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LOVE'S TRIUMPH 
 
 A DRAMA 
 IN FIVE ACTS 
 
 -BY — 
 
 HELEN SATTERLEE FRENCH, 
 
 + 
 
 All Rights Reserved. Copyright Applied for. 
 
 ( m 13 1891 
 
 San Francisco, Cal. 
 brunt & company, printers, 535 clay street. 
 
 1891. 
 
 .> 
 
rv^■ 
 
 IMP 92- 0092 91 
 
LIST OF CHARACTERS. 
 
 Dora Martin^ — Engaged to Eliot 
 Bessie Martin — A younger sister. 
 Mrs. Martin — A fond wife and mother. 
 IviTTi^E Fay Mvrtin — An angel in disguise. 
 Gladys Earll — Sister to Eliot. 
 KiTTiE Tyrrell — Maid of Erin. 
 
 Mr. Martin — President of the Atlantic Bank. 
 
 Eliot Eari,l — Cashier of the Bank — (Engaged to Dora.) 
 
 Arnold Wolfe — Paying Teller-(xA precinct to be heard from.) 
 
 Hugh Searight — A true friend. 
 
 Gordon Fleming — A pardoned convict. 
 
 Paul Fleming — His onl}^ child. 
 
 Leopold Fox — A model detective. 
 
 Dick Forrester 
 
 ^^j TT ( Who knows them? 
 
 Will Hayward 
 
 Dr. Eckhoff — A noted surgeon. 
 
 Johnson — Butler at the Martin's. 
 
 Chief of Police — A faithful officer. 
 
 Two Policemen. 
 
 (Dick and Will can take a double part, as Eckhoff and Chief of Police. 
 
TIME TABLE. 
 
 INDICATING BY (X) WH:eN KACH PLAYKR IS DUE. 
 
 ACT 
 
 ] 
 
 
 II 
 
 III 
 
 IV 
 
 V 
 
 SCKNK 
 
 I 
 
 2 
 
 3 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 7 
 
 8 
 
 Dora 
 
 X 
 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 Bessie - 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 Gladys - 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 
 X 
 
 Mrs. M. 
 
 X 
 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 
 X 
 
 Fay 
 
 X 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 
 X 
 
 Kittie - 
 
 X 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 
 X 
 
 Wolfe - 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 
 Mr. Martin - 
 
 X 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 
 X 
 
 Eliot 
 
 X 
 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 X X 
 
 X 
 
 Searight 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 X X 
 
 X 
 
 Fleming - 
 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 
 X X 
 
 X 
 
 Paul - 
 
 
 X 
 
 
 
 X X 
 
 X 
 
 Fox 
 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 Dick - 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 
 
 Will 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 
 
 Dr. Eckhoff 
 
 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 
 Chief of Police 
 
 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 X 
 
 Johnson 
 
 X 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 
 
 Two Officers - 
 
 
 
 
 
 X 
 
 
LOVCS TRIUMPH 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene i. — Drawing-room at the Martin residence. Mrs. 
 M. sewings Mr. M. readi^ig aloud ^ and '^ ^^x playing 
 in corner R. i E. with dishes and dolly ^ by a screeii. 
 
 Mr. M. {reading) . Four more divorces granted to-day, 
 making a total of twenty-three this week. Too bad ! Too 
 bad! And if these statistics are correct, the ratio of 
 divorce to marriage is constantly increasing. They are 
 now granted for the most ridiculous reasons. Have you 
 heard the latest ? 
 
 Mrs. M. No ; what is it ? 
 
 Mr. M. Why, that Mrs. Elite has brought an action 
 for divorce against her husband. 
 
 Mrs. M. Indeed ; I had not heard of it. I thought 
 that he was a model husband, and that they were devoted 
 to each other. What has he been doing ? 
 
 Mr. M. Nothing. The grounds are incompatibility. 
 
 Mrs. M. Incompatibility ? I did not think that he 
 had any temper. 
 
 Mr. M. Not of temper — I did not say so — but incom- 
 patibility of color. 
 
 Mrs. M. What do you mean ? 
 
 Mr. M. Why, Mr. Elite's red hair and fair complexion 
 didn't harmonize in color with the ebony and white of her 
 dear^ darling little pug dog. 
 
 Mrs. M. What nonsense you are talking, William ! 
 
 Mr. M. It was settled, however. 
 
 Mrs. M. {still sezving). How? Did he dye his auburn 
 hair a raven black ? 
 
 Mr. M. Not quite so bad as that. You see that puggy 
 died of over-eating. Madame wept bitterly, but finally 
 ordered a rosewood casket, and flowers, and held a mock 
 
funeral. Of course she was chief mourner, dressed in 
 customary suit of solemn black, even to a heavy crepe 
 veil. Afterwards she was inconsolable. Finally a bright 
 idea suggested itself to her brother Alfred. You know 
 how he always humored her. 
 
 Mrs. M. What was it ? What could he do about it ? 
 
 Mr. M. Why, he went down to a noted dog-fancier 
 and bought a magnificent red setter. It was a perfect 
 match. Don't you see? Madam's aesthetic taste was 
 satisfied, colors were blended, and ever3^thing is now har- 
 monious. 
 
 Mrs. M. Ah, William, I see that you are still a bo}^ 
 at fifty. But these divorces are indeed a sad feature of 
 our nineteenth century life. I am sure that if all hus- 
 bands were as patient as you have been — 
 
 Mr. M. And all wives as loving and tender as 3^ou 
 have been — 
 
 Mrs. M. There would be no need of such separations. 
 A little mutual forbearance would prevent many a rupture. 
 You see, the trouble is just here ; every man thinks that 
 he has married an angel, and every woman imagines her 
 husband a hero until — they discover their mistake. 
 
 Mr. M. Umph ; that usually takes about six weeks. 
 
 Mrs. M. Why do they so soon forget that their 
 promise was " for better, for worse" ? I believe that we 
 discovered the true secret of happiness to be in two little 
 words, " love " and " forbearance,'' did we not ? 
 
 Mr. M. (turnhtg over the paper). Six more flats to 
 let. A plague on the man who first invented them! 
 
 Mrs. M. Why, they seem to be ver}^ popular, 
 William. 
 
 Mr. M. That is the chief objection. 
 
 Mrs. M. I should think that the babies would always 
 come toddling into the parlor with their hands full of 
 bread and butter every time they heard a caller's voice. I 
 know our thildren always would, and I have often won- 
 dered that mothers were not afraid that their little ones 
 might fall over those horrible high places in the rear. 
 
 Mr. M. Oh, no; there is no danger. 
 
 Mrs. M. No danger ? Why not ? 
 
Mr. M. {sarcastically). Flats were not built for fam- 
 ilies. They do not echo with children's voices. Look at 
 your cosy little cottages, with trim flower beds around 
 them, a glimpse of a swing in the rear, and a baby car- 
 riage on the side porch. Now look at your flats — no 
 flower-beds M^r^^ ; no baby carriages there\ uo young 
 mother's face there in the window holding baby up to see 
 papa coming home from the store. No little, clapping 
 hands and dancing feet. The young wives are out shop- 
 ping and promenading instead. I tell you that flats are 
 only the manifestation of a great social evil. They are a 
 funeral monument erected over the dwindling American 
 race, and should bear this inscription: ^^ Children not 
 Wanted*^ f / Come, dear, you have sewed enough ; I 
 don't want to see those eyes growing dim, they are so dear 
 to me. {He rolls up the ruffling, and they arise and come 
 forward.) 
 
 Mrs. M. And so to-morrow is Dora's wedding day ! 
 
 Mr. M. (taking her hands in his) Does it seem like 
 twenty years since we were married, Mary ? 
 
 Mrs. M. It seems but yesterday that I stood at 3^our 
 side and promised to be your faithful, loving w^ife. 
 
 Mr. M. Tell me, Mary, have you ever regretted that 
 promise ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Not for a moment. And you? Tell me 
 truly, William. 
 
 Mr. M. Never, dearest. I have daily blessed the hour 
 that made you my wife. How kindly the years have dealt 
 with you ! Your cheek is as fair and unwrinkled as w^hen 
 first we met. 
 
 Mrs. M. Flatterer! 
 
 Mr. M. And your eyes are still as bright as then, and 
 your figure is' almost as girlish as Dora's. 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh how wisely it is ordained that as our 
 youthful beauty fades the eyes that behold it grow^ dimmer 
 also, and so the loved one is clothed in everlasting beauty. 
 William, you are threatening to buy spectacles. Please 
 don't. The tiny wrinkles are beginning to come alread3% 
 and I would rather that you should not see them. 
 
 How thankful, William, we should be that Dora and 
 
Eliot are so well adapted to one another. I am sure that 
 I love him as if he were my own son. 
 
 Mr. M. And he seems all devotion to you. Well, Mary, 
 to-morrow you join the ranks of Mothers-in-Law. How 
 do you like the name? 
 
 Mrs. M. I cannot but shrink from the name, it has 
 been made such a cruel jest. Let every true woman pro- 
 test against it henceforward. We yearn for children — they 
 are given to us. We bend above their cradles with hearts 
 filled with love and gratitude. We nurse them through long 
 illnesses — teach their tiny feet to walk — their lips to prat- 
 tle — their souls to turn to God. A little later, we unfold 
 to them the printed page — we share their amusements — 
 and wipe away their tears. We abandon society, forego 
 old friendships, that the little ones may know no timid, 
 lonesome hours ; we deny ourselves often every luxury, 
 that they may have every advantage and accomplishment. 
 And w^hen this is done, and we almost live, and move, and 
 have our being in them, suddenly, we lose them from our 
 firesides and from our evening kiss. It is ordained of 
 Heaven, but it wrings many a mother's heart. And we 
 must smile and receive congratulations when our hearts 
 are ready to break ; and as if this suffering were not 
 enough, henceforth the jeers of a nineteenth century press 
 are for us. The loving mother, the faithful wife, honored 
 by a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, becomes an 
 object of mirth and ridicule; for is she not henceforth a 
 mother-in-law. She may see her daughter for whom she 
 would gladly die, slighted, misunderstood, neglected, de- 
 nied her share from the common purse, or, still worse, her 
 private fortune rudely appropriated or squandered, while 
 a miserable pittance is grudgingly doled out to her after 
 the club and liquor and stable bills have been paid without 
 a murmur. She must see her daughter's eyes dim with 
 weeping in secret for unconfessed neglect or unkindness, 
 and her glorious beauty fading day by day. But the 
 mother must speak no word, for is she not a mother-in-law? 
 Oh blindness of the century! When will the world re- 
 member that the mother-in-law is also the grandmother — 
 the kind, indulgent grandmother whom the children almost 
 
worship? Why, if a man were so bold as to denounce 
 grandmothers as a class, he would be deemed a wretch, 
 unfit to live. How^ mau}^ a woman finds herself a widow 
 and grandmother at fort}^ ? Her daughter's house is open 
 to her, at first gladl}^ The modest competence, a life in- 
 surance, probably, provided b}^ a husband's wise foresight, 
 is either loaned without proper security to her son-in-law 
 directly, or, is gradually absorbed into the family living. 
 The babe is soothed in her arms — the little cripple loves 
 her tender touch— the inexperienced servant depends upon 
 her skillful assistance, and often she comes at last to sup- 
 ply her place without recompense, a servant without wages, 
 until brain and body fail. And in the end the world says, 
 ^^ Jones^ viother-in-law is dead! Well, he was real good to 
 her; he gave her a home!" Poor soul! From a home 
 where she was queen, she has become only ^^ Jones Moth- 
 er-in-law I ! ! 
 
 Mr. M. Mary, do not be so excited; the injustice of 
 these charges is patent to every true man. Yet hearts as 
 tender as yours have been as cruelly stabbed; let us think 
 of to-morrow. 
 
 Mrs. M. Well, I am glad that everything is ready. 
 
 Mr. M. Oh, that reminds me, Mdfe, I think that you 
 have forgotten a very important thing. I looked over your 
 order book for the butler's reference, and find that you have 
 forgotten the wine. Plenty of boned turke}^ and salad, 
 and cake, and ice-cream, — all good enough in their wa}^, 
 but no wines. 
 
 Mrs. M. I did not forget. I thought it best not to place 
 temptation before these young men. I fear that Dick and 
 Will are falling into bad habits, and Dora asked me to omit 
 wine to-morrow. 
 
 Mr. M. Nonsense! If a man wants wine, he will get 
 it somehow or somewhere, if he does not here. We can- 
 not celebrate a wedding with ice-water. No; Dora shall 
 have a warmer 'toast than that. 
 
 Mrs. M. The wise man said, "It biteth like a serpent 
 and stingeth like an adder." 
 
 Mr. M. That was because it was not mellowed with 
 age. 
 
TO 
 
 Mrs. M. And he said, " Look not upon the wine when 
 it is red." 
 
 Mr. M. [^patting her on the shoulder and laughing). 
 Then we shall have white wine and champagne. Besides, 
 my dear Reformer, have you forgotten Christ's first miracle, 
 and at a wedding, too? 
 
 Mrs. M, William, tell me now, honestly, do you believe, 
 for one moment, (turning his face with her hands and look- 
 ing into his eyes) do you believe there was any headache 
 or heartache or madness or drunkenness in the wine our 
 Savior made? Was it not a beverage that for lack of a 
 better name was called wine by the people? Give us such 
 as He made, and we will gladly drink of it. 
 
 Mr. M. (ringing the bell) . Mary, I am firm ; Dora 
 shall go from her father's house as our brides have gone 
 for generations. {Enter butler), Johnson, see that only 
 the best wine is served to-morrow: Chateau Lafitte, Pom- 
 mery Sec, and Veuve Cliquot. 
 
 Johnson. Yes sir, I will attend to it. 
 
 Mrs. M. (aside). I must submit! 
 
 Mr. M. And now, Mary, I must go down town, as I 
 must make a few arrangements for to-morrow. I shall 
 not be gone very long. 
 
 (Exeunt omnes). (Enter Eliot and Kittie). 
 
 Eliot. (^/6> A^^///>) . Miss Dora, please — {Exit Kittie). 
 (K. re-enters). 
 
 Kittie. Miss Dora will be down directly. {Aside) . Oh, 
 don't I wish I had a lover too! But it is my evening out, 
 and I must hurry, for Tim is waiting. I wonder if Tim 
 likes me? (Exit Kittie) 
 
 Eliot. Here is her little glove ! {Kisses it). See how 
 it bears the impress of her tapering fingers — the faint 
 perfume that always clings about her. And to-morrow 
 she is to be mine ! Mine always ! Oh God! If an3^thing 
 should ever part us! {Enter Dora^ lightly), Dora ! sweet- 
 est girl on earth ! I tried to stay away to-day, but I could 
 not do it. I am so glad to see you, Dora. 
 
 Dora. Not half so glad as I am to see you, Eliot. Oh ! 
 I am so tired of dressmakers, and shoemakers, and millin- 
 ers, and the rest. I have just tried on and pulled off, till 
 
II 
 
 I feel just pulled to pieces ! Don't I look as if I had been 
 pulled, and pulled, and stretched, and stretched to death ? 
 
 Eliot. Well, I can't say that you are more than six 
 inches taller than 3^ou were last week, but 3^ou do look 
 tired. 
 
