There's no Member of Congress has the correspondence I have. 
 Take the Society for Relieving Indigent Females. They're per- 
 fectly devoted to me. [Meads.] " Indeed, dear madam, the 
 charities of Boston miss sorely your valuable advice. Truly the 
 vineyard is ample, but the laborers few. We know your eager- 
 ness to speed the good work, and if you would forward us a 
 
 check for, say " That's the third in a month. Dr. Bowles 
 
 would say I ought to go home, to see how they spend this 
 money. 
 
 [.Enter Maggie, left, with basket of flowers.] 
 
 Miss E. Well, Maggie. What are you doing with flowers ? 
 
 Maggie. They're Miss Vargie's, mum. We're afther plucking 
 'em in the garden. 
 
 Miss E. Did- Miss Fairfax feel strong enough to go out ? 
 
 Maggie. She wad do it, mum. But, och ! to see the poor 
 craythur a stoopin' over the posies — so thin and white looking. 
 By me sowl, 'twas a sorra sight. They're a'most gone, Maggie, 
 sez she. They is, miss, sez I. When they come again, sez she 
 — whispering-like to her own self — I may not see them. Sure 
 ye will, miss, sez I, and many's the foine crop of 'em, God pros- 
 per ye. But I felt bad, mum. 
 
 Miss E. Ah, yes, yes. Where is she now '? 
 
 Maggie. She's afther coming in, mud. She'll be wid ye in a 
 minnit. [Exit Maggie, right] 
 
 Miss E. My poor, poor child. What a puzzle it all is — that 
 such a one should droop and die, while a withered stick like 
 
 me 
 
 [Enter Virginia, left.] 
 
 Virg. See, aunt, I've been foraging. This is for you. [Pre- 
 sents bouquet.] 
 
 Miss E. Sit down by me, dear. [Virg. sits.] You're not 
 tired ? 
 
 Virg. A little. But I enjoyed myself so much. Are all those 
 letters from Boston ? 
 
 Miss E. Almost all. Let me see. [Turns over letters.] I may 
 find some news 
 
 Virg. What does Dr. Bowles write ? I think he's quite recre- 
 ant not to send a message to me. 
 
 Miss E. But he did, my dear. What am I thinking of ? This 
 came yesterday. 
 
 Virg. Does he say anything in it — does he mention — Mr. Le- 
 moyne ? 
 
 Miss E. He seems to see a great deal of him. And he has 
 some plan — but doctors are so mysterious — I can't make out what 
 it is. 
 
28 
 
 Virg. Plan, aunt ? 
 
 Jfiss E. For George, you know. About the West Indies, I 
 fancy. 
 
 \ 7/y/. Send George away ? Oh, he shall not. I must see 
 him once more. 
 
 Miss E. There, see how excited you are. Why couldn't I 
 hold my tongue. When I promised the Judge too 
 
 Virg. He does not know, poor father, how ill his little girl is. 
 You must not tell him. But I would have liked, so much, to 
 see George before the eyes he opened are 
 
 Miss E. Don't, Virgie. Don't make an old woman cry. 
 
 Virg. Dear aunt, never mind my foolish talk. I may be 
 better soon, who knows ? And next Spring we will go North 
 again — to Nahant, dear. 
 
 Miss E. I hope so. 
 
 Virg. Forgive me if I come to you when I am gloomy and 
 down-hearted, and make you gloomy too. If I had my mother ! 
 Tell me something about her. 
 
 Miss E. You don't remember her, darling, do you ? You 
 were only four and she but twenty-five when you lost her. She 
 was a lovely woman. 
 
 Virg. What was she like —like the portrait in the library ? 
 
 Miss E. That has her expression exactly. 
 
 Virg. The face is so mild, so gentle. And the eyes have a 
 far-off look, as if she were gazing through a mist and saw a 
 light behind it. Do you know, aunt, I have sat for hours try- 
 ing to read her spirit in her features — you can, they say — and 
 sometimes I fancy 
 
 Miss E. What do you fancy, darling ? 
 
 Virg. That perhaps she would have felt as I do ; would have 
 honored George, and, seeing his great heart and his fair deeds, 
 been not ashamed to love him, in spite of his dark face. Say 
 she would, auntie. Say 
 
 [E/ttcr, left. Judge Fairfax and Brand.] 
 
 Judge F. \ To Brand.] Well, well ; what does it matter ? Let 
 them enjoy themselves. [To Miss E.] Good, evening, sister. 
 [To Vihg.J And how is my white rose ? 
 
