CATHERINE MA LONE. 
 
 A DRAMA, 
 
 In Five Acts. 
 
 GEORGE A. RANKIN, Esq. 
 
 
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CATHERINE MALONE, 
 
 A Drama in Five Acts, 
 
 GEORGE A. RANKIN Esq., 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO: 
 .A. L. Bancroft k Co., Printers and Book Publishers, 721 Market Street. 
 
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 >"KA 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, 
 
 By GEORGE A. RANKIN, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington. 
 
 TMP96-Q06844 
 
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PREFACE. 
 
 I believe it is not usual for those who write dramas to 
 preface them, but, as I have no doubt I have in this 
 play, violated many of the dramatic laws, it can hardly 
 be important that I should hold this custom sacred. 
 The writing of this play was suggested by the prevalence 
 of a certain disease, to which, so far as I know, medi- 
 cine has ascribed no name, yet w 7 hich has reached an 
 almost epidemic stage. It seems largely peculiar to 
 men, and its severest attacks are upon those w r ho have 
 arrived at middle life and suddenly acquired fortunes. 
 Another peculiarity of this distemper is, that, in the 
 form treated of in this production, its attacks are con- 
 fined exclusively to married men. As to the causes of 
 this disorder, mentally considered, I am afraid I must 
 confess myself ignorant; but as to its effects — tbe com- 
 monest looker-on in the world has observed them. That 
 which has the most attracted my attention is an intense 
 desire on the part of the diseased man to put away 
 his wife and take another, which latter, by the laws of 
 this disease, is required to be young and pretty. A case 
 of this kind having fallen under my notice I have been 
 at some pains in ascertaining the facts, which, with such 
 license as they who write dramas take, are embodied in 
 the following play. 
 
 The names of the principal participators in this drama, 
 together with their respective relationship to one another, 
 are as follows: Edmund and Catherine Malone, hus- 
 band and wife; Carroll, Richard, Charlotte and Helen, 
 their children; Maurice Sheboin, an old friend of Malone 
 and his wife, and business partner of the former ; 
 Hinchman, a doctor and general attendant upon Ma- 
 lone during the sickness here spoken of ; Grlascoe, 
 Malone' s attorney in the same, and Hortens Technor, 
 who might be described as one of the causers of Malone's 
 illness — certainly a very unassuming array of parties out 
 of whose acts to build a drama, and a tragedy at that; 
 
but it so happened that these were the only people who 
 played important parts in the affair in life, and I am too 
 conscientious, if not too unimaginative, to invent addi- 
 tional ones. Of course I have not been so indiscreet as 
 to use the real names of the dramatis personse. The 
 scene is laid in California, yet, if any one should object 
 to this personality, he can, without offense to the author, 
 remove it to South America or Alaska. 
 
 The opening of the play presupposes a number of 
 events to have taken place, and these are made known 
 to the reader in the early part of the drama. Malone 
 and Sheboin were boys together, went through school 
 and college with each other, came to California in early 
 days, and both fell in love with the same young lady, 
 who accepted Malone. For that lady the play is named. 
 All that occurred a quarter of a century before the 
 events, out of which the drama is constructed, took 
 place; and during the interim Malone and Sheboin had 
 followed the occupation of miners and prospectors, until 
 a short time before the opening of the play, when they 
 discovered the mines which made them millionaires- 
 During this period' the four children were born to Cath. 
 erine and Edmund. Hinchman and Grlascoe were also 
 pioneers in California, and the former's connection with 
 Malone dates from a spell of real sickness through which 
 Hinchman attended him as his doctor, shortly prior to 
 the occurrence of the facts of the play. 
 
 It is unnecessary to say to those who are in fact ac- 
 quainted with the Pacific Coast that all miners are not 
 ignorant; but for the benefit of those who have ob- 
 tained their knowledge of these people from illustrated 
 papers, I remark, that this is not a red-shirt, buckskin- 
 breeches, broad-hat and revolver drama, and that the 
 characters are not representatives of that class; on the 
 contrary, that Malone, Sheboin and Hinchman are, in 
 this play as in life, men of good natural ability, who 
 have had the advantages of collegiate educations, what- 
 ever that may amount to; that Malone's children had 
 received the benefit of the public schools, and that the 
 eldest, Carroll, had read law. This much, as to the 
 character and condition of the parties at the time the 
 circumstances out of which the play is made, took place. 
 
The plot is what I take to be a very simple one. Ma- 
 lone, after the acquirement of his wealth, discovers that 
 his wife is not one suited to a man of his wealth and 
 station; that she is a barrier to his progress in all direc- 
 tions, and he forms the determination to be rid of her. 
 This feeling and resolution is strengthened b} r his meet- 
 ing Hortens Technor, for whom he entertains an ardent 
 affection, and whom he thinks would make a wife fit for 
 a man born to such greatness. He tells Hortens noth- 
 ing of his marriage, and only after she has reciprocated 
 his feelings does she discover that fact. Malone sends 
 his children away to school and takes Hinchman and 
 Glascoe into his service for the purpose of procuring 
 him a divorce. In accomplishing this he has three de- 
 sires or objects in view: to keep his money, have his 
 children go with him and have the public on his side. 
 There was no pretense of any ground for a divorce, 
 hence it was necessary to make one, and the only one 
 which they could manufacture with any show of success, 
 and which would have the three desired effects, was 
 adultery. Catherine's commission of this crime Hinch- 
 man proposed to show, and with Sheboin as the guilty 
 party; using his early love for Catherine, the fact that 
 he had remained with them since their marriage, coupled 
 with certain suspicious positions in which Hinchman 
 proposed to place them, as forming a chain of evidence 
 leading to proof of Catherine's infidelity. Malone now 
 begins his career as a hypocrite. He refuses to have 
 anything further to do with his wife, and when she 
 comes into his presence he drives her away, making in- 
 sinuations but no charges against her. He appeases 
 Hortens' wrath, w 7 ben she learns of his marriage, by tell- 
 ing her that his wife has been untrue to him, and that 
 he is about to get a divorce. During one of Malone's 
 outbursts against his wife, Richard, returning from col- 
 lege, comes suddenly upon them, and overhears his 
 father abusing his mother, without their knowing of his 
 presence. He finally extorts from his mother the nature 
 of the treatment she is receiving from her husband, and 
 her ignorance of the cause of it. Richard thinks it is 
 on account of his father's desire to marry some other 
 woman, but at Catherine's solicitation he attempts to 
 
win his father back to her. To accomplish this he and 
 his mother go before Malone, and as if he knew nothing 
 of their trouble, talks to him of the sacredness of mar- 
 riage, to all of which Malone assents. Excusing him- 
 self, the son retires, but within hearing distance, when 
 Malone again begins his tirade against his wife, who 
 having left him, Richard comes forward, and in a forci- 
 ble manner makes known to his father his opinion of the 
 cause of his treatment to his wife, all of which Malone 
 receives with many sighs. Catherine has confided her 
 trouble to Hinchman, who has undertaken to find out 
 the cause of Malone's actions, but of course is unable 
 to do so, and at last he advises her to apply to Sheboin. 
 For this purpose he arranges a meeting between them 
 in the park at dark. Carroll has returned, and on the 
 evening of the meeting, he and Hinchman are walking 
 in the park when they come upon Catherine and She- 
 boin. Hinchman, by attempting to take Carroll away, 
 and other indirect means, convinces him that something 
 is wrong. Sheboin has told Catherine that he thinks 
 the cause of Malone's acts is his love for some other 
 woman, at which Catherine swoons, Sheboin catches her 
 in his arms and takes her into the conservatory. This 
 is all misinterpreted by Carroll, who at once jumps to 
 the conclusion that his mother is guilty. He confides 
 his suspicions to his father, who, though nearly killed 
 by the information, is unwilling to do anything without 
 proof positive. This Hinchman furnishes by another 
 meeting between Sheboin and Catherine the following- 
 night, at the same place, he having got Catherine to 
 write Sheboin a note asking for it. This note with its 
 answer he brings into the presence of Carroll, when, by 
 attempts to conceal it, he arouses Carroll's suspicions 
 that it concerns his mother. Carroll takes the letters 
 from Hinchman against his will, and learning their con- 
 tents, demands that the matter go on, averring that he 
 will be there. Hinchman procures two bawds, and hav- 
 ing disguised them as Catherine and Sheboin, places 
 them in the conservatory. These Carroll see through 
 the window, and supposing them to be his mother and 
 Sheboin, breaks in the door. According to a pre- 
 arranged plan, the bawds scream and exit through the 
 
rear of the house. Carroll follows them, but they es- 
 cape him. The noise attracts Catherine and Sheboin, 
 who, coming upon Malone, he accuses them of criminal 
 intimacy and drives them off. Carroll, returning from 
 his fruitless chase, encounters his mother and attempts 
 to kill her, but his resolution fails him. Richard and 
 Helen now come upon the scene, and hearing Carroll 
 denounce his mother as unchaste, Richard brands him 
 the hired defamer of his mother. This precipitates a 
 conflict between the two brothers, who are prevented 
 from committing fratricide by the interposition of their 
 mother. The noise brings Malone and Hinchman into 
 the field, when the former commands the departure of his 
 wife. Richard proclaims himself the- defender of his 
 mother, and he and Helen go with her. The plot is ex- 
 posed by Hortens. Malone, in a moment of over-confi- 
 dence, helped on by too much wine, has confessed to 
 her, and she informs Carroll. He disbelieves her story, 
 yet to test her honesty, brings the various parties sud- 
 denly together, when Hortens forces the confession of 
 his guilt from Malone. A servant now enters with the 
 announcement that Charlotte has strangled herself, and 
 from a paper left by her the reason of her act appears 
 to be her belief in her mother's infidelity. This brings 
 matters to a crisis, Carroll declaring himself a coward 
 for having lived when his sister was brave enough to 
 die; Hortens accusing Malone of being the cause of all 
 the trouble, brands him as her seducer and slays him, 
 then killing herself. Carroll stabs Hinchman, and 
 rather than be known as the son of such a man as Ma- 
 lone, kills himself, and the play ends with Catherine, 
 her two remaining children and Sheboin, lamenting 
 their loss. 
 