 Dora. I have just been in a flutter of excitement all day 
 long, for the door bell has been constantl}^ ringing, and 
 notes, and letters, and flowers, and presents have just 
 poured in. I never dreamed that we had so many friends. 
 And just think, Eliot, there are six soup ladles, and eight 
 tea bells, and twelve dozen sets of coffee spoons. 
 
 Eliot. Twelve dozen spoons for us two spoons ? 
 
 Dora. i\nd four piano lamps. Oh, I don't know where 
 we shall put them all. [Aside) Oh, I am so tired! ( They 
 seat themselves on the sofa.) 
 
 Eliot. Rest here, darling. {He kisses her). 
 
 Fay {who has been playing unnoticed behind the scenes). 
 Oh, Dora ! you ought to be ashamed of yourself! I never 
 let gemmens kiss me; mamma says it is not nice. {They 
 retire in confusion to opposite corners of the sofa). How 
 lonesome you both look. Poor Dodo ! I dess I will keep 
 you company. {She gets up in the middle). {To Eliot). 
 You can tiss my dollie ; isn't she pretty ? 
 
 Eliot {aside). I must make the best of it, I suppose. 
 {Aloud). Well, little sister, what is dolly's name ? 
 
 Fay. Why do 3^ou always ask me the same kestions ? 
 Do 00 always fordet ? Her name is Alice Gladys Maud 
 Cinderwella Martin. 
 
 Eliot. What a pretty name ! 
 
 Dora [coaxing ly). Fay, isn't the sand man around 
 yet? 
 
 Fay {troubled). There isn't any sand man. 
 
 Dora {slowly). Don't — you — think — you — had — bet- 
 ter — go — to — bed ? 
 
 Fay {begiiining to cry). I don't want to go to bed : 
 I want to stay with you, Dora — and with my brudder — you 
 said he was my brudder. 
 
 Dora, {lifting her up and kissing her). Poor little 
 sister ! I shall not be long with her, Eliot. 
 
 Eliot. Let her stay. 
 
12 
 
 Fay. I will be real good, and will play House under the 
 table. I'll be very kiet. {^She creeps ujider the table ^ and 
 Arnold Wolfe e^tters unannounced and listens to them^ un- 
 seen , beh in d them . ) 
 
 Dora. I did not expect this pleasure, Eliot; I thought 
 that you had business at the bank to-night. 
 
 Eliot. Oh, Wolfe said that he would do it for me. He 
 offered to finish the work for me, and I could not resist the 
 temptation, and stole away to see you for a few moments. 
 
 Dora. Eliot, do you like that man, Arnold Wolfe ? 
 
 Eliot. To tell you frankl}^, I do not ; and yet, as I have 
 no reason for the feeling, I try to crush it down as un- 
 worthy of me. I will cast it off. He has been a faithful 
 servant in your father's bank for over fifteen years ; has 
 saved the larger part of his salary for that time, and by 
 wise investment has amassed a little fortune where others 
 have squandered time and health and money. He has 
 done his work so well that he is now paying teller. It is 
 an honorable record, and he deserves it. And yet, I know 
 not why, I do not like him. 
 
 Dora. Oh, Eliot you may think me foolish, but you do 
 not know how I fear that man; I could almost hate him 
 for a very slight cause. 
 
 Eliot {quickly). Hate? darling, do not use such a 
 word again ! It is foreign to your lips. You are trembling; 
 why, what is this ? 
 
 Dora. The sound of his voice jars upon my ears. His 
 eyes seem to devour me, if for one moment we are left alone, 
 and the touch of his cold, wet hands strikes a chill to my 
 inmost soul. (^She covers her face). Oh, I seem to see 
 him now ! ( Wolfe takes something from Eliofs overcoat^ 
 and is an angary listener). Oh, Eliot, beware of that man ! 
 
 Eliot. Wh}^ should I fear him ? 
 
 Dora. Oh, I have an intuition that bids me beware of 
 him. I have seen a look upon his face at times that fills 
 me with dread. Ever since my father turned his suit aside 
 when he asked for my hand, and told him that you 
 had been accepted, I have felt that he hates you, and would 
 injure you if possible. 
 
 Eliot. Well, lean afford to be generous, and I cannot 
 
blame him greatly for loving 3^011. I fear no man living, 
 and you have nothing to dread with this right arm to pro- 
 tect you. Oh, Dora! how gladly I would die to prove ni}^ 
 love for you. But I should not chide you for feelings that 
 3^ou are powerless to prevent. I, too, am not as strong as 
 I should be since that long run of fever. I am hardh^ 
 myself again, and am still haunted by unpleasant dreams. 
 My new position, as cashier at the bank, though a proud 
 one for one so ^^oung as I, has man}^ duties and responsi- 
 bilities. You know that I am the onl}^ one who has the 
 key to the combination that unlocks the vault. Next 
 month the anxiety will be over, as the new time-lock 
 will replace the old method, and my fears will be ended. 
 Well, every night I dream of some trouble at the bank 
 for which I am responsible, and that, while all are waiting, 
 I have forgotten the combination, and meet anger and rid- 
 icule and suspicion ; and awake in an agony of fear. The 
 other night I could bear it no longer, and I wrote it down 
 for fear I might sometime forget, and have rested ever}^ 
 night since then like a child. 
 
 Fay. ^peeping out). I wonder what that horrid Wolfe 
 is doing ? He looks as if he could eat Little Red Riding- 
 hood up ; but papa sa3^s that he is a very nice man, and 
 papa knows ever3^thing. 
 
 Dora. Are 3^ ou sure that 3"our secret is absoluteh^ safe ? 
 
 Eliot. {laughing^. Yes, dearest; no one else can read 
 it. And if he could read the number, it would be mean- 
 ingless to him. See; here it is, read it. {He holds his 
 iiote book befoi'e her ejes) . 
 
 Dora. What strange characters ! I cannot read a sin- 
 gle one. 
 
 Eliot. I thought not. These are Hebrew characters. 
 When a bo3^ of sixteen I studied for a 3^ear with m3^ uncle, 
 a retired clergyman of great learning. He tried to instruct 
 
 me in the driest of theological studies, — and — failed to 
 
 make a clerg3anan of me, as he had hoped. I remember 
 the numerals, however, and as there are no Jews around 
 the bank, I am absoluteU^ safe. Besides, as the previous 
 entr3^ concerned the cleaning of my watch, an3^ curious 
 person would naturally suppose, could he read Hebrew, 
 
^4 
 
 that the number written down was the number of the 
 watch. Read for yourself, " My watch cleaned to-day, No. 
 5^ n H (Aleph^'^Cheth, Tzaddi). You see I take no 
 chances. Well, I must be going, darling; sleep well and 
 dream of me. 
 
 Dora. Good night, Eliot; God bless and keep you. 
 
 EiviOT. Good night. {As they rise a^id walk to the 
 door^ Wolfe steps behind the screen. Exit Eliot ^ center- 
 door, and Dora at side-door.) 
 
 {Arnold Wolfe comes out triumphant). 
 
 WoivFE. At last! At last! my hour has come. 5^ PI 2 
 (Aleph, Cheth, Tzaddi). {Repeats the Hebrew words, and 
 laughs wildly.) Oh love is sweet, but sweeter is revenge! 
 At last I have him in my power. Oh, how I hate that 
 man ! He has robbed me of everything on earth that I 
 prize. He holds the place in the bank for which I have 
 toiled for years, and was promoted over my head as the 
 future son-in-law of its President. And his handsome 
 face has won the heart of the girl I have sworn to possess. 
 {Repeats the Hebrew words again) 5>{ FI U (Aleph, 
 Cheth, Tzaddi). I'll not forget them. This is the first 
 good my Hebrew blood has ever done me. As a child, 
 from my father, a Polish Jew, I learned two lessons : the 
 Hebrew tongue and hatred of the race that for centuries 
 has loaded ours with persecutions. In Russia, when I was 
 twelve years old, he fell before the fury of a mob of so- 
 called Christians. My mother died not long afterwards, 
 and with much difficulty I succeeded in escaping from 
 Russia. After much wandering and abuse, I reached 
 America, hating the whole race. I reached this city, I 
 sought employment. Your name ? Jacob Wolif. A Jew, 
 then ? Yes. No place was opened. What did I care for 
 religion ? What has it done for me? What do I believe? 
 Nothing. I changed my name — " Arnold Wolfe." No 
 one questioned me — I found work — I mastered the lan- 
 guage — I labored night and day to obtain proficiency in 
 every detail. I learned a motto in your public schools ; 
 it was at the head of your copy books : " Honesty is the 
 best policy." I adopted it, and it has served me well. 
 Show me a better policy and I am your humble servant. 
 
15 
 
 At eighteen I obtained a humble situation in the bank. I 
 worked faithfull}^ for years, and was finally promoted. I 
 determined to amass a fortune by fair means or fouh 
 One day, six years ago, a beautiful child of twelve came to 
 the bank to see her father. That child was Dora Martin. 
 I said, in a few years she will be a woman, and I will win 
 her. I will root myself deep in her father's confidence, 
 and make myself indispensable to him and the bank. I 
 will make a good name for myself, and win her. And 
 now this boy has come between us. He has won her hand, 
 and holds my place in the bank. He is in my way and I 
 will crush him, SO ! {Snaps a glass between his fingers^ 
 and grinds it under his foot. Here he accideiitally 
 drops a paper) I will leave him broken and crushed! 
 He shall long have cause to remember his wedding day. 
 {He spies a locket 07i the sofa and picks it ip^ opens the 
 locket. Fay is watching }j Oh what luck attends me to- 
 day. Dora's face ! This is indeed most fortunate. To- 
 night Fate puts all things in my power. Their wedding 
 day! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! I shall pay my compliments 
 to Mr. and Mrs. Eliot Earll ! [Exit Wolfe, c. D.) 
 
 Fay. {Creeping out from 7ider the table.) Why here 
 is a paper that he dropped. {She calls out.) Mr. Wolfe ! 
 Mr. Wolfe ! He didn't hear me. Well I will just put in 
 my box and give it to him. I must not fordet. What did 
 he take my brudder's locket for ? Oh I guess he's going 
 to give it to him. What made him speak that horrid piece ? 
 he didn't go to school like Cousin Harry. I don't know 
 what he said, but it just made my back so cold. Booh-oh- 
 oh ! I must go to bed and get warm. {Exit Fay.) 
 
 Scene 2 — The Street. {Enter Arnold Wolfe, l. u. e.) 
 
 Wolfe. Well, the combination worked all right, and 
 here {hand to breast pocket) is the money. I fooled that 
 stupid detective finely. I dropped the locket into the 
 vault. I didn't find it ; bless you, no. I just let him find 
 it; ha! ha! ha ! It wouldn't do for me. I'm th^ir friend, 
 you know. Fox is devilish proud of his discovery. Great 
 detective, ha ! ha ! Curse that Earll ! He seems to have 
 
i6 
 
 a legion of friends. I thonght I would pay him a friendly 
 call, but I heard Searight's voice within, and he is a man 
 I don't care to meet. If Eliot had been alone, he is so 
 unsuspecting, he would have walked right into my little 
 trap. I must find some other way that will not compro- 
 mise myself. Hello ! Who is this fellow coming ? I 
 seem to know him. By Jupiter! It is Gordon Fleming, 
 just out of prison for a bank defalcation. (Pardoned by 
 Gov. Weakman.) He looks desperate enough for any- 
 thing. If I can reach him, perhaps he would do the dirty 
 work. I'll pay him well enough — but I must be cau- 
 tious and feel my way carefully. 
 
 {^Enter Gordon Fleming and his little crippled boy, 
 R. u. E.) 
 
 WoivFE (bowing politely) . Good evening, Mr. Flem- 
 ing, 
 
 Fleming. You do not know — you have forgotten — I 
 am a convicted felon — an outcast from society. ( They 
 cross over.) 
 
 Wolfe. Yes, I know perfectly. But I always felt that 
 3^ou were wrongly accused. 
 
 Fleming. You ? Impossible. You ? Are you mock- 
 " ing me ? No ? Thank God for those words ! They put 
 new life into me. I am as innocent of the crime for which 
 I suffered as that little child. 
 
 Wolfe. I believe you. 
 
 Fleming. Would that I could make the world believe 
 it ! for the sake of that innocent child. 
 
 Wolfe {aside). That will never do. {Aloud). M}^ 
 poor friend, I fear that will be hopeless. You will never 
 make the Avorld believe that judge and jury, learned law- 
 yers and the great and glorious press were all alike 
 mistaken. 
 
 Fleming. I fear you speak only too truly. My fate is 
 hard; harder than I can bear. Imprisoned for two years 
 for a crime I never committed, my poor wife, who was never 
 very strong, found herself the wife of a convicted forger. 
 The shame soon killed her, and her father cursed me as the 
 murderer of his only daughter ! Me, me, who loved so de- 
 votedly, her murderer. Soon after, he, too died, and my boy 
 
17 
 
 was left to the care of strangers and cruelly neglected. 
 Not long ago he met with a terrible accident. With a 
 skillful surgeon, at his age all might have been well, but, 
 alas, the nearest doctor was called in. He proved both 
 ignorant and unskillful, and my boy, whom I left as beau- 
 tiful as an angel, must go through life — like THAT ! Had 
 the injury been unavoidable, I could have borne it, but oh, 
 my poor little lonely neglected child ! ( Weeps), Is there 
 a God in Heaven that I should suffer so ? That this sin- 
 less child should bear such a penalty ! I have grown hard 
 and desperate. I have learned many a lesson in crime in 
 these weary years. Perhaps I shall some day pay back 
 the debt I owe society. 
 
 Wolfe [aside) . Excellent ; that will do ! 
 
 Paul. Oh papa, don't look like that! Don't look like 
 that! Mamma would not know you now. You frighten 
 me! Don't! [Utters a loud cry}) Dear, dear papa ; [pat- 
 ting him) now you look like yourself again. Are you 
 in trouble ? Never mind ; mamma and I love you, and 
 mamma said before she died that I must remember to tell 
 you. 
 
 Fleming. Tell me ? Tell me what ? 
 
 Paul. To tell you that she loved you more than ever, 
 and believed in you, and for you not to be sad and 
 lonely when you came back, for that up in heaven she 
 would look down and see us and love us just as she did 
 here. 
 
 Fleming. Thank God ! Thank God for these words ! 
 Poor child, he never knew, he never shall know. We will 
 go far away and commence anew. I need work ; I must 
 have work. Mr. Wolfe, we are almost starving. Since 
 you believe me innocent, I can ask you ; do you know 
 where a man like me can obtain honest work ? I must 
 have money for my boys' sake. To-day when I came back 
 after these years, I found my poor boy crippled, they said 
 for life. I could not endure the thought. I took him to 
 Eckhoff, the great surgeon who is working such modern 
 miracles. He examined the poor little fellow carefully. I 
 must say he was very profane when he saw the bungling 
 work that had been done. For some reason he feared to 
 
i8 
 
 use anaesthetics, and so lie asked the child if he could en- 
 dure pain. He answered like the brave little fellow he is. 
 " Well, then," he said, '' I may tell you that while it is 
 tedious and painful, if he will be brave and patient the leg- 
 can be made nearly as good as new." I asked him, at what 
 cost ? He said, " a thousand dollars." A groan escaped 
 me involuntarily. He turned quickly ; my face was as 
 white as death. He read hopelessness in every feature; he 
 questioned me closely, and I told him my whole history 
 without reserve. He was very kind, and said if I could 
 raise enough to pay for the appliances, nurses and assist- 
 ants, he would render his services gratuitously. I must 
 find work and save my child. He is all that I have left. 
 It does not matter to me how I fare, where I eat or sleep, 
 or what clothing a convict wears, so long as he is saved. 
 