 Miss E. [To Brand.] How is your tobacco coming on, 
 Colonel V 
 
 Brand. The crop is backward, ma'am. Niggers shirk their 
 work. Fact is, they impose on the Judge. Here they are, to- 
 night, fiddling and shouting, as if they owned the place. 
 
 Judge E. By the way, sister, you wished to hear a plantation 
 song. Suppose we make up a party, and go down to the negro 
 quarters ? 
 
 I r irg. Yes, we'll all go ! Don't shake your head, auntie. 
 Come, father. 
 
 Judge, /'. | Aside to Virg.] Don't tell your aunt ; I want to 
 surprise her. Doctor Bowles is in the hall. 
 
29 
 
 Virg. [Aside to Judge F.] You can't mean it. [To Miss E.] 
 Auntie, come. You don't know what's in store for us. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes, right.] 
 Scene Third : A grove of sycamores. At rear of stage the 
 negro quarters. Torchlights. Negroes traverse stage at 
 rear, singing. Music. 
 [Enter, right, Judge F., Virg., Bband, Dr. Bowles, Miss Endi- 
 
 COTT. ] 
 
 Dr. It. [To Judge F.\ Well, sir, you promised us a treat; 
 you've kept your word. 
 
 Judge F. [To Virg.] It is a pretty scene, is it not, daughter? 
 
 [Exit Brand, suddenly, left. Viuginia sits down at left of 
 stage. The others stand.] 
 
 Judge F. Where's Brand ? 
 
 Miss E. Hush ! They are going to sing. 
 
 [Negroes at rear, sing {quartette) "Virginia Rosebud." "I 
 had a rosebud, in my garden growing f dbc. 
 
 [Enter, Brand, left.] 
 
 Brand. [Aside to Judge. J You saw me leave you, just now. 
 
 Judge F. [Aside to Brand ] Anything wrong ? 
 
 Brand. I'll swear I saw that rascal, Job, prowling about the 
 brush, yonder. 
 
 Judge F. Black Job? I hope not. He's scarcely out of jail 
 yet. 
 
 Brand. Yes, he is. I met Pete, the house servant, and shook 
 the truth out of him. It seems he saw Job, this evening, talk- 
 ing with Sillsbee. I'll find him anyhow ; if I can't, the dogs 
 can. 
 
 Judge. Stop ! I don't want Black Job about the place ; he's 
 a bad man. But no violence. Here, I'll go with you. 
 
 [Exeunt Judge and Brand at rear.] 
 
 Dr. B. Shall we walk ? 
 
 Miss E. We might take a look ac the cabins. What do you 
 say, Virgie ? 
 
 Virg. Let me wait for you here. I'm a little tired. [Refuses 
 Miss E.'s shawl] Oh, I'm perfectly warm. 
 
 [Miss Endicott and Dr Bowli-.s draw toward rear of stage.] 
 
 Dr B. Booking at Virg.] Poor child. 
 
 Miss E. Is she looking worse than you expected ? 
 
 Dr. B. My friend, she is far from well. Still, I trust, with 
 care and repose of mind 
 
 Miss E. There's no fear of excitement here. And now, 
 Doctor, about George? [Exeunt, at rear. Miss E and Dr. B.] 
 Virg. How kind they all are. And yet, I am so un- 
 happy. 
 
 [Enter, left, Lemoyne, disguised as a field hand.] 
 
 Bemoyne. Miss Fairfax. 
 
30 
 
 Virg. Who speaks ? Who calls me ? [Turns.]. You? 
 
 Lemoyne. Yes, Miss Fairfax. You do not know me ? 
 I irg. Mr. Lemoyne ! I fear 1 ought 
 
 Lemoyne. Give me one little moment. And ah, be gentle. 
 It is so easy to wound me. I came only to see you, not to 
 speak. Yes, I borrowed these, that I might pass unquestioned. 
 I did not mean to say one word. But you seemed less merry 
 than you were — less gay. You sighed, and my heart ached. 
 Forgive me 
 
 Virg. George ! George ! Forgive, — when I could die happy 
 with your voice in my ears ? Speak to merwhen I know your 
 words by heart ? What else had I to comfort me through these 
 dreary weeks? How long is it since that last evening ? Only 
 a month? 
 
 Lemoyne. Dearest, if we measure time by heart-beats, such 
 months count for years. 
 