 It may be questioned why I have given this detailed 
 description of the play when it would have the effect to 
 rob it of its interest, should it ever be read by any one. 
 The answer is here: I have been struck, as even Hinch- 
 man was, with the fact that the plot of the play is too 
 villainous, and on this account, desire to offer some sort 
 of an apology for its production. The plot, stated in 
 all its baldness, does indeed seem too atrocious. That 
 a father should attempt to show and prove to his chil- 
 
dren the unchastity of their mother, when there was no 
 foundation for it, appears unnatural, monstrous and 
 beastly. And I deem it no excuse that there are other 
 plays, which have attained even a world-wide reputation, 
 equally as bad — prostitutes have been held up before 
 soft-hearted audiences to be sighed and wept over, and 
 the most blood-thirsty criminals have formed the chief 
 characters of many tragedies. Yet it must be admitted 
 that all this savors not a little of yellow-back literature. 
 
 This much, at least, I may say in extenuation of my 
 offense: I have asked no one to shed a tear over the 
 follies, the vices or the crimes of my characters, nor 
 turned Malone and Hinchman loose to fatten on the 
 world, nor yet sent them to heaven in white robes, with 
 sins all blotted out; and if the vice here treated of is 
 not shown in its most hideous form, it at least appears 
 in the most hideous in which I am capable of robing it. 
 More, that Malone, with all his depravity, did not desire 
 the actual guilt of his wife, but the appearance only of 
 it; and there is nothing in the play to deceive the audi- 
 ence in this respect. But if this play should ever be 
 read or acted, and nothing seen in it save the villainy 
 of the plot, the false reasoning of Hinchman, the de- 
 pravity of Malone, aye, or the suffering of Catherine 
 and her children, I should indeed feel sorry that I had 
 ever written it. But if any one, looking beyond these 
 means, should see the anarchy which follows a violation 
 of the laws governing the marriage state, I should then 
 feel that the object of the drama had been seen by him 
 as by myself. To show this in as strong a light as pos- 
 sible, I have selected a case even so villainous; and 
 while I have no idea that this nor any other drama will 
 deter such men as Malone from doing acts, such as are 
 here represented, it is at least some satisfaction to have 
 such men shown up in their true light. 
 
 No character has been introduced into this play which 
 I did not deem necessary; on the contrary, each one is 
 made to play an important part, albeit, by necessity, 
 some are more important than others. Nothing, in my 
 judgment, so detracts from the merits of a play as a 
 hoard of insignificant dramatis personce. Moreover, I 
 have premeditatedly excluded the fool and chamber- 
 
maid, and now await, with something akin to half- sus- 
 pended animation, tbe consequences of my awful crime. 
 Everybody knows that chambermaid wit is a production 
 confined exclusively to the stage, and, although these 
 important individuals cut no small figures in the bistory 
 of Malone, I could hardly introduce them upon the 
 stage in the characters they have really taken, with pro- 
 priety. Still again, as I take it, there is in this play but 
 little chance for fine trappings, great mechanical con- 
 trivances and pyrotechnic displays; nay, nor the intro- 
 duction of dogs, mules, and all those other great inven- 
 tions of inspired genius which have so contrived to 
 distinguish tbe drama. Alas! not even a female man; 
 and what in this world, there is to render this play at- 
 tractive, unless, indeed, it be the acting of the actors, I 
 know not. Since I am about it I mn,j as well say a word 
 in reference to the style assumed in this play, though I 
 should have remarked in the opening that no one need 
 read this preface unless he wants to. The play has been 
 written in a sort of blank verse, though I greatly fear 
 me it would have been better had I been content with 
 the modesty of simple prose, and shall feel hard to no 
 one who says so. This leads to the inquiry: What is 
 the language of the drama? Is it the ordinary talk 
 which we hear every day, in common conversation, or in 
 drawing-rooms, courts, banks, board, shops, and upon 
 the street, in broils and murderous assaults? The in- 
 sipidity of ordinary conversation makes it cut but a 
 mean figure upon tbe stage, while the raging torrents of 
 mingled curses, exclamations and defamations which 
 flow from men in passion, or the piercing shrieks of one 
 being murdered, are but ill-fitted for the ears of an as- 
 semblage of decent people. It is evident tbe language 
 of the stage must rise in dignity and force above the 
 every-day conversation; it must be more refined than 
 the natural language of passion. But if tbe language 
 above spoken of is too natural for the drama, it is equally 
 true that that of rhyming poetry is too unnatural. Its 
 use dissipates the idea that they are human beings who 
 are before us, and, like many stage contrivances, but 
 leads us from the realization of the truth of what we 
 see. Is it, then, the uurhymed iambic pernameter, in 
 
10 PREFACE. 
 
 all the harmony and melody of its perfection? No. 
 The steady, measured tread of its short and long syl- 
 lables, as they march, with never-varying -time, through 
 line after line, while splendidly adapted for any subject 
 which is to fix and enrapture the attention by its beauty 
 or its sublimity, is too monotonous for the ever-chang- 
 ing scenes and sentiments of a drama. Bat when the 
 pauses are observed, yet not too regularly, and the iam- 
 bic mingled with trochaic, anapestic and dactylic feet, 
 thus in a measure preserving the harmony while con- 
 forming to the thoughts and feelings flowing from the 
 mind, then there is produced a language polite yet not 
 insipid, delicate yet neither jingling nor monotonous, 
 passionate yet not uncouth, adapted to the expression of 
 every elevated thought and sentiment in man. Such is 
 the language of the serious drama; and though it may 
 not unfrequently appear to be studied, or rather, I should 
 say, at variance with the common tongue, this objection 
 is more than overcome by its many good„ qualities. Of 
 course there are many sentiments not ' worthy to be 
 clothed in this garb. Such must be content with plain 
 prose. And now I wish to confess that I have not suc- 
 ceeded in this play in the use of the language which I 
 have said above is so well-adapted to the drama, and 
 that I know it as well as any mouse-trap critic could tell 
 me. But if anything could be done to inspire in those 
 who have ability to write the use of better language in 
 dramatic productions, I should be willing to be the butt 
 of all the ridicule which acknowledged incompetency * 
 could heap upon me. 
 
 He who undertakes the writing of a drama has before 
 him a task which he who never attempted it, but ill con- 
 ceives. To be sure, there is no great difficulty in throw- 
 ing together a lot of people who are pre-supposed to be 
 beautiful, decking them out in fine plumage, surround- 
 ing them with elegant upholstery and pretty scenery, 
 moved off the stage b}^ unseen hands; in introducing a 
 contortionist, dubbing him a wit, and throwing in a few 
 dogs, orang-outangs and mules, for the benefit of the 
 gods, together with such well-formed female bawds as 
 
 *The reader is at liberty to make such application of these -words as he 
 likes. 
 
rnay be dragged out of houses of ill-fame, and dressed 
 up in tights, for the benefit of aged gentlemen. These 
 things, with a few good lady kickers and stub-nosed 
 singers of poor ballads, may, indeed, be cast together 
 and called a drama. But oh, what a falling off it is! How 
 insignificant when compared to those productions of the 
 world when in its youth, and how our age should blush 
 that there is no one now who even dares attempt to 
 wrestle the drama from these spoilers' hands! — this of 
 dramatists, not actors. Yet is it no small work to be 
 able, first, to select a subject worthy to be dramatized, 
 and then the characters, individualizing each, making- 
 each play his own proper part at the proper time, hav- 
 ing sentiments and doing acts corresponding to his 
 place, purpose and position, and using language accord- 
 ing with his character, thoughts and feeling, having in 
 all a harmonious whole. The difficulties are innumer- 
 able. One must understand the mind and heart, and 
 know their modes of acting; and he must know the 
 mind and heart of each particular character with whom 
 he deals; he must have a being capable of feeling deeply 
 and delicately, a mind capable of both intensity and 
 comprehension; able to look at each particular act and 
 character in itself, and at the whole as one grand unity; 
 he must be capable of that vision which sees the whole 
 drama pass before him like a panorama of the mind. 
 Nor is his trouble ended here; his play is to be acted 
 and spoken, and many there are whose works may be 
 silently read with rapture, } 7 et which when spoken, fall 
 flat as soft mud. These are some of the reasons why, 
 while there have been many great poets, not a few emi- 
 nent novelists and general writers in profusion, the great 
 dramatists of the world might almost be counted upon 
 the fingers of one hand. To the possession of these 
 great qualities the author of this play makes not the 
 slightest pretense, but he longs to see the day when 
 there shall be an American who does, with right, lay 
 claim to them. 
 