 Wolfe (quickly) . You say you do not care what it is ? 
 
 Fleming. Only so that it is honest labor. 
 
 Wolfe (aside). Confound the fellow! (Aloud) I 
 thought you were ready for anything a moment ago ? 
 
 Fleming. I talked wildly; I did not mean what I said. 
 
 Wolfe (aside) . I fear that I cannot use him, unless 
 I can make a tool of him. I have it, — by George! 
 (Aloud), Well, Mr. Fleming, I feel very sorry for you 
 and your beautiful child. (He puts his hand up07t Paul, 
 who shrinks awayi) I will lend you the ^v^ hundred dol- 
 lars for two years, on condition that you will do me a slight 
 favor. 
 
 Fleming. Do I hear you aright ? God bless you. I 
 will toil for you early and late ; speak quickly ! tell me 
 what you wish. 
 
 Wolfe. I have a young friend who is to be married 
 to-morrow. His trunk is packed for his wedding journey, 
 and stands open close to yonder window. I want to play 
 a little joke on him — he has played a pretty severe one on 
 me, and I want to get even. 
 
 Fleming. A joke? 
 
 Wolfe. Yes ; it is foolish for a man like me, but. I 
 cannot climb a ladder. I grow dizzy only a few feet from 
 the ground. I want you to put something into his trunk 
 for me to-night. 
 
19 
 
 Fleming. To put somethiug into his truuk, do you say? 
 
 Wolfe. Yes, yes. It will be such a joke, ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 How it will surprise them! You see we are such old 
 friends, and, [He luhispers something in Fleming^ s eai^^ 
 a7id they both laugh heartily)) 
 
 Paul. Papa, come home ; I don't like that man. What 
 makes him laugh so strangely ? Papa, please come home. 
 
 Fleming. My son, he is our protector and benefactor ; 
 you do not understand what he has done for us, what he 
 has done for you. You must love him, and thank him, 
 for you will bless him all your life. 
 
 Paul. I must ? 
 
 Fleming. Yes, my child. 
 
 Paul. {Goes unwillingly ovei^^ thanks W, — , and runs 
 back to his father). Thank you, sir, {hesitati^tgly) . 
 
 Wolfe. Well, take your baby home to bed, and come 
 back here at i o'clock to-night. There is no danger. I 
 know the of&cer on this beat. He got his position entirely 
 through my influence, and, should he come, I will explain 
 the joke entirely to his satisfaction. Will you promise ? 
 
 Fleming. I give you my word I will return. But 
 should he awake, what them ? 
 
 Wolfe. He will sleep soundly enough after all the 
 champagne they are drinking. Well, good night. {Exit 
 Wolfe, R. u. E- 
 
 Fleming, {continuing). It sounds queer, but Wolfe 
 is all right, and, thank God ! my boy will be saved. 
 
 {Exit Fleming and Paul. l. u. e.) 
 
LOVFS TRIUMPH. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 The night before the wedding — the bride. 
 
 Scene i. — Dorah room at Home. b. b. Dora at l. i. e., 
 a Prayer Book in hand^ open at the Marriage Service, 
 
 Dora {crossing over). And so to-morrow I am to be 
 married. How strange it sounds. Married. Papa says 
 I am too young, just eighteen on my wedding-day. But I 
 am old enough, to love Eliot very dearly. And I know, 
 yes, I know I shall love him to the end ; " till death do 
 us part." {Shudders^ and then smiles}) Ah, no! death could 
 never part two souls that love like ours. Yes, I am young, 
 but is it not better to bring to him this young girl's heart, 
 that holds no other image than his, these lips no other 
 lover's lips but his have ever kissed, than to be ever so much 
 older and wiser, (and I ought to be older and wiser, I fear,) 
 and to have other hopes, and other memories buried in my 
 breast ? Inexperienced though I am, I am so happy be- 
 cause I have nothing to conceal from him. We will have 
 no secrets, Eliot and I. {She draws his miniature from 
 her bosom.) Oh, Eliot ! my lover, my husband that is to 
 be ! (She kisses it.) Surely, girl was never before half so 
 happy as I, and yet, at times, a mysterious foreboding 
 comes over me. Ah, well, perhaps it comes to all who 
 leave a home as happy as this of mine has been to me, 
 even for the dearest one on earth. How noble he looks ! 
 {Enter Bessie and Gladys unperceived^ R. 3 E. They em- 
 brace her., laughing.) 
 
 Gladys. Oh Dora, dear Dora ; so we have taken you 
 by surprise. 
 
 Dora. Why, I thought you had gone to bed 1 ng ago. 
 You were so tired, from your long journey, Gladys ; you 
 should be asleep now, but it is so kind of you to come to 
 me. Sit down here in this comfortable chair and rest. 
 
21 
 
 Gladys. I feel quite refreshed already, and Bessie and 
 I thought that we would have our last girls' talk with you 
 to-night. Oh Dora, I have always been so fond of you 
 since the old seminary days, when we two homesick stran- 
 gers found ourselves room-mates, and comforted one an- 
 other while we talked of the dear ones at home. But now 
 I am so happy to know that you will be my very own, my 
 sister, when you are my brother's wife. Yes, Bessie, you 
 and Eliot must share her with me. You have gained a 
 brother ; I a sister. 
 
 Bessie {sighing), I suppose I have gained a good 
 deal ; everybody tells me so, but I feel as if I had lost 
 something, too. Now there is Dora. A little while ago, and 
 we were never happy apart. It was " Bessie, put down 
 your book, and let us have a nice long run in the fields." 
 " Bessie, come, let us play those duets again," or " Read 
 to me, dear, while I am sewing ; no voice is so sweet as 
 yours." And the long winter evenings through we used 
 to read such delightful books, and when a little tired, have 
 such delightful talks that the hours would slip away, till 
 mamma would tap on the wall, as much as to say, " My 
 dear girls, don't you know that you are keeping us all 
 awake ?" But, now, now, I have nobody to play duets with, 
 to read with, to walk with. If I ask Dora, she replies, 
 " How I should love to, Bessie, but I must write to Eliot," 
 and when I ask her to come out for a walk, she says, " El- 
 iot is coming this afternoon — he forgot something last 
 night," but she never says what it was he forgot. Oh, 
 Bess ! I think that auntie would be so glad to go with you,, 
 dear. Much I enjoy walking with her. I would as lieve 
 walk in a funeral procession. Oh, these engaged people ; 
 I have no patience with them ! I have made up my mind 
 to be an old maid. No, I won't either {7'ises). I might 
 be like Aunt Susan. If she were old I wouldn't care, for 
 I do love old people like grandpa. I can wait on them 
 from morning until night. But she is so precise. This 
 is the way we walk (Imitating the manner). "Bessie, 
 turn out your toes ; Bessie, don't swing your arms that 
 way." She says it is more ladylike, and when I want to 
 sit down on the grass and rest, she says " No," that I will 
 
22 
 
 have rheumatism. Rheumatism at my age ! Aud the 
 dear little wild flowers ; she calls them such horrible 
 names. Long Latin names, and insists upon my classify- 
 ing them all. Why (indignantly)^ what do you think 
 she calls a poor little violet ? A mule — a mule. 
 
 Dora and Gladys (together). Not a mule; oh, Bessie! 
 
 Bessie. I didn't say a mule. I have it now ; she called 
 it a Viola Muhlenbergii. 
 
 Dora and Gladys. Oh-h-h ! {groaning) . 
 
 Bessie. And a dear, sweet little daisy, she calls it a Do- 
 ronicum — or what a fine specimen of the genus Globularia. 
 Oh, I was rested after that walk ! She says that we must 
 always combine amusement with instruction, so I took her 
 advice. I thought that after so much instruction I would 
 have a little amusement. You know the bJg white cow 
 that is pastured down by the river side ? 
 
 Dora. Yes ; certainly. 
 
 Bessie. A gentler creature never lived. She always 
 runs to meet me, for I always carry something for her, a 
 handful of salt, or the pea-pods after the cook has shelled 
 the peas for dinner. Now auntie had been so perverse, 
 and I was just wild for a frolic. I begged for just five 
 minutes' run, but she said no ; I was now nearly seventeen 
 years old, and must not behave like a tom-boy, etc., etc. 
 It made me feel so wicked — she is so afraid of cows — and 
 I just told her what was perfectly true, that I had seen 
 some very rare and early specimens in that field. Enough, 
 she did not see the cow in her enthusiastic research, until 
 we were far from the friendly fence ; but when she did, oh 
 girls, I wish you could have seen her ; she forgot all her 
 dignity, and away she flew like the wind. I could not 
 keep up with her. She is not much over thirty, and even 
 I could not keep up with her. When we reached the 
 road again, I had had my run, and was just beginning to 
 think of the awful consequences of my conduct. To my 
 surprise I saw that she considered it purely accidental, and 
 it made me feel so mean that I just owned up and told her 
 I did it on purpose. You should have seen her eyes 
 shine, and her cheeks were like roses. She waited a mo- 
 ment and then said very gently, " It has made me feel 
 
23 
 
 quite young again, Bessie. And I think that we shall un- 
 derstand each other better after this. I wish I were a boy! 
 I can row a boat, or fly a kite, or climb a tree as well an}' 
 of them." 
 
 Gladys. Dear Bessie, I know it has been very hard 
 for you, and nobody notices it, the house has been so full 
 of excitement of late; but I am to stay with you for at least 
 a month after Dora's wedding. Your mother did not forget 
 3'OU, but wTote that 3^ou were secretly grieving over the 
 approaching separation, and invited me to stay with you 
 through the summer, and perhaps I may ; that is, if you 
 want me. 
 
 Bessie. Oh, dear, kind friend; oh, dear, kind mamma; 
 what a delightful surprise you have all given me ! 
 
 Gladys. I am a little selfish, too. The change will do 
 me much good. I have never quite recovered from the 
 grief and fatigue occasioned by my mother's long illness 
 and her subsequent death ; but Eliot has been father, 
 mother and brother, all in all to me ever since. How good 
 he is ! 
 
 Bessie. How brave he was to save Hugh Searight's 
 life at the risk of his own ! He is not strong yet, I fear. 
 
 Dora. You mnst comfort one another, girls, when I 
 am gone. I will feel much happier to know^ that you will 
 be together. Forgive me, Bessie, if I have seemed neg- 
 lectful of you of late. By some strange contradiction my 
 home, my dear ones, never seemed half so dear as now, 
 when I am leaving them ; but surely, Bess, Eliot has been 
 good to you ; I am sure he is very fond of you. 
 
 Bessie. Oh, he used to be kindness itself, but now he 
 rushes in with a " Where's Dora ? " — as if he had a tel- 
 egram of life and death ; and when I say you have gone 
 hither or thither, he rushes off to overtake you, three 
 steps at a time, without hardly stopping to throw a *' good- 
 bye " over his shoulder. Why, when he began coming 
 here, he was so good to me — he taught me to ride, and he 
 taught me to skate, and to row, and he helped me with 
 my French and my trigonometry — that, oh Dora, I will 
 tell you something, if you will promise not to laugh. 
 
 Dora and Gladys. We promise. 
 
24 
 
 Bessie. You won't laugh, now ? 
 
 Dora and Gladys. Oh, no. 
 
 Bessie. Why, you are laughing already — Oh! I can't 
 tell ! 
 
 Dora and Gladys. Oh, please do. 
 
 Bessie {slowly). Well — I thought — he wanted me — 
 
 {Dora and Gladys burst out laughing^ and Bessie joins 
 too.) 
 
 Bessie. Oh, you promised that you wouldn't laugh. 
 
 Dora. Well, Miss Impertinence ; and at your age, not 
 quite seventeen ! what assurance ! 
 
 Bessie. Why, I should like to know ? Did you ever 
 see a ga}^, young-looking, fashionable mamma, whose sons 
 and daughters would persist in growing up, up, up, like 
 bean-stalks, who did not apologize for them by saying, 
 " Yes, Marie is nearly fifteen now, but " (with a sigh) " I 
 was married when barely sixteen." 
 
 Gladys {rising). Well, we will say good night, Dora; 
 you look pale and tired. You need your rest ; I hope you 
 will sleep well to-night. 
 
 {They embrace^ forming a tableau}) We will be three 
 sisters. 
 
 Bessie. Yes ; Faith, Hope and Charity — wliich is 
 Love. 
 
 {Exit R. u. E.) 
 
 Dora {alone) . How warm it is ! ( Throws her window 
 open^ R. 2 E.) How brightly the moon shines in an un- 
 clouded sky ! We shall have a pleasant da^^ to-morrow. 
 ( The moonlight shines about her.) Home, sweet home ; 
 can any home on earth be half so dear as this of mine has 
 been to me ? I almost tremble when I think of the new 
 life that begins to-morrow. But I am filled with a strange 
 new happiness also. {Clasping her hands itpon her breast)^ 
 Oh, my God ; from whose Heart of Love all blessings 
 flow, accept my humble, grateful heart ; and if with these 
 Thou shouldst send sorrows as well, help me to bear them 
 back to Thee, and leave them at Thy feet. {Enter Mrs. 
 M. L. 3 E.) Mother, I was coming to your bedside for 
 your good-night kiss. 
 
 Mrs. M. Darling, how can I give you up? 
 
25 
 
 Dora. But you love Eliot, too, mamma; is he not noble 
 and good ? Is he not all that you wish him to be ? 
 
 Mrs. M. He is indeed worthy of you, and I rejoice in 
 your new-found happiness most deeply. And 3''et our 
 mothers' hearts are wrung at these partings. Ah ! it 
 seems but yesterday I left my mother's side as you are 
 doing, and I have been truly blessed with the kindest of 
 husbands and the most loving of children. And you, 
 Dora, I am sure that life holds in store for you nothing 
 but love and kindness, and I resign you to Eliot without 
 one fear, for I believe that he loves you as tenderly as I 
 do. Good night, and God bless you, my child. You have 
 been my joy and comfort from your birth. May you 
 prove such to Eliot. {Kisses her.) Darling, good night, 
 good night. {Dora^ kneeling^ embraces her) 
 
 Dora. Put your arms around me, mother ; let me lay 
 my head upon your breast once more, dearest and best of 
 mothers. 
 
 ( Tableau. Music — ^^Home^ Sweet Home " — pianissimo; 
 beginning at Mrs. M.^s entrance.) 
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING — THE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 Scene 2. — Eliofs room. A drinking chorus is heard as 
 the curtain rises. Enter at center door, Eliot, 
 Dick, Will and Hugh, all but Hugh slightly 
 intoxicated. Eliot bidding good-bye to others out 
 of sight. Eliot at center door. 
 
 Eliot. Well, good night, boys ; thank you for coming 
 around to-night Goodnight. {They all come forward.) 
 You are a good set, anyhow. What would a man do 
 without friends, I would like to know ? 
 
 Hugh. Perhaps he would be better off without quite 
 so many. 
 
 Eliot. Nonsense, Hugh. You are an old fogy — not 
 up to the times. Do give up that infernal habit of yours 
 of preaching. 
 
 Will. Yes, Searight, do give it up. 
 
 Dick. And have a good time like the rest of us. 
 