 Virg. Oh, that evening ! If I could forget it. And one hour 
 before we were so happy. In the long, wakeful night it comes 
 back to me — that fearful scene. I see you standing there — so 
 grave, so calm. 1 hear their cruel taunts. Oh, George ! 
 
 Lemoyne. I remember nothing but your face. Your father's 
 anger? Oh, 'tis not that, bur his calm reason, which is ter- 
 rible. We might concpuer prejudice, but not convictions. I fore- 
 see too plainly that Doctor Bowles will plead in vain. 
 
 Virg. Dr. Bowles ! Then you came with him ? 
 
 Lemoyne. He has been most kind, most generous. He has 
 made his house my home. Fie wishes me to become his part- 
 ner. And now he has come here because he dreamed, by such 
 a proof of his esteem, and with such a prospect of prosperity, he 
 might persuade your father to 
 
 Virg.. Heaven reward him for the wish 
 
 Lemoyne. But 'tis only a dream— I know it. I brought no 
 such hope with me. But I have a hope. It gleamed on me 
 when I saw you here — so pale, so ill. A wild hope, but 'tis 
 sweet. 
 
 Virg. What hope, George ? 
 
 Lemoyne. That you might indeed love me — blindly, utterly — 
 with a love like mine. Would you know what that means ? To 
 find the heart so o'ermastered that not one thought, one feeling, 
 dare lift its head before the eye of love. To feel, beside the 
 magic of that word, tnat home, friends, country, are but idle 
 spells. Miss Fairfax, it is a fearful power to hold a human 
 crejitujre^lmjHDpes^ in the hollow of that hand. But 
 
 T^^ise^TtTnndly, tbsave, to comfort, and to bless — oh, that is 
 
 godlike. Would you believe this- 
 
 1 7/v/. And if I do ? 
 
 Lemoyne. Then — then — I would brush aside the scruples 
 
 which bade me not thrust m) r claims between you and a father's 
 
 care. I will be selfish. No, not selfish ; where hearts are in 
 
31 
 
 perfect sympathy there is no such word. But, be it so, I am 
 selfish. What would your firiends have? I am the son of a 
 slave — in race an alien, in caste a Pariah — a thing, at best, to 
 be patronized and pitied — a social protege, not a social peer. 
 I have nothing in the world but you — no name, no home, no 
 friends. Virginia, I want my own! I claim you! Come, 
 dearest, put your hand in mine. There are other lands than this ; 
 come forth, forgetting and forsaking, but blest and blessing 
 me. 
 
 Virg. Oh, George, if I could think it right 
 
 [Music drears nearer. Voices behind the scenes, rig J it.] 
 Lemoy>ie. Come dearest — my star — my savior. 
 Virg. Hark ! Hush, they are coming back ! Don't stay, 
 George ; don't meet father now. To-morrow Doctor Bowles 
 shall talk to him, and it maybe — But 1 will write. [The 
 stage begins to fid at rear.] They are here. Quick. Where to 
 find you ? 
 
 Lemoyne. At the cabin of a man named Silisbee. But, my 
 love, my love ! Eemember! Oh, God! is this the last time ? 
 I 7/v/. Hope, George, and pray. Good night ! 
 
 [Exit Lemoyne, left.] 
 [The stage has fillled at rear. Torchlights. Music. Enter 
 singers as before. /Same song — " I had a rosebud" dec] 
 
 [Enter Jddue F., Doctor B., Miss Endicott, «;<c/Bband, at rear.] 
 
 Miss Endicott. [Coming forward.] Well, Virgie. Why, 
 mercy on us ! How flushed, how wild, you look ! 
 
 Virg. [Embracing her.] Oh, auntie ! I have seen him ! 
 Curtain falls. End of Act IV. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene Fibst : Same as Act IV., Scene First. Lemoyne dis- 
 covered seeded at right, and behind SillsbeeY cabin. Time, 
 8 P. 31. 
 
 Lemoyne. A whole day. and not one word. She might have 
 written, surely. Is it possible, a daughter's prayers — ? Fool 
 that I am — he will never yield. Oh, God, and I cannot hate 
 him, for the man means well. She will never leave him ; I was 
 mad to ask it. Oh, Virginia, my saint, my angel ! Ask you to 
 grieve one that loves you ! 
 
 [Enter, left, Doctor Bowles.] 
 
 Dr. B. The last cabin on the left. This must be the place. 
 Lemoyne. [Rising. | Dr. Bowles ? 
 
 Dr. B. You, there V [They shake hands.] My friend, I bring 
 no good news. 
 