 The subject of this play I think worthy to be drama- 
 tized, and I have not hesitated to make the characters 
 speak as I understand them, even at the expense of 
 other language and sentiments I would have preferred 
 
12 PREFACE. 
 
 and made use of had I had a different conception of the 
 actors. Thus the pompous and self-important soliloquy 
 of Malone in the opening, as also his advice to his chil- 
 dren, and more particularly his worked-up and assumed 
 passion in the park scene, are all, though overstrained 
 if not disgusting, as much in accordance with his char- 
 acter, as I see it, as is the slower and more measured re- 
 ply of his wife to him when he impeaches her chastity, 
 in accordance with her character. It is only when the 
 thought occurs to Catherine that her children might 
 think her unchaste that she is stirred to the depth of 
 her being, and then I have tried to make the language 
 correspond. The same may be said of the speeches 
 and soliloquies of Carroll and Eichard. I have endeav- 
 ored to combine in expression the impetuosity of youth*, 
 the feelings of the sons and their noble natures. I have 
 conscientiously attempted to avoid everything like pack- 
 ing, and to have all that is said or done reflect upon 
 either the character of the parties, their mental state or 
 the cause or effect of acts. How far short I have fallen 
 of the accomplishment of all this, how illy I have filled 
 even my poor idea of the drama, I know. I feel that the 
 play not unfrequently drags, is heavy and uninteresting, 
 and yet I have not the ability to remedy it. There are 
 lunatics who are conscious of their insanity. 
 
 G. A. R. 
 San Francisco, July, 1883. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Edmund M alone. 
 
 Carroll, ) 
 
 > So?is of Edmund «na Catherine. 
 Richard, ) 
 
 Maurice Sheboin. 
 
 HlNCHMAN. 
 
 Glascoe. 
 
 Catherine. — Wife of Edmund Malone. 
 
 Charlotte, } 
 
 \ Daughters of Edmund and Catherine. 
 Helen, ) 
 
 HORTENS TeCHNOR. 
 
 A Man. 
 A Woman. 
 A Servant. 
 
 Scene of Play — California. 
 
CATHERINE MALONE, 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — An elegantly furnished apartment in the 
 country residence of Edmund Malone 3 near San Francisco. 
 
 Enter Malone. 
 
 Halting, delusive fortune has at last 
 
 The miner's cabin to a palace changed, 
 
 The clinking pick converted to a pen, 
 
 And horny hands by velvet palms displaced ; 
 
 The barren hills for fields of waving grain, 
 
 The canyon roads for arbor paths give o'er, 
 
 The slashing, swearing, stabbing, miner life, 
 
 For the refinement of the drawing-room; 
 
 Done with accursed, degrading poverty 
 
 And uncongenial work, no more, which breaks 
 
 The spirit down; and all that hoard of thoughts, 
 
 Which made me rather long for death than life, 
 
 Is buried and from my memory cast. 
 
 The past, but as a nightmare, is recalled, 
 
 The present, a resplendent glorious time, 
 
 The future — beyond the power of mind to think. 
 
 "What a world, what a life, is this I see, 
 
 Which neither my dreams, imagination, 
 
 Nor yet the wildest fancies of my }^outh 
 
 Conceived! A world of wealth has opened up 
 
 A wealth of world; and, to my wondering eyes, 
 
 Doth burnished gold brilliantly illumine it, 
 
 And in that universe, before unknown, 
 
 A vacant throne among my fellow- men 
 
 I see, and invitation beckons me. 
 
 Around it in profusion, rich and rare, 
 
 Are sceptered monarchs, great kings of commerce, 
 
 Masters of art, men of science, statesmen learned, 
 
IQ CATHERINE MALOSTE. [Act 1] 
 
 And great beings of a hundred callings, 
 All enthroned; while down its corridors float 
 Enchanting strains of poetry and song. 
 Among its thrones, wove in rich harmony — 
 More beautiful than in that dismal past 
 My mind's eye ever did conceive — I see 
 The forms of women — all earth a fairy land! 
 Yet one, to me, o'er which a settled gloom 
 Is spread, lowering and black as midnight, 
 Which covers me as doth a pall of grief 
 A nation, when its best-loved ruler dies. 
 Charlotte and Maurice ! My perturbed feelings 
 Care not to run against your joyous ways. 
 
 [Exit Malone. 
 
 Enter Charlotte and Maurice Sheboin. 
 
 Sheboin. Nay, now Lotte. 
 
 Charlotte. Yes, yes, but I will tease you Uncle 
 Maurice — for, though you are not my uncle, I propose 
 to call you such, even after I am so big a girl — you said 
 you would tell me some time. 
 
 She. Well, but some other time. It's a long story 
 and you don't want to hear it now. 
 
 Chart. Yes, now, right now; for you know I go away 
 to school to-day, and it may be ever so long before I 
 have another chance to bear it. 
 
 She. Say this afternoon, you little tease. 
 
 Chart. This afternoon is almost here, and what dif- 
 ference will that little time make? Tell me this much 
 anyway: Was she beautiful ? Did she have great dark 
 eyes and brown hair ? Was she tall or short ? — stout or 
 slender? And how did it come you did not marry her? 
 You can tell me just this little much anyway. And 
 who was the man who did marry her ? 
 
 She. That much, little pet! why, that would be all of it. 
 
 Chart. Then tell me all, even from the first. 
 
 She. And if I do, will you make me a solemn prom- 
 ise never to tell a word of it to any one ? 
 
 Chart. Never, as long as I live. 
 
 She. That was solemn enough. Well, now, come 
 Sit by my side, and I will tell it you. 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 17 
 
 The story I tell is of two good friends, 
 
 One shall be nameless, and the other, I. 
 
 And in my memory is all his life 
 
 So mirrored, even from smallest childhood, 
 
 That I know not a time, I knew myself, 
 
 I knew not him; nor does the light that falls 
 
 From two twin stars in heaven, more mingle 
 
 In the eye, than run our lives together. 
 
 Our fathers and our mothers, as the tale 
 
 Has oftentimes been told us, to this land, 
 
 From the same county in old Ireland came, 
 
 Driven from thence by the same rebellion 
 
 Against proud England's haughty tyranny. 
 
 Along the banks of the Miami Eiver 
 
 Our parents made their common settlement, 
 
 And when my friend and I were born, our nouses 
 
 Had a double birthday — so are we aged. 
 
 And from the time our feet could cross the road 
 
 Which joined our fathers' farms, so brother-like 
 
 We were that I, nor he, did scarcely know 
 
 Which were our parents. The same books we read, 
 
 Went to the same village school and college, 
 
 Swore by many an oft repeated oath 
 
 We'd stand through life and die together. Then, 
 
 When the burnished light from this golden State 
 
 Glittering above deserts and mountains 
 
 Lured the brave Argonauts to these shores, 
 
 The moment that it re ached my father's home, 
 
 That instant did it fall upon my friend's. 
 
 Gharl. How strangely were your lives together 
 linked ! 
 
 She. Still more strangely did death link our parents; 
 For when the goal was all but reached, the swift 
 And savage messengers of death swooped down, 
 Leaving my friend and me homeless orphans. 
 
 Gharl. Were both your parents killed? Alas! Uncle 
 Maurice, my own father suffered the same fate. 
 
 She. Slowly we plod our weary way along, 
 And all but dead, the mining region reached. 
 Nor did our lives in this new field escape 
 That fatal destiny before laid out, 
 For here we met and loved the same young girl. 
 
18 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 1] 
 
 Gharl. Now, Uncle Maurice, are you not making 
 that up? 
 
 She. Than it, that I am here, is not more true. 
 
 Charl. What did you do ? 
 
 She. The close connected friendship of our Jives 
 Quick made discovery of our common loves, 
 Which being done we knew not how to act — 
 Whether to storm and rage, draw daggers fierce, 
 Challenge, tell lies, make plots, turn cunning knaves, 
 Or fall a weeping on each other's necks, 
 As in the theatres we had oft seen done, 
 Twixt these extremes we struck a middle course, 
 Which was to go and lay our common loves 
 Before the lady and let her be judge. 
 
 Gharl. And did you really do that ? 
 
 She. Even so, strange as it may seem to you; 
 And the lady thought we were a-joking; 
 But finally, by our earnest manners 
 Being convinced, she made evasions, and 
 Censured us that we came so a-wooing.' 
 Being pressed hard and seeing we would take 
 No answer save that we came for, she rose, 
 Calm as an angel and as dignified; 
 She was not beautiful, but her sweet face 
 Wore the tenderness of divinity, 
 And her eyes were so soft and kind they might 
 Have melted a harder heart than mine was; 
 She had a voice so great and full, and yet, 
 Mellowed with such infinite gentleness, 
 That all the ragged urchins in the street 
 Would follow her, that they might shed a tear, 
 When she but said God's blessings on them rest. 
 
 Gharl. Yes, Uncle Maurice, but what answer made 
 she? 
 
 She. Standing so before us two thus she spoke : 
 " Gentlemen, friends, since I have known you each, 
 Each have I equally esteemed, respected; 
 You Maurice for all your manly qualities; 
 And you" — naming my friend — "for all the same, 
 Not any difference between you each, 
 Thus far, have I known; but that that something, 
 Which feeling here, I yet can tell not of, 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 19 
 
 Has to one, more drawn me than the other, 
 
 I do confess. It is not that one has 
 
 Greater riches, nor yet more of learning, 
 
 More of manly graces, nor all combined, 
 
 But that which e'en a rude uncultured girl, 
 
 As well a*s the most mighty queen can feel, 
 
 Has made me love you " — this said to my friend — 
 
 "While in truth I but respect you, Maurice, 
 
 Is my answer." Then with queenly majesty, 
 
 In honest maiden's blushes bathed, strode she 
 
 To where my friend was standing, and yielded 
 
 Her heart and hand to him. That was the end, 
 
 And so she took my blessing and my heart. 
 