26 
 
 Eliot. You were good to come, too, Hugh, but your 
 long face spoiled our fun. 
 
 Hugh. What were you doing when I came in ? 
 
 Eliot. Why, I could have sworn that my candelabra 
 only held six candles yesterday, but to-night I counted 
 them, and there were twelve as sure as you live. I asked 
 the boys, and they said that they saw them, too, but I 
 couldn't tell for the life of me what they were all laughing 
 about. 
 
 Hugh. They were laughing at you, Eliot. Oh, boys, 
 why will you waste your money, your time, your oppor- 
 tunities, your manhood itself, for a pleasure so brief, so 
 deadly as this ? Does not the cruel headache, the weari- 
 ness, the low spirits of the day after, more than offset any 
 brief pleasure you may receive? Think of your homes, 
 your mothers, your sisters. You are filling their cup of 
 bitterness to the brim. What has life in store for you of 
 honor or joy or peace, if you become slaves of the cup? 
 You have only just started downward, but it is a swiftly 
 descending path that leads to Hell. 
 
 Dick. Nobody believes in a Hell nowadays. 
 
 Hugh. The drunkard, then, creates one for himself — 
 poverty, misery, filth, disease, crime, madness, sorrow, 
 death, despair — a pretty fair substitute for one, at all 
 events. How often have you promised me to give up 
 drinking, Dick ? I am sorry to find you here to-night. 
 It is a poor preparation for to-morrow — for you; and for 
 Eliot, most of all. 
 
 Dick. I know it is. I meant to reform, but a week 
 ago I went to a dinner given in honor of Eliot's engage- 
 ment — a swell affair, I can tell you — such a menu ! such 
 food ! such wine ! Everything was on the table that one 
 could wish, except water — soup, oysters, fish, salad ; and I 
 did not drink a drop of wine. The waiter did not or would 
 not understand when I asked for water. At last, mad 
 with thirst, I asked the hostess to have some brought ; 
 and what do you think she said, smiling very sweetly? 
 " We drink nothing but wine to-night, in honor of this 
 delightful occasion." 
 
27 
 
 Hugh. No lady could say thus. Her guests' comfort 
 is her own. 
 
 Dick. It should be, I admit; but it happened just as I 
 tell you. At length the host proposed the bride's health. 
 My lady smiled, and said again, " Surely, you will drink 
 to such a toast as that! " Tortured by thirst, for a twelve- 
 course dinner is no joke, with nothing to drink in the 
 meantime, I lifted the champagne to my lips. In a mo- 
 ment, pledge, home, mother, were forgotten. I drank 
 again and again, until Dora whispered with a trembling 
 voice, '' I wish you would not drink any more. I am ver^^, 
 very sorry, but I cannot help it without offending my 
 friend, and she means to be very kind." Since then, I 
 have never had the wish to resist the wine when presented 
 to me. 
 
 Will. I resolved — I don't think it manly to sign away 
 your independence, you know [he staggers)^ and I won't 
 do it, either — but I resolved not to drink last New- Year's 
 day, but I went to over fifty houses. At many liquor 
 was offered, and we were urged to partake by smiling 
 girls, over and over again, and a gentleman can't say No 
 to a lady, 3'OU know (staggej^s)^ particularly if she is young 
 and pretty. So we drank again and again, and the horses 
 ran away, and I had to pay the bill, and was laid up for a 
 fortnight with a dislocated shoulder. 
 
 Hugh. And lost your position, also ? 
 
 Will. Yes, and I don't know where I will get one 
 half so good. Oh, it's the women, you know ! Eve 
 tempted Adam, and the Eves of the nineteenth century 
 hold the tempting cup to the lips of the modern Adam as 
 successfully as their great ancestress. 
 
 Hugh. Oh, woman ! woman ! who could lead us to 
 heaven, why misuse your God-given power, and scatter 
 sin and sorrow around about you ? When will you awake 
 to a sense of your divine privilege ? 
 
 Dick. And then the parties. Why, the very girl who 
 in the street car or railway coach would shrink away and 
 draw her silken robes aside did she know that the girl 
 sitting beside her offered beer or wine in a dance hall or 
 saloon, although that girl may hate her life but be driven 
 
28 
 
 to it to support a sick niother and little brothers and sis- 
 ters (and many do loathe the business) — this same young 
 lady will urge you with sweetest persuasion to take a 
 glass of champagne with her in the elegant modern sup- 
 per room. She does willingly what the other does from 
 necessity. When he looks at her beautiful face and her 
 dainty dress, a fellow don't stop to think of the danger in 
 the sparkling glass. If she only knew that that one glass 
 often kindles within me a fire that after the ball leads me 
 with resistless force to the gilded palaces of vice and 
 drunkenness, how she would recoil from the work her 
 hands have wrought ! It is the old story — Satan clothed 
 as an Angel of Light. 
 
 Dick and Will. Well, we must be going ; au revoir. 
 You are a lucky fellow, Eliot — a good situation and the 
 prettiest girl in town for your wife. See you to-morrow. 
 Shake a da-da. {Exit center door. Eliot sinks on a chair 
 and goes to sleep ^^ 
 
 Hugh {aside). Oh, Dora ! Dora! how blind these 
 women are ! For two years I have toiled and studied, and 
 planned and dreamed, and all for this. I would have 
 counted poverty and toil as wealth and joy could I have 
 won you. Nay, in my madness, I would have given life 
 itself if for one hour I could have known you wholly mine. 
 But my friend had the beauty of Adonis, and a fluent 
 tongue that could speak her praises well, when mine was 
 dumb before her. Yes, and a loving heart he has also, and 
 qualities that will make a noble manhood, if it were not 
 for this fatal weakness. His inherited appetite is just 
 awakened ; to-night he has gratified it for the first 
 time. This must never happen again. Oh, Dora ! Dora ! 
 That night when I had received news of an inheritance 
 that would enable me at last to speak (for I would never 
 drag her down to poverty), I went to lay everything at her 
 feet. When I entered, she was alone, but as she caught 
 the light of my eyes, she cried, '' Oh, Hugh, dear old 
 friend ! I see Eliot has told you all, and I am so glad he 
 has, for you are his best friend and mine, and I know you 
 will rejoice with us." I answered as best I could. She 
 shall never know what I suffered. From that hour life 
 
29 
 
 has been a heavy burden, but one that unl}^ a coward can lay 
 down. Two things are left to me, my honor, and my faith 
 in God. Henceforth I am simply " their best friend." 
 Hugh Searight shall never cast a secret love-glance at the 
 face of another's wife. I resolved, before I gained the mas- 
 tery over myself, to leave this place forever ; but something 
 tells me that they may both need their friend. That day 
 I went out into the woods beyond our city, and knelt down 
 beneath the trees, and wept as men rarely weep, and then 
 I lifted my heart in such a prayer for strength and victory 
 as I had never known before. I asked for strength to go ; 
 but, strange guidance, when I received that strength, it 
 seemed as if then, but not till then, a voice spoke out of 
 the silence, saying, " Remain^ they have need of theeT 
 {Bending over Eliot.) Poor boy ! may I be able to save 
 him ! His heart and soul are truly noble. I have never 
 knowm one so full of generous impulses. Why does the 
 demon drink gloat over such as he ? {Touching hint) Ah, 
 I see that you are yourself, my friend, once more. Come, 
 Eliot, I want to talk with you. It is not thus that a man 
 should prepare for a great blessing. {Clock outside strikes 
 twelve.) This is your wedding day. 
 
 Eliot. Not to-day, to-morrow. 
 
 Hugh. The clock has struck midnight, and to-day you 
 are to be married. 
 
 Eliot {joyfully). Yes, to the sweetest girl in all the 
 world ! 
 
 Hugh. Come with me. Look there ! {They walk to 
 the mirror^ R. 2. E.) 
 
 Eliot {looking into the glass). My God! and is it I? 
 {covers his face ^ Oh, how unworthy am I of this great 
 happiness ! 
 
 Hugh. Strive to become so. {They come to the front}) 
 
 Eliot. Oh, it is easy for you to talk. You have no 
 temptations like us poor common mortals. Good, staid, 
 honest old Hugh. 
 
 Hugh {aside). Could he but see my heart. 
 
 Eliot. But I will strive to be more worthy of her I so 
 much love. Oh, Hugh, you are so much engrossed in your 
 books you don't know half how good she is ! When she 
 
30 
 
 but speaks my name it becomes sweetest music to my ear. 
 The lighest touch of her hand thrills my inmost soul ; 
 and when she lifts her eyes to my face, and I read there the 
 love and adoration of which I am so unworthy, I feel ready 
 to toil, to suffer, to achieve, To BR THE man she SEES 
 IN ME. 
 
 Hugh. Brave Eliot, you will yet be that man, and we 
 will rejoice together at LOVE'S TRIUMPH, over every 
 obstacle. 
 
 Eliot. It is funny, Hugh, that you never fell in love 
 like the rest of us. You are proof against the charms 
 that win us. You were born to be an old bachelor. 
 
 Hugh (dryly and slowly^. Yes, an — old — bachelor — 
 undoubtedly. 
 
 Eliot. Tell me, were you never in love ? truly now ? 
 on your honor ? 
 
 Hugh. Yes, perhaps, once ; it seems years ago ; let us 
 not speak of it. 
 
 Eliot. Friend, I had never dreamed of this ; who 
 was she? 
 
 Hugh. It matters not ; she is dead to me ; let us speak 
 of yourself. We are friends, Eliot ; I owe my life to you. 
 From the day when I fell into the river from our boat, 
 stunned by the rebound of my gun, when we were shoot- 
 ing together, the debt has hung heavy upon me. You 
 sprang in, forgetting your coat and ammunition that 
 weighed you down, and seizing me, held me up by a su- 
 perhuman effort, till help came. When rescued you were 
 thoroughly chilled, and you paid for your generous aid 
 with an attack of fever — typhoid — of a most malignant 
 type. 
 
 Eliot. Yes, but you nursed me so long and tenderly, 
 that my life that seemed worthless, was saved, and you in 
 turn succumbed. I believe that I was sick before your acci- 
 dent, and should have had the fever anyhow. But I shall 
 never forgive the doctor who prescribed liquor for me. It 
 has been my curse. 
 
 Hugh. I told him that your father fell a victim to the 
 appetite, and begged him to substitute some other form of 
 nourishment, lest hereditary tendencies should be devel- 
 
31 
 
 oped; but he answered, "Physicians prescribe; nurses 
 obey and follow instructions." Your life hung by a thread, 
 and I had no alternative after that. 
 
 Eliot. From the day I tasted the egg-nog and brand}^, 
 I was a changed man. It was like the taste of blood to 
 the young lion. When I was a boy I promised my mother 
 never to drink ; and I kept that pledge. It was forced 
 upon me, and now I am undone. Somehow, when I try 
 to break o£f, I have not suf&cient strength. 
 
 Hugh. Yes, but you were never really intoxicated be- 
 fore to-night. 
 
 Eliot. Never ; but it it the horrible craving that I 
 fear. My will grows weaker. 
 
 Hugh. Yes, intemperance is the worst of vices for this 
 reason : you can resist other temptations with the strength 
 of your will ; but liquor breaks down the will itself, and 
 you are like a boat drifting on a powerful current, and the 
 oars are thrown away. 
 
 Eliot. How true, Hugh ; you are so wise and strong ; 
 stand by me, let me lean upon you, and always be as now, 
 my friend. 
 
 Hugh. So help me God, I will. {Curtain}^ 
 
 {After a momeftt the curtain rises and shows Eliot 
 asleep ^a7id Fleming leaning into the window^ and dropping 
 so7netJiing into Eliot^s open trunk.) 
 
LOVE^S TRIUMPH. 
 
 ACT III, 
 
 THE WEDDING DAY — AFTER THE CEREMONY. 
 
 [Enter Bessie R. u. E.) 
 
 Bessie. Well, it is all over with — I declare, a wedding 
 is just about as sad as a funeral. I feel as if I had lost 
 Dora forever. I suppose that I shall get over it, and Eliot 
 is a good fellow and madly in love with Dora. I wonder 
 if any one will ever fall in love with me. I've made such 
 a discovery ! Hugh has been in love with Dora all the 
 time, but would not speak until he had a future assured. 
 I know it as well as if he had told me. When Dora was 
 plighting her vows, and in her own sweet voice said " I 
 will," and lifted her heavenly eyes to Eliot's face with 
 such unutterable tenderness, I glanced, I know not why, 
 at Hugh. There he stood, for one instant, like one in a 
 dream, forgetting everything but her ; but his face {cover- 
 ing her ow7i) I shall never forget as long as I live. He 
 was pale as death, but the veins in his forehead were 
 swollen, and I could think of nothing but the " Ecce 
 Homo " to compare with the suffering I read there. In a 
 moment he remembered where he was, and, with a mighty 
 effort, he was himself again. Oh, I could cry, I am so 
 sorry for him ! [Sitting down and rocking to and fro^ 
 softly crying) He was so noble and self-sacrificing; I 
 have loved him like a brother. When I was a little child 
 no one was ever so kind to me as he. [Enter Hugh l. u. 
 E.) Poor Hugh ! 
 
 Hugh. Why, how is this, Bessie ? Why am I poor ? 
 And why these tears ? Why do you weep for me ? 
 
 BESSIE- Oh, I did not hear you. 
 
 Hugh. But I heard you. Speak, little sister, and tell 
 me why you say " poor Hugh ! " I thought that every 
 one was envying me my great fortune. Tell me, I insist. 
 
 Bessie. I heard your whisper, I saw your look. Oh, 
 Hugh, I have surprised your secret! 
 
33 
 
 Hugh. Ah ! little one no longer ! So you, too, are a 
 woman, and begin to understand something of this great 
 mystery of sin and pain and suffering ? You hold my 
 secret ; it is no dishonorable one ; I can trust you with it 
 {taking hei^ by the hand)^ can I not? 
 
 Bessie. You can. I am your friend, Hugh, and will 
 be to the end. 
 
 Hugh. I shall never forget that, in this day of agony 
 to me, there was one who pitied me, and one who gave me 
 her full sympathy. Child no longer, but woman ; may 
 God bless you ! 
 
 Bessie. But what will you do, Hugh ? Will you go 
 abroad as you proposed ? 
 
 Hugh. No, Bessie, not yet. No change of sky could 
 comfort me for her. Only in work, hard work, can I find 
 relief You know that I always wanted to preach the 
 gospel to the poor, but had not means to gratify the wish. 
 I mean to complete a private course of study, to fit me for 
 a layman's work, as soon as possible, and then devote my- 
 self to the neglected poor. If I can give bread and meat, 
 with prayer and teaching, I hope, to serve my Master 
 thus. Were I more eloquent, I perhaps should endeavor 
 to become a clergyman ; but I am what I am, plain Hugh 
 Searight, not much to look at or listen to, but a follower 
 afar off of One who has called me by His name. 
 
 Bessie. And the truest and best of friends, so says 
 Eliot. He has just told us of your generous gift and 
 future provision for him. 
 
 Hugh. Well, I am to be an old bachelor it seems, and 
 why should I not provide for such a friend ? 
 
 Bessie. Never mind, Hugh; I have fully decided to 
 be an old maid, and I shall wear spectacles, and a false 
 front, and carry a little bag, and walk just so, and visit 
 your poor people, and read to your blind ones, and take 
 jelly and fruit to your sick ones, and help you all I can. 
 So, there ! 
 