32 
 
 Lemoyne. I expected none. 
 
 Dr. B. This morning, after breakfast, I followed the Judge 
 into the library, and began about you. I must have talked an 
 hour, and we were growing warm, 1 promise you, when in comes 
 Virginia. Oh, George, how that girl loves you. She made me 
 blubber, sir ; blubber, like a boy, and the Judge was giving way 
 — at least, I thought so — when suddenly the poor girl dropped 
 like a stone. 
 
 lemoyne. \ Walls upon the seat.] Merciful Father! 
 
 Dr. B. Be calm, man. She lives, though 'twas long before I 
 durst say so. She was too weak to be moved. She still lies on 
 the sofa, where 1 left her but now. 
 
 Lemoyne. Oh, sir, go back to her, go back ! 
 
 Dr. B. 1 must, presently. But the poor child begged me to 
 see you to-night, and would not sleep until I promised. Tell 
 him, she said, that we dreamed a dream, last night, of a world 
 where duty wns unknown. We are awake now ; but tell him, 
 she said, that if I live — and I will try so hard, for his sake — he 
 shall not find my heart less true to him because it keeps faith 
 with others. 
 
 Ziemoyne. Go on. 
 
 Dr. B. That's all. And now this from me : Our present 
 business is to save this girl. It's a thousand pities you met last 
 night. That can't be helped ; but this you can do — leave this 
 place at once. 
 
 Lemoyne. I will go. 
 
 Dr. B. Dear boy, you understand. Wait in Richmond for 
 me and for better times. Shake hands. 
 
 [Exit, left, Dr Bowles.] 
 
 Lemoyne. How dark it is. Oh, God ! all is dark now. All- 
 mighty and all-merciful ! Father of the white man and the 
 black, save her and pity me ! 
 
 [Enter, right, Black Job. He whistles.'] 
 
 Sillsbee. [Enter, from cabin.'] Who's dereV Dat you, 
 Job? 
 
 Job. Yaas. Where's Pete ? 
 
 Sillsbee. Dunno. 
 
 Job. What's de matter ? Yer ain't skeert a'ready ? 
 
 Sillsbee. I'se most shamed, I is, to go roun' stickin' knives 
 into folks dat's gwine to sleep. 
 
 Job. Yer most lubs de Kernel, doesn't yer ? Massa Brand 
 nebber go for to mean nuffin ; he gib you dis for lub. Gor Al- 
 mighty, doesn't yer see ? If he done dat ar to a white gem- 
 man, he nebber leab dis place alive. But he knowed yer was a 
 pore, mis'able— — 
 
 Sillsbee. I'll cut his troat dis night. 
 
 Lemoyne. [Aside.] What villainy is this '? [Listens.] 
 
 Job. Now yer begin to talk. Look yere, Gash ; dis yere's 
 what we's gwine to do. De white folks up yonder, dey's all in 
 
33 
 
 bed 'fore 'leven, all but de Judge. Den, yer see, while you-uns 
 
 is gwine up stairs to fix de Kernel, I'll 'tend to de ole man 
 
 Lemoyne. Will you ? Thank heaven, I may yet do some- 
 thing for her and her's. 
 
 [Exit Lemoyne at rear of cabin, left.] 
 Job. What's dat? 
 
 Sillsbee. Nuffin. I'spects de ole 'oman'a knockin 1 roun'. 
 [They whisper. Enter Pete, left.] 
 
 Job. [ To Pete. ] Come yere, nigger. Yere' late. Now 
 min' what I tells yer. We's gwine along by de big house, Crash 
 an' me, by'ni by. When we gib a whistle like dis, we want 
 yer to come down. 
 
 Pete. 'Taint no use, Mister Job. 1'se tought it all ober. 
 Massa Brand hear me, sure. 
 
 Job. Spose he does ? 
 
 Pete. Den he git up, sartin. Dere aint nobody shufflin' roun' 
 dat time o' night. 'Taint like de fore-part ob de evenin'. 
 
 Job. Dat's yer game, is it? [ Whispers to Sillsbee. Then 
 aloud to Pete.] Come on. We's gwine wid yer, right along. 
 Yer kin stow away Gash up stairs. Dis nigger'll take care ob 
 hisself. 
 
 Pete. 1 wont do nuffin ob de kind — dere ! 
 
 Job. Why, Pete ? j Shows bracelet.] You nebber seed dis 
 afore, did yer ? Yer didn't tink I'd go for to sell dat ? Why, it 
 belongs to Miss Verginny, dat ar does. Yer mis'able tief, yer 
 come along. If dey kotch me dis time dere'll be a pair ob us. 
 