 Charl. And so the other fellow got the girl. Poor 
 Uncle Maurice! But, tell me, did it not break your 
 friendship ? 
 
 She. Nay, little pet; we had agreed on that 
 Before, and that it should not, we agreed. 
 
 Charl. And have you seen them since ? 
 
 She. Aye, frequently, they are well off now and have 
 quite a family, though until recently, if I mistake not, 
 they had a hard time buffeting the world. 
 
 Charl. And do you still love her? 
 
 She. Why, Charlotte, what a question. 
 
 Charl. Well, Uncle Maurice, you need n't answer 
 that one, but the first time I get in a similar trouble I 
 shall come to you for advice. Good-bye, now. [going] 
 [returns] Uncle Maurice I do so wish you had won her! 
 
 [Exit Charlotte. 
 
 She. Ah! Charlotte you little know your father 
 Was my friend — your mother that young lady. 
 Well, that was five and twenty years ago, 
 And since that day never a word of love, 
 Has passed my lips to Catherine Malone. 
 Edmund has been my brother, and his wife 
 My sister; and together for these years, 
 The desert road of poverty we've tramped, 
 And from the same rich laden basket, 
 The golden fruits of fortune now we eat. 
 
 Enter Malone. 
 Mai. Well, Maurice, what think you of the mines now? 
 
20 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 1] 
 
 Is the fickle goddess still flirting with us, or is she really- 
 caught herself this time? 
 
 She. I. think she is in earnest now. At any rate the 
 deeper we sink into the mines the better they look. 
 
 Mai. Does it not outstrip imagination that in three 
 little months we should have grown such mighty million- 
 aires ? — that I should own this place ? — that we should on 
 the street be pointed out as money kings? — we, even we, 
 who yet have scarcely got the smell of blasting powder 
 off us! Ha! Ha! Is it not wonderful how fortune deals 
 with us! "Why, Maurice, you seem to have no apprecia- 
 tion of our good luck. This is no delusion — it is a fact! 
 
 She. Why so it is, a good, round, solid fact, 
 One that can be taken into your hand, 
 And one you can put into your pocket, 
 That will make your body warm in winter, 
 "Will keep your stomach from going empty, 
 Provide you comfort in a place to sleep, 
 And a soft bed to lay your head upon. 
 That which will do these things is entitled 
 To the name of fact; what does less than these 
 Is nothing but delusion, wrong labeled. 
 
 Mai. Aye, but 3 7 ou have spoken only the half — 
 The little moiety of what that fact — 
 Our wealth — can do for us. 
 
 She. But little else. 
 
 Mai. Why look you, Maurice! That ox that stands 
 Well-stalled within his owner's pen, nor thinks 
 Save when his belly's empty, and feels not, 
 Except some fly awake him, such a beast 
 Has all those things! To-day's great Hercules 
 Is money, nor never did that one 
 Of ancient Greece — whose labors did climax 
 Imagination in her greatest poets — 
 Do deeds that swell so mighty as ours. 
 High positions can this giant give us, 
 And all great honors can he open up; 
 With luxuries surround us; the sealed doors 
 Of society can rend asunder, 
 And make us centers to be looked up to, 
 Aye, to greatness even, he can carve the way! 
 Have you a doubt of it? 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 21 
 
 She. I more than doubt 
 That unassisted wealth can do such acts. 
 
 Mai. Then listen: On an occasion not long since, 
 I paid a visit to a famous city, 
 And certain gentlemen I there beheld, 
 In general appearance not unlike 
 Their fellows, save in this particular; 
 In each man's hand I saw a golden key ! 
 
 She. Is it possible ? — you have been dreaming! 
 
 Mai. The uses of this instrument I watched, 
 And behold! it unlocked every door! 
 I saw these men walk up the marble steps 
 Of gorgeous palaces, the massive doors 
 Of which upon their willing hinges swung 
 When but this golden key its shining form 
 Presented. 
 
 She. A sight of passing strangeness! 
 
 Mai. Strange! so it was. And yet a stranger sight 
 I saw, as through the stately windows peeping, 
 Upon the fair company I looked. Behold! 
 Again these men their pretty weapons use — 
 This time upon the hearts of fair ladies — 
 And never did the mists of morn more melt 
 Before the God of Day, than did those hearts 
 Before that magic instrument dissolve. 
 
 She. Indeed! I had not thought such things could be. 
 
 Mai. Aye, nor was that half my eyes beheld. 
 More wondrous still, I saw the time-locks 
 Of great merchants, bankers, men of business, 
 Undo themselves before it; and lawyers, 
 Doctors, holy ministers of the gospel, 
 And men of all other professions bowed 
 Deep before its blinding brightness! 
 
 She. Wondrous! [ With mock sincerity.] 
 
 Mai. And when these men but walked the public 
 ways, 
 The crowd stood by, each man with gaping mouth 
 Whispering his next: '* There goes a man 
 With a key of gold;" though to ignore him 
 All strong made affectation, I observed 
 That each man waited with humble patience 
 The presentation of this mighty key 
 
22 CATHERINE MALO.TSTE. [Act 1] 
 
 That he might be allowed the privilege 
 To turn before it inside oat. 
 
 She. Oh, wondrous! wondrous instrument! 
 
 Mai. The citizen's and the statesman's honor 
 And that mammoth door which holds the highway 
 To great public places, all, all, before 
 This potent giant fell, like watery bubbles! 
 Of such a magic instrument we two 
 Are now the proud possessors! Why, Maurice, 
 You do not join me in my happiness ? 
 
 She. As you bade me I have listened, Edmund, 
 Nor must you think I judge you harshly: 
 All with the same eyes look not upon the world, 
 But you with yours and I with mine, and I 
 See things most differently from you, and, 
 For my ownself , speaking as I see it, 
 Kather than put my gold to such base use, 
 I would in the deep mountain whence it come 
 Re-bury it, and live upon the dryest crust 
 The beggar's dog leaves! Edmund, for friendship 
 Let us no more of this, I pray you have. 
 
 [Exit Sheboin. 
 
 Mai. Out on a man to whom contentment means 
 But bed and board! I had as soon not had 
 My gold as not to have it serve its use. 
 Yet were it better I had not spoken. 
 
 [Exit Malone. 
 
 Enter Hinchman and Glascoe from opposite directions. 
 
 Hinchman. [Aside.] My mind's eye what art thou 
 doing ? I have somewhere seen that fellow. 
 
 Glascoe. [Aside.] That face is not a foreigner to my 
 recollection. Let me call my calendar of scoundrels. 
 Where was't I knew him ? 
 
 Hinch. My memory fails me. Well, at any rate, I 
 have as much right here as he. 
 
 Glas. When the presence of another makes a law- 
 yer run away, may my profession cease to be honorable. 
 
 Hinch. A doctor goes from nothing except death, 
 and walks regretfully from that. 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 23 
 
 [Both sit at opposite sides.] 
 
 Glas. Ahem! 
 
 Hinch. Alio! 
 
 Glas. [ With dignity and surprise.] I beg your pardon 
 sir. 
 
 Hinch. Why, my dear sir, I assure you it is un- 
 necessary; your presence is no intrusion. 
 
 Glas. Ah! thank you, sir. Your unobserved entrance 
 must stand as an excuse for my not having spoken 
 before. 
 
 Hinch. Pray do not mention it, sir. Have you been 
 here long ? 
 
 Glas. Not above an hour. [Pause.] The weather is 
 beautiful this morning, sir. 
 
 Hinch. Divine! No country in the world can equal 
 the climate of California, sir. 
 
 Glas. The very remark I made when I first saw it in 
 the spring of '50. 
 
 Hinch. Why sir, I take it you are an old settler. I 
 have the honor to be an Argonaut myself. Ah! those 
 were glorious days, never, I fear, to again return. 
 
 Glas. Most likely not, sir — at least placer mining will 
 never be what it once was. 
 
 Hinch. Speaking of placer mining, were you in the 
 mines in early days ? 
 
 Glas. One of the very first — at old Calamity Hill. 
 
 Hinch. The devil you say! Excuse my apparent pro- 
 fanity, but I happened to have been at the same place 
 myself. 
 
 Glas. Do you know your face seemed familiar to me 
 when you first came in — ah — I mean when you first 
 spoke. 
 
 Hinch. I made the very self-same observation. May 
 I have the honor to know your name ? 
 
 Glas. With pleasure sir, — Glascoe. 
 
 Hinch. Glascoe, Glascoe — What was your name 
 then? Ah ! I beg your pardon, sir; my name is Hinchman. 
 
 Glas. The very devil! What, Hinchy who used to run 
 a faro game in Jim McCrockiu's saloon ? Ah ! I beg 
 your pardon, sir. 
 
 Hinch. I confess the soft impeachment; and Lord, sir, 
 how one thing does call up another ! I remember now — 
 
24 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 1] 
 
 Glas. What, sir? 
 
 Einch. Bill Coglass, who kept the three-card monte 
 stand just across the hall from me. 
 
 Glas. Well, old fellow, there's no use in us '49ers 
 denying ourselves to each other. 
 
 Hindi. Not a bit of it, especially under the circum- 
 stances; and you are Glascoe the famous lawyer of San 
 Francisco ? 
 
 Glas. I am afraid I shall have to confess that, too. 
 You remember the affair which occurred in the saloon 
 just before you left? 
 
 Hindi. Yes, I have a faint recollection of it — man 
 killed or something of that kind. 
 