 Hugh [looking at her and smiling). Well, Bess, there 
 is only one objection. 
 
 Bessie. What is that ? 
 
 Hugh. Why ! I am afraid that I will have to wait a 
 
34 
 
 long time for you to become an old maid, and — perhaps — 
 
 Bessie. Well, perhaps — 
 
 Hugh {dryly). And perhaps in the meantime you may 
 change your mind. 
 
 Bessie. Never ! Never! ! NEVER ! ! ! {Exit center 
 door,) 
 
 Hugh. So little Bessie has surprised my secret that I 
 thought was safely locked away in my own breast. What 
 a true soul she has ! so like Dora's, and yet she is so differ- 
 ent. Ever varying, ever surprising one with her quaint 
 freshness, and yet as loyal as the needle to the pole. And 
 she was crying over my trouble. (In deep reflection^ sighs.) 
 Well, since I cannot have love, I will have friendship. 
 Since I cannot sing " Vive I'Amour," I will cry, " Long 
 live Friendship." But I must be a friend to deserve such 
 a one as Bessie. I am troubled about Eliot. He realizes 
 the great blessing he has received, but his temptations are 
 very strong. I must save him for her sake as well as for 
 his own. The reception is over now, and the guests have 
 nearly all gone. 
 
 {Enter bridal party. Music^ "'Call Me Thine Own.^^) 
 
 Hugh {aside). How beautiful she is ; one must have 
 clean hands and a pure heart to serve her with. ( The 
 butler passes wine.) 
 
 Mr. M. Come, Eliot, what is the matter? Don't look 
 so downcast ! But I have seen many a man, who would 
 walk to the cannon's mouth without flinching, as pale as 
 you on his wedding-day. Take a glass of champagne. 
 
 {Eliot declines with a gesture.) 
 
 Mr. M. Nay, I insist. To the bride's health, then. 
 
 Eliot {aside). I cannot refuse such a toast. {All 
 drink.) 
 
 Mr. M. See, you feel better already. 
 
 Eliot {aside) . The blood mounts to my brain ; it 
 courses madly through my veins. O, what a maddening 
 thirst has seized me ; but I will never yield! 
 
 Dora. What has changed you so, Eliot ? Do you not 
 love me ? 
 
 Eliot. Love you ? Aye, from each soft curl to the 
 dainty hem of your garment. I love you with a love as 
 
35 
 
 high as heaven, as broad as earth, as deep as hell ! 
 
 Dora. Don't speak so, you frighten me with your ve- 
 hemence. 
 
 Eliot. Frighten you, my dove, my darling! Forgive 
 me if I spoke too wildly. I am not good enough for you. 
 You will find it out too soon, I fear. Promise me, that if 
 you do, you will not forsake me. You are my good angel. 
 You alone can save me. 
 
 Dora. Save you ? From what ? You speak in mys- 
 teries. 
 
 Eliot. Promise. 
 
 Dora. I will — till death do us part. 
 
 Hugh [aside to other friends). He is not very well. 
 He is not strong yet from his long sickness. The wine 
 has excited him a little. It was only a tiny glass, but his 
 brain is still sensitive, and it has been a trying day. In 
 a moment it will pass away. 
 
 Eliot. Promise again. 
 
 Dora. I do, I do. Till death do us part. 
 
 [Durmg this dialogue^ Arnold Wolfe enters with De- 
 tective Fox and pays his compliments. Other guests retire. 
 
 Wolfe [to Dora). I am late, I fear, but not too late 
 to wish you joy upon your wedding-day, fair bride. May 
 I claim an old friend's privilege ? [He claims a kiss^ but 
 she shrinks away.) Your hand, then. [Kisses her hand.) 
 [To Eliot.) I wish yon happiness on this your wedding- 
 day, my friend. Permit me to offer my congratulations. 
 [Wolfe draws Mr. Martin aside.) I am sorry to bring 
 you bad news, sir, at such a time as this, but I see no al- 
 ternative. The bank has been robbed. 
 
 Mr. M. The bank robbed? What a misfortune to 
 come now. How do you know ? When was it done ? Do 
 you know by whom ? Tell me, quickly ! 
 
 Wolfe. The bank was closed to-day, of course, as this 
 is a national holiday. Some business affairs led me that 
 wa}^' this morning. Imagine my surprise when I discov- 
 ered the doors of the vault open. I telephoned at once 
 for the Chief of Police, and this valued of&cer [turning to 
 Fox) was immediately sent up. He at once demanded 
 
36 
 
 that I should be searched. Of course he was right, and I 
 submitted to this unpleasant process. 
 
 Mr. M. That was quite unnecessary ; Mr. Wolfe is 
 above suspicion. 
 
 Wolfe. And now the officer had better tell his story. 
 
 Detective Fox. I'm a detective ; my name is Fox, 
 and it just suits my character. There's not much going 
 on that I don't see. It's pretty hard to fool me, you bet 
 your life ! When Mr. Wolfe here called me in, I just said 
 right up to him, ''I've gotto search you.'' He did not 
 like it very well, but I do my duty. Well, he's all right. 
 I next examined the vault. 
 
 Wolfe. But you did not find anything ? 
 
 Fox. Now that's where you got left. I found this. 
 (holding up the locket.) Whoever robbed that safe, acci- 
 dentally dropped that locket when he did it. (Opens the 
 locket^ and they all gather round) It's a lady's face, and 
 a pretty one at that. 
 
 Dora {looking at it). Let me see. 
 
 Fox. Why, bless me, if it isn't her ! {Sensation.) 
 
 Eliot. The locket is mine. How it came there I do 
 not know. 
 
 Mr. M. This is strange, very strange. 
 
 Fox. Whew! {Whistles.) Then that is the chap that 
 robbed the bank, mark my words ! {Rubs his hands.) I 
 told you that my name was Fox, and it just suited me. 
 Now, some fellows just go off on the wrong tack, but it 
 isn't so with me. I just says to myself, " It is the fellow 
 that looks just as innocent as him, and the fellow that 
 nobody suspects, that always does it." And I just go for 
 him. I've got him now ! 
 
 Mr. M. Was the safe broken open ? 
 
 Fox. No, it was opened in the usual way by one who 
 knew. Who held the combination ? 
 
 Mr. M. My son-in-law. A word with you, Eliot. Can 
 you explain in any way this unhappy matter ? Have you 
 given the combination to any one else ? Make a confidant 
 of me. 
 
 Eliot. To no one. I know nothing. I can explain 
 nothing — only, I swear, I am innocent ! 
 
37 
 
 Dora. Why, father, you don't believe that Eliot took 
 the money? You don't distrust him, father? Only say 
 that you don't suspect Eliot, dearest father. {Her mother 
 embraces her.) 
 
 Mrs. M. My daughter, my poor child, all will yet be 
 explained. For Eliot's sake, for our sakes, be brave. 
 
 Wolfe. I deeply regret this unfortunate occurrence. 
 I never thought of Mr. Earll in the matter. I will do all 
 in my power to keep your family secret. I am very sorry 
 to have played a part in this most unfortunate affair. I 
 will answer for Fox's silence, and if any loan that I can 
 make will replace the stolen money, and relieve you from 
 temporary embarrassment, you are most welcome to my 
 purse and account. I owe all that I have and am to you, 
 Mr. Martin ; take it, and use it as you will. 
 
 EiviOT. This is most noble and generous in you^ 
 Wolfe. I will repay your kindness with interest some 
 day. If I have ever misunderstood you, I now ask your 
 pardon. 
 
 Fox. I believe that he was going to Canada on his 
 wedding trip. I think that we had better search his bag- 
 gage. 
 
 Eliot. Certainly. My trunk is in my room, in No. 
 91, just across the street. Here is the key of my room. 
 Perhaps you had better bring the trunk here and satisfy 
 every one. 
 
 Mr. M. Let them do so. As cashier of this bank, and 
 as my daughter's husband, Mr. Earll must clear up this 
 dark affair. I must confess that while I have loved him 
 as a son, and regarded him as such, and while I believe 
 him innocent, circumstances seem to point to his guilt. 
 Eliot, you must clear away this stain, or renounce Dora 
 forever. 
 
 {They bring in the trunk. Eliot hands them the key. 
 Fox opens it; the notes are found; he hands them, to Mr. 
 Martin. Great sensation}) 
 
 Mr. M. Yes, these are the Bank of England notes 
 that Mr. Brown deposited day before yesterday. I noticed 
 them particularly. Mr. Earll, perhaps you can account 
 for the presence of these notes in your trunk. 
 
38 
 
 Eliot. I have no explanation ; I am dumb with 
 amazement! What can I say? What can I do? My 
 cup of happiness is turned to wormwood. Only I swear 
 that I am as innocent as this dear girl, whom I have just 
 called my wife. Will you not believe me ? Yet, how can 
 you? Everything points toward my guilt; but I will be 
 a man, and not a coward. I will prove my innocence to 
 all the world. 
 
 Hugh. Eliot, do not be rash. The world must never 
 know this; if not for your own sake, for the sake of this 
 innocent girl, of this honored family. Fortunately, the 
 notes are not lost ; they must be replaced immediately, 
 and the safe closed. No one will be the wiser ; no one but 
 ourselves need ever know. I am sure that we are all 
 pledged to silence. 
 
 Mr. M. Thank you, Hugh, you are quite right, as you 
 almost always are. All shall be done as you say, and the 
 public shall never know. Mr. Earll has received a month's 
 leave of absence. He will go to Canada, as he planned. 
 The world will think that Dora" is with him, but she will 
 remain here in strict retirement, for the present. You, 
 Mr. Wolfe, will take his place in the bank. You are richly 
 entitled to it. In time he can resign without scandal, and, 
 may God help us to see a way out of it for Dora. My 
 poor child ! 
 
 Hugh. I think with you that Eliot had better go. It 
 will give him time to recover from the shock, and his 
 friends time to act. Of one thing I an convinced, and that 
 is that some enemy of his has done this, and that we shall 
 find him out in time. 
 
 Mrs. M. God grant that you may! {to Eliot) My poor 
 boy ! 
 
 Hugh. That same enemy might cause his arrest at 
 any moment. He had better go. You, Gladys, will ac- 
 company him, I know. He needs your sympathy, 
 
 Gladys. My place is with my brother ; in honor or 
 in dishonor I trust in him without a misgiving. 
 
 Mrs. M. Go, my son ; Dora and I are women, and 
 therefore we will believe in you against the evidence of the 
 whole world. 
 
39 
 
 Eliot (^kissing her hand). Mother, I thank you. Good 
 bye, Dora, my darling ; good bye. Love me ! believe in 
 me ! I will return ! 
 
 Dora. Let me go with you ! I will have no home but 
 3^ours ; my place is at your side ; I am your wife, and shall 
 I let you go alone, broken-hearted, unjustly accused ; with 
 unseen, unknown enemies around you ? Do you think that 
 I can ever doubt you ? Did I not vow, "For better, for 
 worse," " In good report, in evil report," '' Till death do us 
 part ?" Oh, Eliot, take me with you ! 
 
 Mr. M. My daughter shall never go ! 
 
 Eliot. My wife shall not go. Do you think for a single 
 moment I w^ould take her thus? Because she is mine in the 
 eyes of the law, do you think that I am capable of such 
 cruelt}^ ? Shall I drag her down into the pit that yawns 
 to entrap my unw^ary feet ? From a home like this shall 
 I take her to share the uncertain abode of a wanderer, and 
 an accused criminal ? " With all my worldly goods, I thee 
 endow." Oh, what a mockery ! I have nothing now to 
 share with her, but shame, and fear, and misery. I dare 
 not think of what I am leaving behind. I go for your 
 sakes, not my own. I shall soon return to prove my inno- 
 cence. I shall spend every moment of my time, every 
 dollar of my money, every drop of blood in my veins, if 
 need be, to vindicate the name that now^ is hers ! 
 
 Dora. Take me with you, Eliot ! 
 
 Eliot. My dearest, trust me ; your place is here. But 
 I will come again. Don't look so pale, so faint. Look up ; 
 kiss me once again ! Be brave, for my sake. It must be 
 so for a little while. (^Pitts her in her fatherh ar77ts.) 
 Take her ; take my wife ! (How can I go ?) Keep her ! 
 Watch over her ! till we meet again ! {Dora swoons. 
 Exit Eliot and Gladys, c. D.) 
 
LOVKS TRIUMPH. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene i. — A Street. Time, a month later. Enter Dora 
 and Bessie. 
 
 .Bessie. Dear sister, you bear up bravely ; Eliot will be 
 glad to know how fully you trust in him. It will not 
 be much longer. You have been confined to the house by 
 illness so long that no one has seen you, and every one 
 still supposes you on your wedding trip. Our old servants 
 are so faithful that we can trust them, and now we will 
 just let people think that you have returned, and that 
 Eliot has gone away again on business. Now that Gladys 
 has returned to us it will look all right. 
 
 Dora. That is the best way, I suppose. But, oh, the 
 days are so long. When will the suspense be ended ? 
 But I am selfish to think of myself, for my lot is not so 
 hard as Eliot's. How I wish he knew how my love for 
 him has grown with this long separation ! I can never 
 fepay you for your goodness, Bessie. Your faith in Eliot, 
 your courage, have upheld me, or I think I should have 
 died. 
 
 Bessie. I know that we shall soon hear from him. 
 But we had better go home, now, for you are growing tired. 
 [Exeunt^ r. u. e. Enter 1^^5<^YL^ L. u. E.) 
 Hugh. It is just a month to-day since the wedding, 
 and still I can find no clue to this strange crime. I am 
 weary trying to solve the mystery. What enemy could 
 a fellow like Eliot have anyway ? He who was always so 
 kind to every one. It looks very black against him ; but 
 f feel, I know, that he is innocent. 
 
 (Enter Eliot, somewhat disguised^ R. i E.) 
 Hugh. Why, Eliot, my boy, what are you doing here ? 
 This is very imprudent. The unknown enemy that plot- 
 ted for your ruin, may at any time charge you openly 
 with the crime, particularly if he has not yet accomplished 
 what he has desired to do. 
 
41 
 
 Eliot. I know it is unwise, but I could endure the 
 suspense no longer ; I felt compelled to return to see Dora 
 once more ; by chance I learned that she had been very 
 ill. Tell me, how is my wife ? Tell me all about her. 
 
 Hugh. She has been ill, but is quite well again. You 
 will not go there ? 
 
 Eliot. I have just seen her, 
 
 Hugh. You are mad ! 
 
 Eliot. Have no fear ; she did not see me, and never 
 shall till I wipe off this stain from my name. But I saw 
 her at her window, reading my letter to her over and over 
 and over again. And just now she passed so near to me 
 that I might have touched her. She little knew how near 
 I was, though out of her sight. She looks paler and 
 thinner, but calm and brave. I am content. I know that 
 you have been a brother to her, Hugh, and I thank you, 
 
 Hugh. I have done all that I could, but it would have 
 been unavailing but for Bessie. I never saw such courage 
 and self-denial in one so young. It seemed during that 
 first terrible week as if Dora would either die or go mad. 
 The shock was a terrible one to her, but Bessie never left 
 her side by night or day ; nursed her, petted her, humored 
 her, coaxed her, but, above all, inspired her with courage, 
 to believe not only in you, for she trusts you blindly, but 
 in your final victory over your cowardly foe. The other 
 day, when I called, I found them in the drawing-room 
 alone. Bessie had been reading to Dora. I entered before 
 she perceived me. I wish you could have seen her eyes 
 shine and her cheek burn, as she repeated the lines : 
 
 " For Right is Right, since God is God, 
 And Right the day must win; 
 To doubt would be disloyalty, 
 To falter would be sin." 
 