 [Exeunt Job, Sillsbee, and Pete, left. \ 
 
 Scene Second: Reception room in Judge Fairfax's house. 
 Sanu Seem as Act 1 1" Scene 2. Maggie discoverd, dust- 
 ing furniture, <fbe. Enter, bft, Lemoyne. 
 
 Lemoyne. I called to see Miss Endicott. I was shown in 
 here. 
 
 Maggie. And is it yer own self, sir ? Sit ye down. She's with 
 Miss Vargie, in the next room. Sure we've had trouble the day. 
 
 Lemoyne. I know it. I'll detain her but one moment. Stay. 
 You would do me a great favor if you'd mention my name pri- 
 vately to Miss Endicott. I'd prefer Miss Fairfax did not hear it. 
 
 Mat/f fir. Be aisy, sir. [Exit Maggie, right.] 
 
 Lemoyne. Only this wall between us. This lath and plaster 
 between bliss and despair. The next room — it might as well 
 be the next world. 
 
 [ Enter Miss Endicott, right.] 
 
 Lemoyne. j Springs toward her.] How is she? 
 
 Miss K. Her eyes are closed. I think she sleeps. But, 
 George, why do you ? 
 
 Lemoyne. Don't chide me. I am going to-night, i shall 
 never trouble you again. 
 
34 
 
 Miss E. What do you mean ? 
 
 L< moyne. I don't know. What does my life matter ? I did 
 not come to speak of such a useless thing. Listen, Miss Endi- 
 cott. I happened — no matter how — to hear something of a cow- 
 ardly plot, aimed at your brother and his nephew. Two negroes, 
 made desperate by some fancied wrong, have found means to 
 gain admittance to the house, and intend to-night, when vour 
 people are asleep 
 
 Miss II. Mercy on us ! 
 
 Lt moyne. Luckily, we are in time. You need only warn the 
 servants. 
 
 [ letter Bhand, right. \ 
 
 Brand. They told me this fellow was here. Miss Endicott, 
 this is too much. You know how the Judge feels. 
 
 Miss E. I know he feels and speaks like a gentleman. Colo- 
 nel Fairfax, for shame ! Do you know what brought Doctor 
 Lemoyne here? But for him you might have been murdered in 
 your bed. 
 
 Brand. A pretty story. [ To Lemoyne.] Who are the 
 precious scoundrels ? 
 
 Lemoym . 1 will not tell you. [ To Miss E.] These men 
 were utter strangers, and they lodged me, fed me. I will balk 
 their scheme, but not betray them. | To Bband.] Your color, 
 sir, lias no monopoly of honor. 
 
 Brand. You impudent nigger. Their names ? 
 
 Miss E. {To Brand.] How dare you insult my friend ! How 
 dare you insult me in my brother's house ! 
 
 Brand. Very well, madam. We'll see what your brother 
 says. [Exit Brand, right. ~\ 
 
 Lemoyne. Don't mind him ; don't quarrel. She needs you. 
 ■Good-by, old friend. 
 
 Miss E. Don't go, George. I am afraid. 
 
 Lemoym . What, of those men ? Have no fear. I go to find 
 them, and tell them their scheme is foiled. 
 
 [Exeunt Lemotne andMi&s E., left.] 
 
 Scene Thied : Tin Library at Fairfax Manor. Long win- 
 dows, opening on veranda. At left, large fireplace. Over 
 mantel, portrait of Mrs. Fairfax. At right of fireplace, 
 sofa' in front, large arm-chair. Virginia discovered re- 
 clining on sofa. 
 
 1 Irqinia. I thought I heard his voice. It was a dream. He 
 has my message ; he has gone away. Perhaps with doubt at 
 his heart. He has no friends, he said, and I have many. Oh, 
 George, is the voice of duty sweeter because it points to a sunny 
 home'?' Sweet? Yes, and bitter as the tolling of a funeral bell. 
 Oh love and duty ! To other girls you are twin blossoms plucked 
 lio-htly from a thornless stem. But if 1 touch you my fingers 
 