 Glas. Well, during the trial, in which, as you re- 
 member, I participated to some extent, I was struck 
 with the imbecility of the ordinary run of lawyers, and 
 observing that their principal stock in trade was mystery, 
 I concluded to cultivate the goddess; studied law; was 
 admitted; went to San Francisco, and you know what I 
 now am. 
 
 Hindi. I am unable to boast of such success as you 
 have attained, though I have had my ups and downs. 
 I got a little smattering of medicine at the university, 
 mostly consisting of the names of diseases, drugs, and 
 medical phrases in general — 
 
 Glas. Ah! well I remember how you used to sling 
 them at the boys in the saloon. 
 
 Hindi. Well, Judge, I was absolutely captivated at 
 the gullibility of mankind in general, and more particu- 
 larly with reference to the practice of the divine art of 
 healing; so after leaving the hill I enlisted in the grand 
 army under Marshal Death, whom I have since served 
 to the best of my ability. 
 
 Glas. I presume you have lost no opportunity to 
 bring glory upon your general? 
 
 Hinch. None of which I am aware. I roamed about 
 from camp to camp seeking whom I might devour, un- 
 til I finally brought up on the other side of the moun- 
 tains. There I attended Malone through a severe spell 
 of sickness, through which by some accident he suc- 
 ceeded in living — I always attributed it to the fact that 
 his constitution was stronger than my medicine, — and 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 25 
 
 now he insists on my staying with him as his family 
 physician. May I inquire why you are here? 
 
 Glas. Ostensibly to draw some deeds. 
 
 Hindi. Oh! exactly so. Do you know I think my 
 position rather more ostensible than real, for a healthier 
 lot you never saw. Malone has made a pile of money, 
 and seems immensely dissatisfied with — something. 
 
 Glas. Indeed! possibly his — family— or some, part 
 of it? 
 
 Hindi. No more! Our ancient friendship maybe a 
 mutual benefit to us. But hist! here comes Malone. 
 We may as well be strangers. 
 
 Glas. Enough. [They sit.] 
 
 Enter Malone. 
 
 Mai. Ah! gentlemen, good-morning. I see you are 
 not acquainted. Doctor Hinchman, my friend and 
 lawyer, Judge Glascoe, of San Francisco. 
 
 Hindi. I am profoundly glad of your acquaintance, 
 Judge Glascoe. 
 
 Glas. And I of yours, Doctor. Is this your first 
 visit to California ? 
 
 Mai. No indeed, the Doctor is an old coaster. Judge, 
 would you be kind enough to step into the adjoining 
 room for a few moments where I shall join you ? 
 
 Glas. At your convenience, sir. 
 
 [Exit Glascoe. 
 
 Enter Catherine, Carroll, Richard, Charlotte and 
 Helen. 
 
 Hindi. You will excuse me as I have some matters 
 to attend to. 
 
 [Exit Hinchman. 
 
 Mai. Children, you are about to quit your home, 
 And enter your careers at colleges. 
 Fixed, determined, and unalterable, 
 Since you were born, has my intention been, V ' 
 
 To give you that which makes a man to hold 
 His head aloft among earth's greatest men; 
 
26 CATHERINE MALOjSE. [Act 1] 
 
 Saying in consciousness, I am your equal, 
 And without the which a man is nothing 
 Save a craven coward, like a whipped cur, 
 Sneaking, crouching, and hiding from the world, — 
 As you know I mean an education. 
 
 Cath. But children do not — 
 
 Mai. [Interrupting.] Behold what a thing this ignor- 
 ance is! 
 That makes a man in shame hang down his head, 
 In woman how disgusting is the sight! 
 Debasing, degrading, infamous, vile, 
 And mark you ! a near relation to crime. 
 
 Cath. Oh! Edmund— 
 
 Mai. Until the present time my means have been 
 But meagerly sufficient to afford 
 The education of the common schools. 
 But now since fortune smiles upon us, 
 Money shall not be spared. Nature has dealt 
 Not stingily with you, and if you all 
 But fill the measure she has given you, 
 Then with the wealth which, being mine is yours, 
 There is no high position above the reach 
 Of your attainment. 
 
 Cath. Remember, children, 
 Of the first great importance is your health. 
 
 Mai. For guidance, to give you rules and maxims, 
 Never varying and infallible, 
 Is beyond the power of any man. 
 There are some essential observations 
 Which, still, I would upon your hearing press: 
 There are two worlds — one, yourselves; the other, 
 That you see about you — I enjoin you 
 Make not yourselves the slaves of either one — 
 Rather, become the masters of them both; 
 "Who houses up himself within himself, 
 Lives but a slavish sovereign, and that man 
 Who lets the world become his emperor, 
 Is subject to a most exacting tyrant. 
 In that your better judgment doth approve, 
 Fear not to be a follower, remembering 
 Only he is worthy immortality 
 Who addeth something worthy to the world. 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 27 
 
 Who is truly great, is great in all things, 
 
 Yet are the avocations of the world 
 
 So infinite, that it were best for you 
 
 To fix your efforts steadfast upon one. 
 
 Have one eye on yourselves, the other keep 
 
 Upon the flashing world in which you live, 
 
 Wherein you will see much hypocrisy 
 
 Yet even more of virtuous honesty. 
 
 Let not yourselves become that cynic 
 
 Who seeing falsely sees but falsity. 
 
 Allow no man to do your thinking. 
 
 Spurn that coward who buys his peace of mind 
 
 By mental death. The pleasures of the world 
 
 Stint not yourselves, yet be not given over 
 
 To a luxurious abuse of them — 
 
 As in all things else, in this, hold pleasure 
 
 Your obedient servant, not your master. 
 
 Seek that middle ground between austerity 
 
 And gross familiarity — that happy, 
 
 Dignified distance, where, though respected, 
 
 You do not become a thing for handling. 
 
 Beware of all that class who think that life 
 
 Is but the fleeting moment that they speak. 
 
 They who honey you over with sweet words 
 
 Fling from you, for all such mean you no good — 
 
 But to that man who bluntly answers you, 
 
 Nor truckles, give him your ear attentive. 
 
 Garr. Deep in our memories, my father, 
 Shall be ensbrined the golden truths you speak, 
 Each listener with his best endeavors, 
 Sacredly observing them. 
 
 Mai. So, children, do your past lives teach me, and, 
 Though advice rests like a heavy armor 
 On the young, I still would give you, daughters, 
 These words additional: There are two kinds 
 Of women in this world you should avoid — 
 Each being equally contemptible. 
 One is basely ignorant, the other, 
 Frivolously fast; shun both and seek you 
 The rich society of those ladies, 
 W T ho, being not stupid, are yet learned, 
 And being not fast, are yet vivacious. 
 
28 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 1] 
 
 Gharl. Good, kind and loving father, your daughters — i 
 
 I know I speak my sister Helen's heart — 
 Will form a strife between them, each trying 
 The other to outdo in the observance 
 Of your good instructions. 
 
 [Carroll crosses to Catherine. 
 
 Mai. Come, Carroll, the carriage waits you and you 
 may miss the train. 
 
 Carr. Yes, sir. 
 
 Cath. Carroll — my boy — thy mother can give thee 
 No great advice such as thy father gave; 
 But she can say to thee: God bless thee, son, 
 And keep thee from all harm. 
 
 [Richard, Charlotte and Helen cross to Catherine. 
 
 Carr. [Embracing Catherine.] The richest blessing, / 
 
 my loving mother, 
 That thy son wouldst ask, thou givest him, 
 And with thy priceless love none is so rich 
 As Carroll, none so happy. 
 
 Mai. Come, come children, you will be late. 
 
 Helen. A moment, father. 
 
 Mai. Richard. 
 
 Cath. Your father calls you, children. 
 
 All. Good-bye, mother. 
 
 Mai. [Aside.] Will this never end! . 
 
 Cath. Good-bye, my children; thy mother's blessing, 
 And thy mother's heart go with thee ever. 
 
 [Exeunt Carroll, Richard, Helen and Charlotte. 
 
 Mai. Well ? 
 
 Cath. Edmund, I would have spoken to the children 
 a little ere they went, they ma} 7 be gone so long. 
 
 Mai. And in sweet heaven's name what would you 
 have said, madam? 
 
 Cath. [Aside.] Madam! I don't know, husband; 
 some little word or other— a mother's heart would have I 
 told me. 
 
 Mai. Indeed! And is there nothing further that you 
 wish ? 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 29 
 
 Ca(h. No, Edmund, unless I* have in somewise of- 
 fended you ? 
 
 Mai. Well, well; I have an engagement here with 
 some gentlemen, to day. 
 
 Oath. Let me not stand in thy way, husband. 
 
 [Exit Catherine. 
 
 Mai. Stand in my way! By the gods you shall not. 
 Plain, plain, fije, even plain to ugliness! 
 Ignorant, — disgustingly ignorant! 
 Thou art the murderer of my advancement, 
 The thief who robs me of occasion, steals 
 My chances, lays waste my opportunities, 
 Stands me still; I being no better now 
 Than when I was a beggar; aye poorer now — 
 The poorest, meanest pauper in this world 
 Is he who has a wife of whom he is 
 Ashamed, or wife a husband. And shall I — 
 I before whom the conquest of the world 
 Is like a map spread out, shall I be piqued, 
 Humiliated, degraded, stopped? 
 My schemes blockaded, my life laid waste, 
 And all because, forsooth, I am tied down — 
 Spiting and shaming nature! — to a thing- 
 Like that? No, by heavens, I shall not be! 
 Not though I am a villain! Quiet, my thoughts, 
 Here comes the Doctor. I like him well and 
 That he likes me I have reason to believe. 
 He is an enviable man — always 
 The master of himself, profoundly versed 
 In the mysteries of science, with the secrets 
 Of both mind and heart richly acquainted, 
 And withal honest to a very fault. 
 Into each other do our beings run, 
 And lock together iu the fair embrace 
 Of good companionship. 
 