 The words seemed to thrill through Dora as she listened, 
 and she looked as proud and brave as even you could 
 desire. 
 
 Eliot. Hugh, my boy, I do not know your secret, 
 only that you have loved and lost ; I wish that you could 
 find comfort and joy once more. Don't you think that if 
 you tried very hard you could love Bessie ? No woman 
 
42 
 
 whom Hugh Searight loved could ever refuse him., Think 
 it over seriously ; it is a good suggestion. 
 
 Hugh. Thank you, Eliot, but I never expect to marry. 
 
 Eliot. I hear that Jack Harland is very much in love 
 with her, and some think that she reciprocates it. 
 
 Hugh. You do? The miserable puppy, to aspire to 
 her hand! He is utterlyunwoithy of her ! 
 
 EiyiOT. Yes, but you know that these fine women 
 almost always throw themselves away on just such 
 fellows. 
 
 Hugh. I shall see to that ; it must not be. He is a 
 comparative stranger here, and brought letters of intro- 
 duction to Mr. Martin, but I know his antecedents. Why, 
 he left the girl he led astray in St. Louis to starve and 
 die when he tired of her ! The miserable scoundrel ! 
 Bessie shall never marry him. 
 
 Eliot {aside). That worked well. How blind he is 
 not to see that Bessie almost worships him. 
 
 Hugh. Let us talk about your affairs now. Can you 
 think of any one that you have injured in any way? 
 
 Eliot. No one, upon my honor. 
 
 Hugh. Well, it is very odd ; but do you think that 
 Wolfe likes you ? 
 
 Eliot. I do not know. I suppose he felt a little put 
 out about my appointment as cashier at the bank. That 
 was perfectly natural, but Wolfe is above suspicion. I 
 will not rise by dragging down any one else. He must 
 not be suspected. 
 
 Hugh. Bessie tells me that he was a suitor for Dora's 
 hand. She suspects him, too, but we have no evidence. 
 
 Eliot. It cannot be. It is too dreadful to believe. 
 Besides, he proved a true friend in our trouble. He offered 
 me his purse, preserved secrecy, and did everything in his 
 power to help us all. 
 
 Hugh. I know all this ; nevertheless, I have had him 
 watched very carefully, but, I must say, without success. 
 If he is guilty, the trouble is we can find no proof what- 
 ever. However, I will not despair. 
 
 Eliot. I must not be seen with you ; I should be rec- 
 
43 
 
 ognized. I must avoid all my old friends. Where shall 
 I go? 
 
 Hugh. An old lady lives alone at the third house 
 around yonder corner. Years ago I saved her only son 
 from ruin. Since then all her family have died, but she 
 still lives there. She will do for me an3^thing in her 
 power, {Hugh writes on a card) Take that to her; she 
 will care for 3^ou. 
 
 Eliot, Thank you, Hugh. And you can meet me 
 there without suspicion. 
 
 Hugh. Yes ; but I must first attend to a little business. 
 Good-b^^e, Eliot ; cheer up, 
 
 Eliot. Good-bye. {Exit Eliot l. u. E.) 
 
 Hugh. There comes Fleming, as sure as I live, just 
 pardoned out of prison. I must help him in some wa3\ 
 He was such a good fellow once, how could he have done 
 so base a thing? Well, I suppose he was greatly tempted, 
 and he has suffered bitterly for his crime. I don't believe 
 in kicking a fellow because he is down. {Enter Fleming 
 R. u. E.) Hello, Fleming, glad to see 3^ou once more. 
 {Offers his hand,) 
 
 Fleming. Thank you for the warm grasp of your hand, 
 Mr. Searight ; it is long since I felt one like it. You help 
 me to be a man again. I am going West in a few da^^s, 
 where men do not know my history, for the sake of m}^ 
 boy. 
 
 Hugh. If you need help, come to me ; I will be glad 
 to help you to start afresh, 
 
 Fleming. Thank you for every kind word 3^ou speak. 
 I know that they come from the heart. But a kind friend 
 has supplied my immediate w^ants. 
 
 Hugh. That was a noble deed ; may I ask his name ? 
 
 Fleming. Mr. Wolfe. He wanted to help me. He 
 gave me the money to care for my little crippled boy. He 
 has been in the hospital for a month, and the great sur- 
 geon, Eckhoff, has visited him ever}^ day. He still carries 
 a crutch, but will soon be able to dispense with it alto- 
 gether. He came home last night. 
 
 Hugh. Wolfe ? You say he did this for you without 
 return, or hope of reward ? It does not seem possible. 
 
44 
 
 {aside ^1 I will abandon his trail, and atone for my unjust 
 suspicions to him. 
 
 Fleming. He insists that we shall go West immedi- 
 ately. I don't see why he is in such a hurry ; but per- 
 haps he is right, and it is best after all. 
 
 Hugh. And you did nothing in return for all this ? 
 
 Fleming. Nothing at all, except to help him play a 
 practical joke on an old friend of his. 
 
 Hugh. A joke? Wolfe a joker and a philanthropist 
 also ? I never took Mr. Wolfe for a joking man. I sup- 
 pose that the jest is a secret? 
 
 Fleming. Yes ; I must not tell it, but it was a rich one. 
 
 Hugh, (aside). There is a false note here; it does 
 n3t ring true. It is so contrary to Wolfe's character, and 
 yet Fleming is so frank about it, that he evidently sus- 
 pects nothing. I wonder if he could have used Fleming 
 in this matter ? I must see. 
 
 Fleming {joyfully). There comes my boy, Mr. Sea- 
 right. I want you to see the noble little fellow. He is 
 just crossing the street. He still carries a crutch, but see 
 how lightly he steps along. 
 
 {Loud sounds of runaway horses. Fleming shrieks)) 
 
 Fleming. Look out ! Paul ! Look out for the horses! 
 He does not see them ! My God ! they have crushed him 
 under their hoofs ! ( Whirls wildly around.) 
 
 { The next moment Eliot rushes in ivith the child ^ safe in 
 his arms.) 
 
 Paul. Don't be frightened, papa, I'm all right. 
 
 Fleming. All right ? Are you sure ? Are you not 
 hurt ? Here ? Here ? {Feels of him ingi^eat agitation, 
 and then sobs iit joy.) Saved! saved! thank God! 
 
 {They see that Eliot is wounded^ with blood flowing from 
 his temples ; they catch him as he falls.) 
 
 Fleming. Where shall we take him ? I fear that he 
 is dying ! God help him ! Do you know who he is ? 
 Where does he live ? 
 
 Hugh. I cannot say, but he needs immediate care. 
 
 Fleming. I live near by ; let me care for him. I prom- 
 ise to do all anyone can do. I will never leave him; only 
 consent and let me take him to my room. It is humble, 
 
45 
 
 but I will make him comfortable. 
 
 Paul {kissing Eiiofs hand). Let me run for the 
 doctor. 
 
 Hugh. That is best ; let him go. [Exit Paul^ r. u. E.) 
 Promise to tell no one about it and I will consent. He is 
 in a danger 3^ou cannot understand. 
 
 Fleming. I do. ( They bear him away.) 
 
 Scene 2. — Fleming'' s Attic Chamber [very plain^ but clean). 
 Eliot lying on a white cot; Hugh, Fleming and 
 Paul standing near; Dr. Eckhoff feeling Eiiofs 
 pulse. 
 
 Dr. Eckhoff. You are unnecessarily alarmed, gentle- 
 men. He has lost a good deal of blood, and the left arm 
 is somewhat injured, but I think that no vital part is 
 touched. The heart and brain seem disturbed, how^ever. 
 I cannot account for some symptoms. I do not like this 
 drowsiness, but I think that it will pass away soon, and 
 that he wdll soon be all right, with care. I w411 look in 
 later. If he awakes, spare him all excitement." Good-da}^ 
 gentlemen. 
 
 All. Good-day, Doctor. [Exit Dr. Eckhoff center 
 door.) 
 
 Hugh. I have some urgent business, Fleming, but will 
 return in an hour, and then w^e will divide the care and 
 watching between us. [Exit Hugh R. u. E.) 
 
 Paul. Oh, papa, do you believe that he will get well ? 
 I love him so much. 
 
 Fleming. I hope so, my son ; I think so. [Enter 
 Wolfe L. u. E.) 
 
 Wolfe. Good evening, Fleming; I came in to say 
 that I have bought tickets to Seattle for yourself and boy. 
 When there, you can begin life again, but you must go 
 to-morrow morning at six. [Aside}) He must go, or all 
 will be discovered. Some one is watching me. 
 
 Fleming. Pardon me, if it seems ungrateful, but I do 
 not see the need for haste. I cannot leave for several days. 
 
 Wolfe [angrily). And why not, may I ask? 
 
 Fleming. To-night, a young man, a stranger to me. 
 
4^ 
 
 saved my boy's life at tlie risk of his own. He rushed 
 under the horses' hoofs and rescued him, but the pole 
 struck him, and he is badly injured; I must care for him 
 until he is better. I should be ungrateful beyond all oth- 
 ers if I left him before he was out of danger. He is insen- 
 sible at present. Will you wait here one moment, as he 
 must not be left alone, while I go to the drug-store across 
 the street to fill the doctor's prescription ? 
 
 Woi^FE. Certainly. {Aside.) A thousand curses on 
 the fate that keeps him here. [Aloud.) Who is this brave 
 young hero ? 
 
 Fi^EMiNG. I do not even know his name. I will be 
 back directly. {Exit Flemings R. u. E.) 
 
 Wolfe {lighting a cigar). I think I will take a look 
 at him. Damnation ! {He starts; Paul drops his crutch 
 at the exclamation.) 
 
 Paul. What was that you said, Mr. Wolfe ? 
 
 Wolfe {looking at him wickedly). I believe that I 
 have the gout ; my foot gave me a terrible twinge. 
 {Aside.) I could strangle him if I were alone, but no — 
 they would find me out. Strangling may be dangerous 
 for more than one of the parties. I will take the safer 
 way. He has come back ! Perhaps he is on my track 1 
 Does he suspect me ? I begin to feel as if every one was 
 watching me ! Oh, how I hate him ! I will not spare 
 him. Mr. Martin chafes more and more under the dis- 
 grace. Every day he leans more and more upon me. I 
 have even suggested to him that the ceremony was only a 
 form — that in the eye of the law it did not constitute mar- 
 riage. I showed him how easily the marriage could be 
 annulled ; I even went so far as to mention, very diffi- 
 dently, my own disappointed hopes. He sighed and said 
 that he had hoped to have a son to lean upon in coming 
 years. But I know that Dora fears me, despises me, and 
 almost hates me too. Never mind ; I will have her yet ! 
 My star is rising ! But here this supplanter comes again 
 across my path. I must crush him at once, as I did the 
 other one ! I will give information this day to the Chief 
 of Police, and will show. him where the bank robber can 
 be found. I will stake everything on this move — I will 
 
47 
 
 win all, or lose all. {Exit R. u. E. Enter Fleming l. U. E.) 
 
 Eliot {moving). What place is this ? 
 
 Fleming. Be very quiet ; you are with friends ; Sea- 
 right will be back directly. {Enter Hugh^ L. u. E.) 
 
 Hugh. Hello, Eliot ; so you are awake now ? You 
 have not been very well, and must keep very quiet. 
 
 Eliot. I am well enough now. {tries to move and falls 
 back with a groan.) What is the matter with my arm ? 
 
 Hugh. Try to be quiet, Eliot ; you were hurt in the 
 street. 
 
 Eliot. Yes, now I remember. Where's the boy ? Is 
 he all right? 
 
 Fleming. Yes, sir, he is all right ; he's quite well. 
 Come here, Paul, and let us thank the gentleman for your 
 life. 
 
 Paul. Oh, thank you sir, for saving me. You are so 
 good. I love you very much. Do you feel very bad ? 
 
 Eliot. No, I feel all right, only very weak and faint. 
 
 Fleming. I do not know your name yet. Whom shall 
 I thank for this generous act of self-sacrifice ? 
 
 Eliot. Some day I may tell you ; as yet I have no 
 name. I will not wear the one my father gave me until 
 I wash out the stain upon it. But I will trust you, Mr. 
 Fleming. I am accused of a crime that I never dreamed 
 of committing, and in danger of arrest at any moment, 
 should my unknown enemy prefer charges. 
 
 Hugh. Eliot, this is too much exertion for you. 
 
 Eliot. Talking does not hurt me. On my wedding- 
 day, I was charged with robbing the vault of the Atlantic 
 Bank, where 1 was cashier. To save them all from dis- 
 grace, I left my wife, my new-made bride, in her father's 
 arms. So help me God, I am innocent ! 
 
 Fleming. He too ? I believe you. We are brothers in 
 misery. For two long years I was shut within a prison's 
 walls, for a forgery I never committed. It was on the same 
 bank where you were employed, but it was before you came. 
 That is why you do not know me. 
 
 Eliot. I have often heard of you. Mr. Martin used 
 to say that you were the most faithful man in the bank 
 until your crime. 
 
48 
 
 Hugh, Eliot, you must not talk so mucli ; the doctor's 
 orders were positive. I will tell Mr. Fleming all. Per- 
 haps we can solve the mystery. I had better tell yon the 
 rest. The vault was found unlocked, a locket containing 
 a portrait of the bride was found there. Suspicion was 
 directed toward him, and when his trunk was searched, a 
 package of notes of the Bank of England, was found in 
 his trunk. How they came there is a mystery that we 
 have never solved. 
 
 Fleming. His trunk ! Can it be ? No, it is impossi- 
 ble. Where did it all happen ? 
 
 Hugh. In Walnut Street, near Ashland Avenue. 
 
 Fleming. Then I can repay you in part for the great 
 injury I have done. / put them there. 
 
 Eliot and Hugh. You ? 
 
 Hugh. Why did yon do this thing ? Earll, your name 
 is cleared once more. 
 
 Fleming [aside) What shall I do ? I owe money, 
 and my boy's health to Wolfe ; on the other hand I owe 
 his life to Mr. Earll. Oh, I see through Wolfe's falseness 
 now ! I see why he was in such haste to make me leave 
 this city. I have been his tool ; m}^ work is ended, and 
 I was in his way. 
 
 Hugh. Why are you agitated ? Speak the truth and 
 tell us at once. Don't you see how excited Eliot is at 
 your delay ? {Eliot rises up in great agitation }j 
 
 Fleming. I was crushed at heart, and bitter at my 
 fate, the night that I met Mr. Wolfe. He was kind, of- 
 fered me assistance, and medical aid for my boy. He 
 said that he wished to play a joke on a particular friend, 
 and asked my assistance. All that I had to do was to slip 
 a little parcel into a trunk that stood open near the window. 
 I did so. I never even knew the name of his friend. The 
 next day he wished to send me out west, but as I knew no 
 reason for his haste, I preferred to have Paul undergo his 
 operation here, under the best medical skill possible. 
 
 Hugh. What a consLimmate scoundrel Wolfe has 
 been ! And yet he has seemed to be his best friend 
 through it all. 
 