35 
 
 bleed. Oh, why need it be so ? Is it manly or is it childish to off- 
 set color against character, complexion against heart and brain ? 
 Better be blind, far better, as I was when I knew him first. Oh, 
 father, I am learning to reason, and to doubt if you can love me 
 
 truly when you ask [She catches sight of her mother's 
 
 portrait and sinks upon her knees.] Forgive me, mother. 
 Your eyes look sad, reproachful. It was wrong to think 
 those thoughts. [Enter, left, Judge F. Seeing Virg. kneeling, 
 he stops.] Yes, dear; I know what you would say. You 
 loved my father, as I love George. You were scarcely older than 
 I am when you went away. But you did not leave him quite 
 desolate. You could not be happy, dearest, where you are, if 
 that were so. You left me to comfort him ; to take your place, 
 mother ; to gladden his declining years. Oh, help me to be a 
 good daughter. Oh, mother, help and pity. I have none to 
 turn to — nothing but your dead face. 
 
 Judge F. [Gomes forward, weeping.] God bless you, my 
 own dear daughter. [He lifts her in his arms, and places her 
 on the sofa.] 
 
 Judge J?, [continues.] My child, I wish to ask your pardon 
 for the harsh things I said, of one who deserves more than I 
 can give him. I will write and ask his pardon. Do not mis- 
 take, I cannot consent to what you — to what he wishes. Do 
 not turn away. Virginia, as I hope to see Heaven, and meet 
 your mother there, I honor and esteem your lover, from the 
 bottom of my heart. I say that you did well to love him. But 
 I promised that angel there, to guard her little one from pain 
 and sorrow, and I know that your union with him would be 
 certain misery to both. You smile hopefully. You do not 
 guess, poor lamb, the pitiless rigour of our social laws, or the 
 terrible vengence exacted for their violation. How should you 
 know that the social blight would fall not on the man, but on 
 the woman? That his doom would be to look on and see you 
 suffer ? Can you wish those who love you such a doom ? No, 
 dearest ; trust an old man's wisdom. With these time-tried eyes 
 I look across the coming years, and I see it is my bitter duty 
 to bid you think of him no more. It is not prejudice that 
 speaks — it is my reason, illumined by a father's love. [Virg. 
 sinks hark.] But you are tired, dear; too tired and weak to 
 talk. 
 
 Virg. [ Raising herself on, her arm.] It is not that. I was 
 trying to answer you, and I cannot. But, oh, I feel there is 
 something wrong somewhere. [Sinks back.] You are right, 
 father, I am weary. 
 
 Judge F. Best your head-so. Try to sleep, darling. I will 
 sit beside you. 
 
 [Virginia closes her eyes, and her father presently falls asleep. 
 Meanwhile Black Job opens the window, left, and enters?] 
 
 Black Job. [Drawing knife, and stealing behind the Judge. 
 Aside.] I'se done got my turn, dis time ! 
 
i Enter Lemoyne. sanu window.] 
 
 Virg. [St <//!</ Job, and springing up.~\ Help! Help! 
 Lemoyne. [Seizing Job's arm, as ht is about to strike.] 
 
 Down, ruffian ! 
 
 [Lemoyne and Job grapple. Enter, right, Brand and houst 
 servants ; left, Alls- Endicott, Dr. Bowles, and Maggie. | 
 
 Brand. \ Fires pistol.] Take that ! 
 
 Lemoynt . | Staggt rs. | Ah ! 
 
 Judge F. [To Lemoyne.] How come you here, sir? You, 
 surely, are no thief ! 
 
 Miss K. I Supports Lemoyne.] He came before, to warn you, 
 and now, poor boy, he came to save. 
 
 Virg. [ Wildly.] Who speaks of my George ! Did not 1 see 
 him, bounding on that fearful man, who would have killed my 
 father ? He is hurt ! George, speak to me. 
 
 Lemoyne. I — I meant — I tried — [Falls.] 
 
 Judge F. \ Supporting Virg. To Lemoyne.] On my knees, 
 sir, I ask your pardon. And oh, forgive me. I denied what 
 you wished. But 1 thought I was right. 
 
 Lemoyne. I believe you. it was a hard question — but 1 
 loved her. Virginia — hereafter — [Dies. \ 
 
 Miss E. J Weeping.] He's gone! 
 
 Virg. [Breaking from her father and throwing herself upon 
 the body.] Father ! He is mine now ! 
 
 [Curtain falls. The end.] 
 
* -. -s -s -v -5 -t f ''. f • t- T. • "t V*t -t^' f t t -—*— • T 
 
 ps , 
 
 I 
 
 COLOUR; 
 
 OR, 
 
 The Question of To-Morrow. 
 
 DEAMA: IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 %\m ilovk: 
 
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