 Enter Hinchman. 
 
 Hinch. I see no very serious ailment 
 Doth possess my friend to-day— for mark you! 
 A bright eye and sickness are no good friends. 
 
30 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 1] 
 
 Mai. A greater faculty I never saw 
 Than that you have for seeing, from the outside, 
 A man's condition, thoughts and feelings inwardly. 
 
 Hinch. 'Tis not I have a greater faculty, 
 But mine has been more exercised than yours. 
 
 Mai. Well, be that as it may, there is something 
 Makes me like you, Doctor, amazingly. 
 
 Hinch. My humble thanks for all your kind expres- 
 sion. 
 The matter of our likes and dislikes, friend, 
 Is almost inexplicable; something, 
 Which no man ever yet could understand, 
 Goes out from one and permeates the being 
 Of the other; and yet it seemeth true 
 That the existence in one another 
 Of common likes and dislikes, the same tastes, 
 Equality in native ability, 
 And the general similitude of each, 
 Count greatly in the reckoning of love. 
 Thus a man having a great intellect, 
 Will be strongly drawn unto a woman 
 Of the same stamp, while an inferior one — 
 Though for a while he make a toy of her — 
 At last brings nothing save disgust. 
 
 Mai. What figure think you beauty cuts in love? 
 
 Hinch. No man with fine tastes and an aesthetic eye 
 Can ever love an ugly woman. 
 
 Mai. What think you, then, when she be ignorant 
 And ugly too? 
 
 Hinch. Why, then, that she should have 
 A husband ignorant and ugly too. 
 For ignorance, knowing not learning, and, 
 A priori, having no eye for beauty, 
 Is to the loss of either all unknown, 
 And is companions with its other self. 
 The educated man, however, seeing 
 At once, the ignorance and ugliness, 
 Compares, then magnifies and distorts them, 
 Till foul disgust usurps the place of love. 
 
 Mai. How clearly you diagnose diseases 
 Of that sort. You have not confined yourself, 
 To the study of mere physical man. 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 31 
 
 Hinch. No man should; he who observes the world 
 sees much, 
 And he who turns his learning to good use 
 Befriends mankind. Seeing a bad effect, 
 We trace its cause; a good likewise. I see 
 Much of unhappiness in married life. 
 "Whatever is must have a cause. Given 
 Unhappiness between a man and wife, 
 Now what the cause? Look at them. Perchance, 
 He with a great intellect, capable, 
 Learned, ambitious; she, ignorant, ugly, 
 And of capacity devoid. He has great plans, 
 High aspirations; she neither conceives 
 Nor enters into such — hence they are not 
 Companionable. He can not trust her. 
 Knowing her ignorance will disgrace him, 
 He is ashamed of her; shame breeds disgust. 
 His ambitions swamped, his life a failure, 
 He but exists till death, kinder than life, 
 Relieves him of his heavy misery. 
 
 Mai. Remarkable! Remarkable! Hinchman, 
 Do I not owe you something — a balance? 
 Of course I do. I am your debtor — I — 
 Let me get you a check, my dear Hinchman. 
 
 [Exit Malone. 
 
 Hindi. Remarkable! Remarkable! Malone, 
 Get me a check as quick as possible, 
 Make it a big one, too. What is't he means? 
 He said " What, if she be both ignorant 
 And ugly ?" So! Remarkable! quite so !^ 
 I comprehend you — vain, ambitious man ! — 
 I need money — ignorant and ugly — 
 Vain and ambitious — money is a friend — 
 Will try y ou a little further — money ! 
 
 Enter Malone. 
 
 Mai. A small remittance for past services — 
 Good services, too, my learned physician, 
 Who ministers, not only to the sick 
 And troubled body, but to the diseased heart 
 As well. Be you both friend and doctor. 
 
82 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 1] 
 
 Hindi. Ah! Malone, I, who has been kicked and 
 cuffed 
 By this cold, heartless world, appreciate 
 The magnanimity of such a friend. 
 For you, who should be a prince, to take me, 
 Poor, homeless, and unprovided as I am, 
 And upon me bestow this richest gift — 
 A friendship any king might crave — bespeaks 
 The soul of one well-born to greatness! Ah! 
 "What a future do I see before you! 
 As yet, the prime of life is scarcely reached, 
 And see! a world of wealth lies at your feet, 
 But to be breathed on by yourself, when it 
 Shall speak to millions. The art of flattery 
 Has my humble tongue ne'er learned, and saying 
 You have an intellect which justifies 
 Ambition's highest hopes, it sjoeaks but cold, 
 Unvarnished, solemn truth. What place is there 
 In the great world of business you may not fill ? 
 In politics, what station; and in polite 
 And cultivated society, who 
 May not you receive, by whom not be received? 
 
 Mai. Ah, Hinchman! Speak to me not of station, 
 Nor politics, nor of society; 
 They are tome but cups of coolest drink 
 But just beyond my reach, and I, a man 
 Upon the desert sands dying of thirst. 
 
 Hindi. What ! And has my friend no high ambitions ? 
 
 Mai. Aye in quantities the most plentiful. 
 
 Hindi. Surely is then all else at your command. 
 
 Mai. My friend you do not — cau not understand — 
 
 Hindi. I beg your pardon, sir, if I have been, — 
 
 Mai. Hinchman, know you a skeleton? 
 
 Hindi. A strange question, asking a physician! 
 
 Mai. No, I mean not these bony parts of man — 
 "What I refer to is a skeleton 
 Of the mind — a spectre, where e'er you go, 
 Haunting, dogging }^ou unceasingly. 
 
 Hindi. To such things am I not entirely unknown, 
 As one of my profession is not like to be. 
 
 Mai. Then as friend to friend dares make confession, 
 I will tell you of that which bars me 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 33 
 
 From all high station and great position. 
 
 What stops me is a ghastly skeleton — 
 
 One which in my poverty I had not 
 
 Not knowing that I had it; being rich, 
 
 I know it, wherefore do I have it now. [Exit Malone. 
 
 Hindi. So soon! So soon! Ere yet thy virgin gold 
 Has got the coiner's stamp upon its face, 
 To let it change thee so. Hast thou given 
 To the rag-picker all thy old clothing, 
 That thou hast do reminder of the past ? 
 Aye, but thou hast one, and one most fruitful 
 As a pricker of thy memory, too! 
 'Tis a rich legacy of thy dead life — 
 A skeleton thou didst aptly call it! 
 Well, thou art wedded to thy skeleton; 
 Thou must eat with it; thou must put thy kiss 
 Upon its most hideous, tasteless lips; 
 Thou must take and hug it to thy bosom; 
 Aye, thou must let it occupy thy bed, 
 And clank and rattle its disgusting bones 
 Against thy tender flesh; or else thou must, 
 By the intercession of some good friend, 
 Be found a means to banish thy spectre. 
 Ho! Hinchman, is there an occupation 
 For thee here ? Thou hast roamed o'er the world, 
 Seeking thy fortunes in a hundred lands, 
 And finding naught but cursed poverty, 
 And other men thou hast seen, than whom thou 
 Kuewest a million times as much, grow rich, 
 Where, in thine honesty, thou didst but starve. 
 Then make thee now serve thee to some purpose 
 The world's philosophy which thou hast garnered. 
 
 Oath. (From without. ) Is that you, Doctor Hinchman ? 
 
 Hindi. Aye, madam. And is there aught that he 
 can do for you? 
 
 Enter Catherine. 
 
 Oath. Is Edmund here? 
 Hindi. A moment since he left. 
 I know not where. 
 
 Cath. O, Doctor, thou art learned 
 
34 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 1] 
 
 In all the wondrous things that great men know: 
 Canst thou tell me whether some dire disease 
 Has laid its fearful hold upon my husband — 
 Some dreadful ailment of his mind or body? 
 
 Hindi. Briefly a time ago, my dearest madam, 
 Your husband suffered from a serious illness; 
 But that he had entirely recovered 
 I was convinced — at least I think so. 
 
 Oath. Thou thinkst so, Doctor! But tell me truly — 
 Have not a fear to tell his wife, whose heart 
 Is strong and who has stood 'neath many a 
 Heavy burden — is not that ailment 
 Lingering in him still ? Thou hast seen much 
 Of him; is he the same to you unchanged? 
 
 Hindi. I am quite sure that he is well, madam; 
 But have you seen in him aught that betoken 
 Illness? Mayhap in the close intimacy 
 Of a wife, you have seen that which I, 
 In simple observation, unnoticed 
 Have let pass. 
 
 Gath. Only as thou art his doctor 
 Would I to thee tell it, and then if there 
 Be power in the art of which thou be 
 The master to make him well, oh, do it! 
 Not in the married intimacy of which 
 Thou speakest, but in the lack of it, 
 Have I beheld in him such monster changes. 
 He w T ho was once so gentle and so kind, 
 Is now become so harsh — so cruel harsh, 
 That by his conduct would no one know him. 
 Do changes such as these come over one, 
 Save when some great affliction of the mind 
 Or body out-turns the sound and healthy man? 
 
 Hindi. You have observed such changes in him, 
 madam ! 
 'Tis most passing strange they have escaped me. 
 But in his every mood I'll note him, 
 And if within my little power it lies 
 To help him, most willingly I'll do it. 
 