 Eliot. Dora must know it at once. I am almost 
 
%9 
 
 well again. You have cured me. I shall be a brother to 
 you, Fleming; and when I am vindicated complete^, 
 Hugh and I will devote ourselves to proving your inno- 
 cence. And we will all love and care for your boy. Dear 
 little fellow ! in saving him I have found, again, my wife, 
 my name, iny honor. And now tell us how were you 
 fonnd guilty, Fleming ? 
 
 Fleming, One night I had been out late at a little 
 supper. I seldom drank wine^but that night I was not 
 feeling well, or strong. Wolfc' urged me to do so. I only 
 remember drinking a single glass, but when I awoke I 
 found myself' in prison. I was tried for forging a check 
 on our bank. The forgery was proved, somehow, and as 
 som(^ of the money was found on me, I was accused of the 
 crime, tried, convicted, sentenced. How the money came 
 in my possession I never knew. 
 
 ' Hugh. I believe that we will be able to prove thcJt 
 Wolfe put it there. ■ ^ ' 
 
 Fleming [leaping up). If I thought that he had done 
 that deed — if I thought he had robbed nie of my good 
 name — of these precious years — of my murdered wife — of 
 the fresh, sweet air — of the bright sunlight of heaven — 
 if I thought so, I would tear his life out ! Let me go ! let 
 me confront him! He shall tell me the truth ! 
 
 Hugh {restraining him). Becalm; you are not your- 
 self. I will act for you. You are, in the eyes of the law, 
 a felon. They will not believe you. Control yourself, 
 and trust in God. I pledge you to stand your friend as 
 well as Eliot's. {Fleming clasps Paul in his arms and 
 bursts into tears}} 
 
 Hugh {continuing). I go tO' prepare for Wolfe's imme- 
 diate arrest. I willcome back soon. 
 
 Fleming. Why, he was here only a few minutes ago. 
 It was strange that. you did- not meet him. He must have 
 left very suddenly, for I see that he has left his overcoat 
 behind. He will probably soon return. 
 
 Hugh. Wolfe here? Of all places ! He must have 
 recognized Eliot. Paul, did Mr. Wolfe look at our friend 
 there ? 
 
 Paul. Yes, sir. 
 
50 
 
 Hugh. What did he say? 
 
 Paul. He said " damnation.'^ 
 
 Hugh. Is that the way he said it ? 
 
 Paul. No; he said it this way: "Damnation!!'' 
 What does it mean, sir ? 
 
 Hugh. Did he say anything else, my child ? 
 
 Paul. He said something about the police, and he did 
 like this : "/ wz7/ crush him as I did the other one! '* 
 
 Hugh. Why, you are almost as good as a phonograph. 
 
 Paul. What is a phonograph, sir ? 
 
 Hugh. I will show you one some day. Mr. Fleming, 
 your son is invaluable to us. But time is pressing. I fear 
 that Wolfe has gone to the police ofhce to accuse Eliot ; I 
 must intercept him if I can. If they should return before 
 me, make any excuse to delay them till I come back. 
 Eliot, keep as calm as possible. I shall drive like Jehu ; 
 so do not fear. {Looking out of a window}) There comes 
 an empty cab ; I'll catch it. {Exit Hugh^ c. D.) 
 
 Fleming. Oh, my poor boy ! 
 
 Paul. What is the matter, papa ? 
 
 Fleming. I am greatly troubled, my son. 
 
 Paul. Shall I comfort you, as I used to comfort 
 mamma? 
 
 Fleming. How was that ? 
 
 Paul {gently rubbing his father'' s head). When she 
 was so very ill, I used to rub her head so. And sometimes 
 I used to sing to her. And she used to say: " Paul, you 
 have taken away every pain." 
 
 Fleming. Sing to me, my son, some song you used to 
 sing to her. {He bu7^ies his face in his hands^ the gas is 
 turned low, and Paul sings ''^My Ain Countreei'^ 
 
 Fleming. Thank you, my boy ; you have indeed com- 
 forted me. Thank God for the ministering children ! 
 
 { The door opens during the singing; enter Wolfe and 
 two offcers^ c. D. After a moments silence^ Wolfe speaks^ 
 
 WoLEE. There is your man ; there is Mr. Earll. 
 
 Sergeant. I am very sorry, Mr. Earll, but I must do 
 my duty. You are under arrest for the robbery of the 
 Atlantic Bank, on the 4th day of last July. A carriage is 
 below, and we will move you as easily as possible. 
 
51 
 
 Fox. I told 3^ou so ; and here he is in tlie house of a 
 convicted forger. A man is known by the company he 
 keeps. There is no fooling me. Get up and come along. 
 
 {E7iter Dr. Eckhoff^ R. u. E.) 
 
 Dr. Eckhoff. What is all this ? A bank robber, did 
 you say ? I don't care if he were Barabbas himself, he 
 should not go. The excitement might bring on another 
 hemorrhage. 
 
 Sergeant. If you pronounce it dangerous, we must 
 leave him here ; under guard, of course. 
 
 {Enter Hugh ^ Chief of Police and offcers^ c. D.) 
 
 Hugh. It is all right, Eliot. 
 
 Chief of Police. Which is Mr. Wolfe ? 
 
 Hugh. This is he. 
 
 Chief of Police. I arrest you, Arnold Wolfe, on two 
 warrants : first, for the robbery of the Atlantic Bank, on 
 the 4th of last July ; the other is on a charge of forgery 
 and perjury, for a crime committed over two years ago, 
 and for which another has cruelly suffered. OfBcers, 
 place him under arrest. 
 
 Wolfe. Arrest me? I do not understand. {Aside.) 
 Curse them all ! 
 
 Hugh. You soon will ; I have secured enough evi- 
 dence to send you to Sing Sing for the rest of 3^our life. 
 
 Wolfe. What evidence have you ? 
 
 Hugh. His, for instance. {Pointing to Fleming i) 
 
 Wolfe {scornfidly) . And do you think they will con- 
 vict ME on the testimony of a felon like him ? 
 
 Hugh {dryly). Yes, I think they w^ill, after the other 
 witnesses have been heard. 
 
 Wolfe. What witnesses ? You have none. 
 
 Hugh. Two reliable witnesses have just been found 
 who can testify to your exact whereabouts on the night of 
 the bank robbery. 
 
 Wolfe {aside). The net has closed around me; I am 
 entangled in it ; I will tear my way through ! ( To Fox.) 
 Fox, I will pay you five thousand dollars cash, if you will 
 help me to escape to-night ! Relieve the night watch ; 
 bribe him, drug him ! No one will suspect you. 
 
 Fox {coolly to Wolfe ^ aside). Make it ten thousand. 
 
'5^ 
 
 If is dangerous work ; I cannot take the risk for less;"" 
 
 Wolfe. Villain ! Well, ten thousand ! Life and freer 
 dom are worth more than that. {Aside.) If I am free to- 
 night, I shall come back and finish the work they have 
 thwarted. 
 
 Chief of Police [to Serjeant). Take your prisoner 
 to the main of&ce. Place him in strict confinement, with 
 every safeguard against escape. {Aside,) I do not like 
 his looks. {A loud.) Take him away ! 
 {Exeunt police and Wolfe ^ c. D.) 
 
LOVE'S TRIUMPH 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene i. — The Martin Residence. Parlor. Enter Y)o^x. 
 L. I E.) 
 
 Dora. Anotlier day is liere ! How long the hours are 
 until Eliot's return ! It was a month yesterday since our 
 wedding. Oh ! did ever girl have so strange a- honey- 
 moon ? But I must be brave and cheerful, for it has been 
 very hard for papa and mamma, and most of all for Eliot. 
 But I trust him implicitly, and he is in a higher keeping 
 than mine. Yes, here is where we stood, w^hen he seemed 
 so strangely excited. It was here that he bade me repeat 
 over and over again those words : '' Till death do us part." 
 And here we sat down that last blissful evening before-our 
 trouble came [she chokes with grief ) ^hxxt I must not break 
 down now. For Eliot's sake. 
 
 Fay (running in). Oh, sister, please come; dear 
 good Dora, you promised to make a uew dress for mv 
 dolly. 
 
 Dora (Kissing her). I must go. These little home 
 duties keep the heart from breaking. (Exit Dora with 
 Fay. R. I E. Enter Hugh, c. D.) 
 
 Hugh (to Kit tie). Tell Mr. Martin that I would like 
 to see him a few moments. 
 
 KiTTiE. Yes, sir. (Exit Kittie. Kittie re-enters.) Mr. 
 Martin is engaged at present, sir, but he will be in in a few 
 moments, sir. (Exit K.) 
 
 Hugh (taking up two photographs and compari7tg 
 them). How^ like and yet how unlike these two girls are. 
 Both have the same brave, true hearts, however, and that 
 is the main thing anyway. Poor little Bessie ! Eliot 
 seems to think that Jack Harland loves her, and that she 
 returns his affection. But I must save her from that. He 
 is unworthy of the affection of any pure woman. Fortu- 
 nately I have such proof of his unworthiness as must 
 
54 
 
 convince even iter. I don't like to meddle, but she shall 
 never marry that cold-blooded libertine ! {Enter Bessie s 
 R. I E.) 
 
 Bessie. Why, Hugh ; you here already ? I am glad 
 to see you, very glad. I know you have some news. I 
 see it in your eyes, they are shining so. 
 
 Hugh. I think that you just shone into them and saw 
 your own reflection ; that is all. 
 
 Bessie {feigning astonishment). Why, that was quite 
 pretty; I did not know that you could say such nice 
 things, Hugh. You are always doing them, and that is 
 far better. And now, don't keep any secrets from me. I 
 must know everything. I can read your face. You have 
 heard from Eliot. You have seen him. He is here! I 
 see it in your eyes. 
 
 Hugh. Yes, he is coming home, that is all I can tell 
 you yet. 
 
 Bessie Oh, let me run up and tell Dora. {Runs away.) 
 
 Hugh. Wait a little longer. I must first tell the news 
 to Mr. and Mrs. Martin, and then we must prepare Dora 
 gently for his coming. 
 
 Bessie. Can you prove his innocence now ? 
 
 Hugh. Without a doubt. And now I have some- 
 thing that I must say to you before they come. Will you 
 be seated ? 
 
 Bessie {gct^ly)- Yes, I will sit right down here and 
 listen. 
 
 Hugh {aside) . How can I tell her ? She is so happy, it 
 will break her heart. The surgeon's knife is indeed needed ; 
 but, alas ! that I must be the one to use it. Is there no 
 other way ? But perhaps I can do it more gently than an- 
 other, because — I — {here he hesitates) like — and -respect 
 her so much (aloud). Prepare yourself, my dear little 
 friend, for bad news. 
 
 Bessie {bracing herself ) . Not about Eliot? Not about 
 the bank ? 
 
 Hugh. No, they are all right ; for yourself 
 
 Bessie. For me ? Why, what can it be ? Go on, go 
 on ; I will try to bear it if it is only for me, and not for them. 
 
 Hugh. You look pale {aside) . How fortunate ! Here 
 
55 
 
 are the smelling-salts [takijig them up). It would be 
 awkward if she should faint away. I hope she wont. I 
 shouldn't know what to do. 
 
 Bessie. Go on, Hugh ; I will try to bear it. 
 
 Hugh {holding the salts in readijiess). Bessie, you 
 have no brother to tell you what I must; I will be a 
 brother to you if 3^ou will permit me. Some facts are in 
 my possession that involve great sorrow to you. 
 
 Bessie. Sorrow to me ? I cannot guess your meaning. 
 
 Hugh. Perhaps I ought to lay these facts before your 
 father, but I thought better to speak to ^^oa directly, and 
 no one need ever know about it. Will you trust me? 
 
 Bessie. Yes, yes ; tell me quickly ; I cannot bear this 
 delay. 
 
 Hugh. Eliot tells me that you are in love. Better 
 smell these salts ; they say they are very good — I don't 
 know, I'm sure. {Nearly strangles her.) 
 
 Bessie. Oh ! take them away ! Eliot said so ? With 
 whom, did he say ? 
 
 Hugh {still holding the salts). With Jack Harland. 
 
 Bessie {aside). Why did Eliot tell him that ? I can- 
 not imagine. He don't seem to like it. If it were anybod}^ 
 else, I should say he was jealous. Oh, perhaps I can 
 guess. I will try him, anyway. {Aloud^ with great dig- 
 nity.) Well, and then what ? 
 
 Hugh, {aside). How coolly she takes it ! {Throws 
 down the salts.) I cannot make these women out. {Aloud ) 
 Bessie, \^ou must give him up ; he is unworthy of you. 
 
 Bessie {haughtily). You must be mistaken, sir. 
 
 Hugh. Why, you can read it for yourself, in his ver}' 
 face. 
 
 Bessie {mischievously). I think that he has a ver}' 
 aristocratic air, and such a lovely hand. 
 
 Hugh. Lovely hand ! Aristocratic fiddlesticks ! {Rises 
 and walks up and down.) 
 
 Bessie. I am surprised at you, Hugh; I never saw 
 you so angry before. Why do you act so strangely ? 
 
 Hugh. I am surprised at myself; I never felt so queer 
 in all my life. Something chokes me. {Aside.) Shall 
 this dear little girl marry such a scoundrel? Never, 
 
wliile my name is Hugh Searight ! How lovely she iool^s 
 now!' Even her little anger becomes her. What would 
 we all do if she went away from here ? Not to see Bessie 
 for a few moments every day ? As well for me to pass 
 that day in the dark, with no ray of sunshine on my path. 
 Heavens ! now 1 know it ! How blind I have been ! I 
 see my own heart ! I love her 1 ! ! Till now I only 
 thought I was a brother to her; but at the thought of 
 losing her, I know that my life lies at her feet. Bessie ! 
 
 Bessie. Yes, Hugh, what is the matter? 
 ^' Hugh. Hear me for a few moments — and then I will 
 go away forever. You said you loved Jack Harland — 
 ' Bessie {mterrupting). Hugh, I never said so. You 
 only thought I loved him, and I let you think so. Forgive 
 me. {Laughing.) Eliot was joking; oh, it is too ridicu- 
 lous! 
 
 Hugh. Thank God!.. Thank God! Bessie, I have 
 betrayed my own secret. In these last weeks I have seen 
 3^ou daily. I have learned to love you ; I have seen hourly 
 all the beauty of your woman's heart and life. But I dare 
 not offer you my hand ; you i^now^ my first dream of hap- 
 piness. You knew my love for Dora. Yoii deserve the 
 first love of some true man; I cannot ask you to take my 
 second love, even though it be stronger and nobler than 
 the first. 
 
 Bessie. And why not, Hugh ? I have long loved you 
 with my whole heart. I never understood my oVim feel- 
 ings until lately; but I would rather have Hugh Searight's 
 second love, than the first love of any other man in the 
 universe. 
 
 Hugh. Bessie, my love, my darling; how good God is 
 to me ! Look up ! ' let me look into your eyes, my dearest ! 
 Do you not fear to trust your happiness in ni}^ keeping ? 
 
 Bessie. Fear! Does the lamb fear the fold? Does 
 the child fear the loving mother's arms ? Such perfect 
 love casts out all fear. 
 
 {Enter Mr. M.^ Mrs. M. and Dora. Bessie^ running 
 to Mrs. M., embraces her and whispers in her ear.) 
 
 Bessie. Oh, mamma ! 
 