 Gath. Then on you rest the blessings of a wife, 
 "Who loves her husband next unto her God. 
 
 [Exit Catherine. 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 35 
 
 Hinch. Ignorant! Ignorant! Why, gods, there was 
 In her few, simple questions more learning 
 Than in the ranting cant of a whole school 
 Of medicine! As for her ugliness, 
 It is a film grown over Edmund's eye; 
 But that's all one to me — I need money — 
 Fixed and confirmed are my suspicions now. 
 O, vain, conceited, and ambitious man! 
 
 [Exit Hinchman. 
 
 Enter Malone and Glascoe. 
 
 Mai. All my suspicions I can not tell you now, for 
 that they might be illy founded, and thus I do her an 
 unconscious wrong; and yet I have them, sir, and fear me 
 they are but too strongly grounded. O, sir, you know 
 how such a thing as this harrows my very soul! 
 
 Glas. Standing as you do upon suspicious, quaking- 
 ground, I have a keen appreciation of your feelings. 
 Well, sir, 'tis a sorrowful reflection that the world is not 
 all good. And yet 'tis but too true, too true. At pres- 
 ent, observe her closely. Let no suspicion of your sus- 
 picions reach her ears, aud finally, keep me informed. 
 
 Mai. Heavily as such a charge bears down upon me 
 I will perform it as becomes a man. Your carriage 
 waits you at the door. Good-bye — pardon my lack of 
 hospitality. [Exit Malone. 
 
 Enter Hinchman as Glascoe approaches the door. 
 
 Hinch. And are the deeds all drawn? 
 
 Glas. M' yes, the business is attended to. 
 
 Hinch. The business? Then was there something 
 more than merely drawing deeds? 
 
 Glas. Sir, the first duty of a lawyer is to keep invio- 
 lable the secrets of his client. 
 
 Hinch. Ah! my dear sir, your ethics are most unim- 
 peachable, and yet I chance to know — 
 
 Glas. Know what, sir? 
 
 Hinoh. Why, nothing, Judge — and yet I do know 
 this: that in the infinite labyrinth of a lawyer's business 
 there is that which in ordinary parlance is sometimes 
 called — divorce. 
 
36 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 2] 
 
 Glas. What! 
 
 Hindi. Hist! Not a word of it. Long years ago 
 we knew each other. Times, not you and I, have 
 changed! There's money in this for us both. 
 
 Glas. Your hand, my honest sir! 
 
 curtain . 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Hortens Technor's parlors in San Francisco. 
 Enter Malone. 
 
 Mai. It is a very ocean of a world, 
 A raging and tempestuous sea of life. 
 Yet, lighter than a gull these waves my bark 
 Would float, were it not lashed and chained to such 
 A log. Thus am I anchored and held down 
 In the mad water's furious trough, 
 And the ambitious billows clashing me, 
 Will sink me if I be not soon unloosed; 
 While mine own ambition plunging about, 
 Like unstayed ballast in a surging vessel, 
 Will burst that holds it and thus all go down. 
 
 Enter Hortens Technor. 
 
 O, how thy sight doth raise me, sweetest Hortens! 
 With such a woman as thou art, for wife, 
 A man might walk the whitest ray of light, 
 Or dance upon the rainbow's treacherous form. 
 Oh, Hortens! o'er all I came to see you first. 
 
 Hortens. And thereby you have greatly honored me. 
 
 Mai. Honored you! No, 'tis I by you am honored, 
 Lest it be true that the blind man's visit 
 Honors the surgeon who re-gives him sight; 
 For, Hortens, since these eyes beheld you last, 
 They have but looked on night — black, gloomy night. 
 
 Horts. Ah! Then I would I might have been that 
 night. 
 
 Mai. Then had it been the brightest night for me 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 37 
 
 That ever was; and were that other clay, 
 With a whole universe of suns to light her 
 Even as night, far would you outshine her. 
 
 Horts. I thank you, Edmund. Yet were her dullness 
 Better than her falseness — dullness being- 
 Nature's curse; falseness, the work of art. 
 
 Mai. Truly, dearest Hortens, stupidity 
 We can forgive — even though disgusting; 
 But alas! he is a nobler man than I, 
 'Who can let baseness such as this, which would 
 A universe of purity befoul, 
 Go free, un whipped of justice; no, not I! 
 
 Horts. Ill would I blame you, Edmund, if I could. 
 I would not, for I love you far too well. 
 I could not, for honest wifety virtue 
 Is a crystal gem illumining her soul — 
 A very diamond of the rarest hue, 
 In the pure forehead of her honor placed, 
 Alone by which her fairy form is seen, 
 Which lights her eye and beautifies her face, 
 And taken away, doth leave her but a mass, 
 Black and ill-shapen; no, I blame you not 
 That you should seek a separation from her, 
 Since she has that pure essence flung away 
 Which made her wife to you! Bather, I pray, 
 Our happy union following that event, 
 Hasten it with all reasonable dispatch. 
 
 Mai. The wind when lashed into a hurricane, 
 Before it carrying all, speeds slower 
 Than does my desire to end the present, 
 And begin that fond new life long wished for, 
 W T bere we two in love's harmonious embrace, 
 With fortune 'ready made, fame within reach, 
 And happiness all overspreading us— 
 Hortens, look upon me; see lam still young, 
 There's not one line of gray yet shames the black- 
 Why, darling, what is it? Why shrink you back? 
 Have I this instant changed to some huge monster ? 
 
 Horts. Oh, Edmund! it is not I do not love you, 
 But there is something tells me I ought not, 
 Until the separation from your wife 
 Is made complete, to see you. Am I wrong? 
 
38 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 2] 
 
 Mai. And could you shut me out in darkness ? 
 
 Horts. My reputation, Edmund, think of that! 
 For when a woman's reputation's questioned, 
 For all the world it had as well been gone. 
 Nor is the foul miasma of a swamp 
 More deadly poisonous to the body, 
 Than is suspicion to a good woman's character. 
 
 Mai. What care we, 
 Dearest Hortens, for what the world may think ? 
 Are we two not a world within ourselves ? 
 A very universe, in all its parts 
 
 Complete? Has the world ought of good but we have? 
 Can it love, respect you more than I do ? 
 
 Hoists. Nay, nor one-half so much; thus answer all. 
 O, I had rather have your love, esteem, 
 Than that of all the world — ten times as much! 
 
 Mai. The one you now have, and Edmund shall be 
 Your reputation's armed protection 
 Against the other's loss. Now, Hortens, dear, 
 I must to some business of importance see, 
 Which being done I shall return. Till then 
 A short good-bye. 
 
 Horts. You will not be gone long? 
 
 Mai. The very smallest minute possible. 
 
 Horts. Oh! Edmund, do I do wrong to love you? 
 
 Mai. Yes, Hortens. 
 
 Horts. Ah ! 
 
 Mai. As angels sin, do you. 
 
 [ Exeunt Hortens and Malone. 
 
 Scene II, — A room in Malone' s country place. 
 Enter Catherine. 
 
 Caih. Woe is my heart! how changed are all things 
 now! 
 Then were we poor, but not this misery; 
 Then was I not a wife without a husband. 
 Now, alack! there is no thing of luxury here, 
 But is a dagger pricking at my heart. 
 Cold, cold as the very marble mantels 
 Is every one; and he, my husband, 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 39 
 
 Who for five and twenty years I've followed 
 As a dog Lis master — watched through sickness, 
 And with these hands have often made the bread 
 That fed us all. But that's nothing. Catherine; 
 That was thy wifely duty. O, Edmund, 
 Hast thou forgotten me, thy loving wife ? 
 Hast thou forgotten thy life, but past? 
 Nor would I care for that if only thou 
 Wouldst to me be a little as was thy wont. 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone am I, 
 And not one soul to help me bear all this. 
 No, no! I will, e'er long, not be alone. 
 To-daj r my noble-hearted boys and girls 
 Come home, for it is their school vacation. 
 O, what a joy awaits me when they come! 
 But they must never know this — no, never; 
 Not even though this sorrow breaks my heart. 
 Bather would I die than have nry children know 
 Their father does not treat their mother well. 
 
 Enter Hinchman. 
 
 O, Doctor! till I have shamed the woman, 
 Have I asked this question of thee: Hast thou, 
 In thy learned observations, yet uncovered 
 The reason of my husband's actions? 
 
 Hinch. Dear madam, I implore you, have no fear 
 To come to him who is your steadfast friend, 
 Most humble and obedient servant. 
 Unwillingly, I confess, I have seen, 
 Upon your husband's part, much curious conduct, 
 Yet that the motives and the cause of acts 
 Deep in the individual often lie 
 Beyond the scrutiny of human eyes, 
 I did make observation years ago. 
 
 Cath. But has he not let fall some little word, 
 From which thy knowledge of the human mind, 
 So deep and comprehensive over all, 
 Could make out a cause for his strange actions 
 To me? 
 
 Hinch. Madam, your husband is discreet, 
 And knowing well my friendship, oft spoken 
 
40 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 2] 
 
 For his wife, lie would be slow to do or say 
 Aught, in my presence, that would cast reproach 
 On you. 
 
 Oath. Reproach, sayst thou, Doctor? Alas! 
 I am so ignorant of an}^ cause 
 "Why he should cast reproach on me. 
 
 Hindi. And I. 
 Yet, sometimes, people, from very lack of cause, 
 Do the most make reproach. 
 
 Cath. I can not think 
 He means me harm. 
 
 Hunch. Yet might one ill suppose 
 That by such treatment he should mean you good, 
 For no two stars are greater distanced 
 Than meaning good and acting bad. 
 