 Hugh. Mr. Martin, I came here on an important 
 
57 
 
 errand. While waiting for you an event has happened 
 which was wholly unforeseen and wholly unpremeditated. 
 I wish to ask you for your daughter's hand, if you think 
 me worthy of it. I feel unworthy of so great happiness. 
 
 Mr. M. This is very sudden, and she is too young. 
 I have never thought of her leaving us, at least not for 
 years. There is no one living to whom I w^ould sooner 
 give her, however, and — Mary, shall we give our consent? 
 
 Mrs. M. We cannot mar their lives, William. But, 
 Hugh, you will not take her far away ? We cannot live 
 without her. 
 
 Hugh. Never; I solemnly promise! I heard but yes- 
 terday that your neighbor, Mr. Curtis, is going to Europe 
 as a Consul, and wishes to sell his new residence. I will 
 buy it, and you can still see one another almost as much 
 as you do at present. 
 
 Mrs. M. a kind Providence has directed this, I 
 believe. But, Hugh, how strange it is that you, who are 
 so exact in all things, should not first have asked our per- 
 mission to address our daughter. 
 
 Bessie. Oh, mamma, don't blame him ; he didn't pro- 
 pose to me. 
 
 Mrs. M. He did not ? Then who did ? 
 
 Bessie. I did. 
 
 Mrs. M. You ? Oh, Bessie ! 
 
 Bessie. Yes, he was trying to warn me against some 
 one he thought I was in love with, and it was so funny, 
 that I let him think so. And he told me that he could 
 never, never ask me to marry him, for some good reason, 
 and said he would go away forever. And so I just pro- 
 posed to him myself, and he accepted me. 
 
 Mrs. M. Dear Bessie ! may you both be as happy as 
 you deserve. 
 
 Hugh. And now, I must not be so selfish as to dwell 
 on my own happiness, when others are in suspense. Mr. 
 Martin, I came here to tell you that Eliot has returned. 
 
 Mr. M. How dare he, until he can prove his inno- 
 cence 1 How dare he ! 
 
 Dora {aside), . Eliot returned at last! 
 
58 
 
 Hugh. His innocence can be proved without a ques- 
 tion. 
 
 AivL. Thank Heaven! {Dora almost swoons for joy. 
 Enter Eliot ^ Gladys, Fleming and Paul, c. D.) 
 
 Dora. Eliot! My lover ! My husband ! 
 
 Eliot (embracing Dora). Darling! 
 
 Dora. Why, E]iot, how pale you are ! What is the 
 matter with your arm ? You have been wounded ! 
 
 Eliot. Only a scratch ; it will be all right in a few 
 days. 
 
 Fleming. A scratch that almost killed him, madam. 
 He saved my boy's life. 
 
 Dora. Tell us, how ? 
 
 Paul. Don't you all know ? W^hy, some horses ran 
 away, and when they knocked me down, he dragged me 
 out from under their feet, and the pole struck him. Dear, 
 good Mr. Earll ! I love you so much ! You have done so 
 much for me ! 
 
 Eliot. My little friend, it is I who am your debtor. 
 You have done me a greater good than I have done to you. 
 I have been richly repaid. Had I not saved you, my good 
 name would not now have been cleared from suspicion. 
 
 Mr. M. Please continue, I am anxious to know about it. 
 
 Hugh. The true criminal was Arnold Wolfe. 
 
 Mr. M. Impossible ! I cannot believe it ! 
 
 Hugh. You remember Mr. Fleming, do you not ? 
 
 Mr. M (to Fleming). I did not recognize you. You 
 have changed greatly from the man I once knew. I have 
 suffered greatly through you. Why do you come here ? 
 
 Fleming. I, too, am his victim. I can at last prove it 
 to your satisfaction, and therefore I have come. 
 
 Mr. M. If you can do so, I pledge you my word that I 
 will restore you to your former place in the bank. I 
 always trusted you Fleming, and have doubted human na- 
 ture ever since your disgrace. I would gladly spend ten 
 thousand dollars could I prove your innocence. 
 
 (Enter Fay, running to Eliot ) 
 
 Fay. Oh, here's my brudder ! here's my brudder ! 
 (kissing Eliot) Where have you been? I have just 
 looked out of the window for you all the time — two, six, 
 
59 
 
 fort}^ days. You won't go awa}' aii}' more, will you ? 
 
 Eliot. No, little sister. (She clmibs up on a chair and 
 plays with his locket.) {Contiiines^ play f idly ^ I' thought 
 that 3^ou didn't kiss gemniens, Fa}'. 
 
 Fay [indignantly). Peoples can kiss people's brud- 
 ders, I guess, 
 
 Eliot [to Hugh). I cannot imagine how this locket 
 came in the vault. I cannot solve the m\'ster3\ 
 
 Fay. So Mr. Wolfe gave you back your locket, did he? 
 
 Eliot. Wolfe ? What do you mean ? 
 
 Fay. Of course he did. I saw him take it. It was on 
 the sofa here, and he tooked it. I knew he w^ould give it to 
 3^ou. 
 
 Eliot. When ? When was this ? 
 
 Fay. Two, six, fort}' da\'s ago. 
 
 Dora. Please, Fa^^, do tr^^ and recollect. 
 
 Fay. I don't remember. Oh, yes; now I do. Don't 
 you know the night before 3'ou and 3'ou got married {point- 
 ing to Dora and Eliot) . 
 
 Dora. Yes, Fa}^; but Mr. Wolfe was not here. 
 
 Fay. Oh, 3^es, he was. I was under the table, and I 
 saw him all the time. Oh! oh ! I fordot to give him the 
 paper he dropped. 
 
 AIr. M. What paper ? 
 
 Fay [running to her box and getting it). This, papa. 
 
 Mr. M. I will see. [opening a paper) What is this? 
 [in horror!) A letter from Fox to Wolfe demanding mon- 
 e3' and threatening exposure of his forger 3' ! He warns 
 him that Fleming is home again before the3' expected him, 
 as the Governor has pardoned him. And this in Wolfe's 
 own handwiting! His answer that was never mailed because 
 he dropped it here : " Do not fear. I will get him out of 
 the countjy by so7ne means. We have too much at stake to 
 be over scrupidous nozu. Should he suspect us^ we must hesi- 
 tate at nothing. I send you the money. You are getting 
 more than your share. ''^ He signs no name, but I know 
 the writing far too well. I fear, Hugh, that it is as you 
 say. ( To Flemi^ig, grasping his hand.) God bless 3^ou, 
 Fleming. I am glad for 3^our sake. 
 
 Fleming. I had intended to go West, but I would 
 
6o 
 
 rather stay here and clear my good name than be a West- 
 ern millionaire. Oh, if my wife were but alive to see this 
 da}^ ! But we were speaking of Mr. Earll, and must first 
 clear him. 
 
 Hugh. It seems that Wolfe is a renegade Jew; not one 
 of the noble sons of Israel who glory in their lineage, but 
 an apostate, abhorred alike by Jew and Gentile. It was 
 he who who heard Eliot repeat the Hebrew numerals that 
 formed the combination. It was who he dropped the 
 locket in the vault, to throw suspicion on Eliot. It was 
 he who caused the notes to be dropped into Eliot's trunk 
 on the night before the wedding. Insane jealousy was 
 the cause of his crime. Yesterday he discovered that 
 Eliot had returned, and endeavored to procure his arrest, 
 but we had just secured evidence, fortunately, that made 
 him the criminal instead. 
 
 Mr. M. What other proofs have you ? Have you any 
 other witnesses ? 
 
 Hugh. Yes, there is one in your own house. [Rings 
 parlor bell; enter Kittie^j Tell us, Kittie, what you know 
 about Mr. Wolfe. 
 
 Kittie [mrtesying). You see, Mr. Earll, when I 
 opened the door for you the night before the wedding, Mr. 
 Wolfe came up the steps a little behind you ; I thought 
 you were together, and he must have gone in too, but I 
 did not stop to see, for (bashfully) you see it was my night 
 out, and I was in a great hurry, for Tim Carroll (Tim is 
 my young man, don't you know) was waiting for me, and I 
 hurried off that night. It made me lonesome to see how 
 happy some folks were, and Tim asked me what was the 
 matter. I didn't tell him, but he just up and guessed, and 
 he asked me if two weddings were not better than wan, 
 and I said I didn't know ; and then he asked me to be his 
 own little wife, come next Christmas. 
 
 Hugh. And what did you say ? 
 
 Kittie. If you please, sir, I wouldn't like to be telling 
 you what I said. Well, it was a fine night, and we did 
 not go home until quite late, as there was a little party at 
 my cousin's. Well, when we were a-coming home, when 
 we passed the bank, we saw somebody coming out. 
 
6i 
 
 ^'That's funny," said I. " Deuced queer," says Tim. So 
 we crossed over and met the man coming out. '^ Oh, 
 that's all right, Tim," says I ; '' that's Mr. Wolfe ; he's a 
 grand officer at the bank." When we were near Mr. 
 Earll's house, he met a man, and I saw him hand some- 
 thing to him, about so big. He didn't see us, for I was 
 tired with my long walk, and I knew I shouldn't see Tim 
 again for a whole week, so we sat down on some doorsteps 
 for a minute to rest. We were in the shadow, and he 
 didn't see us. Tim says, '' I wonder what he is a-doing, 
 Kittie?" ''Faith, and so do I," says I. ''Let's see,'' 
 says he. The man climbed up on a short ladder, and then 
 on the balcony, and leaned into an open window. In a 
 moment he came down. I did not know then which win- 
 dow was Mr. Earll's ; I did not think of him. They both 
 laughed, and I heard Mr. Wolfe say what a joke it would 
 be on somebody, and they walked away. The other fellow 
 onl}^ did what Mr. W^olfe told him to ; for I heard him tell 
 Mr. Wolfe that he did not know who lived there. 
 
 Hugh. And why did you tell no one about it ? 
 
 Kittie. Faith, and it is not Kittie Tyrrell that goes 
 spying on her betters, and telling everything she sees 
 and hears ; and indeed there was not much to tell. Mrs. 
 Martin would have said, " Kittie, you must not tattle,'' 
 and '' Wliat were you doing out so late? '' For we must 
 always come in at half-past ten in summer and ten in 
 winter. I would have gotten into trouble, and not done 
 anybody any good. But bother the trouble now; for if I 
 can help Miss Dora and Mr. Eliot, I'll crawl on mv hands 
 and knees from Cork to Londonderry. 
 
 Dora. Oh, thank you. Kittie ! 
 
 , Eliot. Thank you, Kittie ; I feel like a new man. 
 Now my luck has turned, I think that I can give Tim a 
 lift. 
 
 Kittie. Thank you, sir. 
 
 {Entei^ Chief of Police and Fox ^ 
 
 Chief. Mr. Searight, you telephoned for me, I believe. 
 
 Hugh. I did. 
 
 Chief I brought this man along. He is no longer an 
 
62 
 
 officer, however, but a criniinal. He has disgraced his 
 position. 
 
 Mr. M. How is that ? 
 
 Chief. Yesterday evening, when we arrested Mr. 
 Wolfe for the robbery of the bank and other offenses, on 
 turning suddenly, I saw a look of secret understanding 
 pass between him and this man. It made me uneasy. I 
 knew two things : Mr. Wolfe was a man of means, and 
 Fox loves money better than his life, or soul, if he has got 
 any. I pnt the two together. I could not shake off sus- 
 picion as I tried to do, for he had never done anything 
 absolutely criminal before. Last night I slept poorly, felt 
 anxious, and finally arose and walked over to the City 
 Prison. Imagine my surprise to see Wolfe walking coolly 
 down the street, smoking a cigar. I quickly covered him 
 with ni}^ revolver, and placed him in the strong cell under 
 a trusty guard. Then I entered his former cell which he 
 had just left, and surprised Fox, ransacking everything. 
 The prison-keepers were drugged. We arrested him, and 
 on searching him found ten one-thousand-dollar notes of 
 the United States. Several important papers w^ere also 
 found. How the coward cringed and whined, and at last 
 offered to turn State's evidence against Wolfe ! He was 
 only a tool of his in Mr. Earll's case, and really believed 
 him guilty, for Wolfe had duped him completely. When 
 questioned, however, as to papers found in his possession, 
 and to an agreement between him and Wolfe, dated over 
 two years ago, and relating to Mr. Fleming's conviction 
 for forgery, he became terribly frightened. He then 
 acknowledged the whole truth, and confessed that 
 over two years ago, when Wolfe and he were room- 
 ing in the same house, they formed a plan to forge 
 a check on the bank for a large sum. They suc- 
 ceeded, and obtained the money. But when the forgery 
 was -detected it became necessary to throw suspicion on 
 somebody else lest they be suspected. Before Mr. Flem- 
 ing's marriage Wolfe had been rejected, almost scornfully, 
 when a suitor for the hand of the lady who became Mrs. 
 Fleming, and Wolfe had always been thirsting for revenge. 
 It was his turn to strike. He did so. They invited Flem- 
 
63 
 
 ing to a bachelors' supper. He refused at first but final!}' 
 consented. They urged him to drink a glass of wine, as 
 he was feeling poorly. He at last yielded. It was drugged; 
 and while he was insensible they put some of the stolen 
 bills in his pocket and left him in a lonely street. He 
 was searched, suspected, imprisoned, and condemned ; and 
 has just been discharged from prison with shattered 
 health and a dishonored name, to find his wife dead, and 
 his only child a cripple. x\nd now I have told you all I 
 know, and I must hasten back to the City Hall. Good- 
 day, ladies and gentlemen. 
 
 KiTTiE (/<9 Fox, as he is taken away). Faith, and you 
 are the chap that always gets the right man ! Well, you 
 got left this time ! 
 
 Mr. M. Mr. Fleming, I will see the directors of the 
 bank, and I have no doubt that as a small expression of 
 their S3'mpath\^, and testimony of their confidence, they 
 will" ask you to take the place left vacant by Mr. Wolfe. 
 Let me say, in behalf of ni}^ family, that you and your 
 little boy must dine with us on Thursday, and my wife 
 and daughters will, I know, do their best to make your fu- 
 ture life as happy as possible. 
 
 Fleming. How can I thank you! Words fail me! 
 Oh, had my poor wife onl}^ lived until this day ! 
 
 Paul. Why, papa, have you forgotten ? She is living; 
 she is waiting for us up there ! 
 
 Fleming. My dear boy, I will be brave for her s^ake 
 and for 3^ ours. 
 
 {All gather around Eliot.) 
 
 Mr. M. We must all atone to Eliot for what he has 
 so unjustly suffered. 
 
 Eliot. I can forget ever^^thing, now that 3''0U are near 
 me, dearest. 
 
 Dora. I am so happ3^ ; it seems all a dream ; and we 
 will try to forget it, now that all is well. 
 
 Eliot. I feel that this trouble has made me a different 
 man. The wine-cup has no longer any temptation forme. 
 In this month of trial and suffering I have wrestled with 
 the new-born appetite as one wrestles for his life, and with 
 
64 
 
 God's help I have conquered at last and forever. My love 
 for Dora has passed through the fire and is purified. 
 
 [All come forward.) 
 
 Hugh and Bessie — Dora and Eliot (four speaking 
 together). And now, Evil is destroyed, Vice punished, 
 and Joy and Happiness reign supreme. Love, true love 
 like ours is always victorious. Will you not share with 
 us in our rejoicing at 
 
 love's triumph ? 
 
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