 Cath. Alack! 
 Poor Catherine, what wilt thou do ? 
 
 Hindi. Good lady, 
 If I may be the humble instrument 
 Of j^our advisement — 
 
 Cath. Aye, be thou so, my friend — 
 For that thou art my friend, thy honest face, 
 And all thy acts toward me, cry aloud. 
 
 Hindi. Then would I say, my dearest madam — - 
 And from the deep sincerity of my heart 
 It comes — to all his jeers, his scoffs, and taunts, 
 His gross unkindness, and all other acts 
 Unhusband-like, return you naught but love, 
 And the most patient and long-suffering 
 Endurance of your wrongs. Thus will his heart, 
 Being but made of flesh, quickly melt down 
 Before your gentle, pleading methods. 
 
 Cath. I thank thee, friend, and will, with all the means 
 Within my power, employ no weapon 
 Of harsher use than that thou hast advised. 
 And thou wilt still seek out the cause, for I 
 So greatly fear me I have done some wrong, 
 Most grievous in its nature, to my husband, 
 Which being known, my love will quick suggest 
 A remedy curing these evil ways. [Exit Catherine. 
 
 Hinch. Thus doth the devil make good use of saints! 
 For all the homely love she can pour on him, 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 
 
 Is so much fuel to his burning hatred. 
 Still am I slow to take the devil's part, 
 And were I differently situated, 
 I would not clo't. But for the means of life, 
 "Which make a man sleep sound — give him a sure 
 And well-provided stomach; from his mind 
 Banishing all thoughts of pauper's ending, 
 And over all, the .time one likes affording 
 To follow his chosen avocation — 
 What should a man not do ? 'Tis not that I 
 Love mone} T for the sake of hoarding it — 
 To be a miser is to damn one's own 
 Existence — nothing more; nor love I wealth 
 To make an idle and wanton spendthrift 
 Of my declining days; nor yet to flaunt 
 A gaudy image in a lady's parlor. 
 To love money for such base purposes 
 Is beneath my nature; but that I might, 
 Apart from groveling and grovelers, 
 And from all disturbing influences 
 Of the world, and in mine own peaceful ease 
 The study of philosophy pursue- 
 Perchance, at last, for its own betterment, 
 To give unto the world my humble thoughts — 
 Is the sole limit of my love for wealth. 
 Now Malone hates his wife, and so he would 
 Be rid of her, and so he would have me 
 To help him — deeming himself a villain, 
 And for the very solace of his mind 
 He wants a reason for his villainy. 
 Shadows will do, but I will give him substance, 
 For in this small, round compass of a brain, 
 There lives a being that possesses might, 
 To make a white-robed angel black as night. 
 I know the story of their lives; how Maurice 
 Loved the gentle Catherine; how Edmund 
 Won her; how they have lived together since. 
 In this fair neighborhood the villain lies. 
 Here comes Malone, steeped in hypocrisy, 
 His head deep bowed beneath the mighty weight 
 Of some huge moral problem. 
 
42 • CATHERINE MALOXE. [Act 2] 
 
 Enter Malone. - 
 
 Mai. I do not know; I have grave doubts of it. 
 Ah! Hinchman — you here? Pardon my manner, 
 My mind, unwillingly, is sore distressed. 
 
 Hinch. Much does it grieve your friend to see his 
 friend 
 So much distressed, and as my ears were made 
 But now unwilling witnesses to your 
 Lamentation, may I inquire what 'tis 
 You do not know, seeming so mightily 
 Your usual good spirits to weigh down ? 
 
 Mai. That it would not be wrong. 
 
 Hindi. What wrong, my friend ? 
 
 Mai. Do you not know, Doctor? By my conscience, 
 I have a mighty fear to mention it. 
 
 Hinch. Tush! you mean your separation from your 
 wife — 
 A subject for closed doors but open minds. 
 
 Mai. Well, well, perhaps I do. Have you no doubt 
 Of the moral right of such proceedings ? 
 
 Hindi. When first these longing eyes rest on that 
 man, 
 Who can, with truth, inform me what right is, 
 Then most quickly will I make you answer. 
 
 Mai. But is there not some standard or some rule 
 Of right, infallible, for our guidance ? 
 
 Hinch. Aye, one which changes with the moon, or 
 each 
 New edict of the church, or roams about 
 Following the whims of legislators, 
 Or spies itself in each fresh custom 
 Of society, or else, barring all these, 
 Lives in a caldron of well-boiled reptiles. 
 Ha! ha! As good as these standards is mine: 
 What each man thinks is right, is right to him. 
 
 Mai. But when the act is done, may there not come 
 A pricking of the conscience which — 
 
 Hinch. Oh! stop you! The silliest attribute, 
 In which dense ignorance has wrapped up man, 
 Is that false thing which fools call conscience, ha! 
 
 Mai. What, sir; would you say man has no con- 
 science ? 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 43 
 
 Hindi. Not for the world; for little I would run 
 Afoul of all great men. What might it be? 
 A pretty thing, making an islander 
 Lick well his jaws while dining on a good 
 Fat missionary; a Mohammedan 
 Feel jolly good while braining a Christian. 
 Aye, that's not all. Mark you well, with what 
 Enthusiasm it makes a Christian 
 Persecute a Jew and uncontented 
 Makes one Christian boil, burn, rack another. 
 Oh! good, dear, sweet conscience to satiate 
 Thy heaven-born appetite, does one man 
 Possess a score of wives, another none, 
 One starve himself, another turn a glutton, 
 One pray to stones, another worship myths! 
 O, universal conscience I bow to thee! 
 
 Mai. But, Hinchman, is there not in solemn marriage, 
 A something sacredly to be observed, 
 "Which man but interfering with brings down 
 Dire ruin on himself and family? 
 
 Hinch. [Aside.] Gods! but that drives me home! 
 "Well, to my work. — 
 Malone, my friend, why, now, what is this marriage ? 
 A mere relationship between a man 
 And woman; a mutual agreement 
 For the present betterment of them each; 
 A contract of co-partnership between 
 The different sexes. When no longer 
 The relationship is pleasant, to be 
 Terminated; when the co-partnership 
 Is no longer profitable, to be 
 Dissolved — and that at the will of either, 
 And when the agreement is no longer 
 For the betterment of each — at once void. 
 Such is the sum and substance of the thing 
 Which we call marriage, twist it asjyou may. 
 
 Mai. Doctor, we have children; what say you now? 
 
 Hinch. [Aside.] Ahem! My wits, I need you now if 
 ever. 
 This: Could I have erred in that I just said, 
 It is now the most profound of logic. 
 "Would you have your children live in that bedlam — 
 
44 CATHERINE M ALONE. [Act 2] 
 
 That hell on earth, made by an unhappy 
 
 Man and wife; by their parents' jeers and taunts, 
 
 Murder their tender hearing, and hold up 
 
 Before their eyes a prostituted love, 
 
 A miserable home; and by such sights 
 
 To make them hate the names of love and home ? 
 
 Mai. I love my children as I love my life. 
 They are the very center of my hopes, 
 The diamond cluster of my ambitions. 
 
 Hinch. Then I pray you, take them from their ruin. 
 
 Mai. Think you I could do so ? 
 
 Hinch. Aye, if you will 
 In this matter but follow my advice. 
 
 Mai. Have you taken thought of any method 
 By which the — 
 
 Hinch. Divorce might be procured ? 
 
 Mai. Well? 
 
 Hinch. I have given some thought to it. 
 
 Mai. Well ? 
 
 Hinch. Did not you tell me that Maurice Sheboin, 
 Your lady loved before you wedded her ? 
 
 Mai. Yes; so he did, but is there aught in that ? 
 
 Hinch. Much! much! More, that ever since your 
 marriage 
 He has lived with you; followed you about 
 Prom place to place for five and twenty years? 
 
 Mai Well, what of that ? 
 
 Hinch. Do men such things as that for nothing? 
 
 Mai. What mean you, Hinchman ? 
 
 Hinch. Ah! nothing — except — may be — well this — 
 ha! 
 That Maurice is a curious man, ha! ha! 
 
 Mai. How curious ? That hollow laugh means some- 
 • thing. 
 
 Hinch. Why, no, it don't; and yet it is strange 
 That Maurice should have tracked you, or rather, 
 Shall I say your — ah! no difference — lived — 
 Did you not stay in the same house ? and eat — 
 Devilish brotherly — at the same table ? 
 
 Mai. Why, think you there is anything in that ? 
 Gods! I have no liking for your manners. 
 
 Hinch. Why, think you there is anything in thai! 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 45 
 
 Were not you frequently away from Lome, 
 Sheboin remaining — to protect the house ? 
 
 Mai. I was away, but had no thought of that. 
 
 Hinch. And all this time Sheboin loved your lady! 
 
 Mai. Think you so? 
 
 Hinch. Think I so! Why, Maurice is made of stuff 
 Which loving a woman, loves forever. 
 
 Mai. Is it possible ? Do you imagine — 
 
 Hinch. My dear sir, when I became a doctor, 
 Following the example of three thousand years, 
 I buried my imagination 
 With my first patient — resurrection not yet. 
 
 Mai. Do you think Maurice ever betrayed me ? 
 
 Hinch. Think! The thought is within shooting dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Mai. Do you think so ? 
 
 Hinch. Looks it not probable ? 
 
 Mai. The hideous nightmare of the past 
 Rises before me, and a thousand things 
 Make me believe her false, and him. Ye gods! 
 
 Hinch. 'Tis very well; the argument sounds fair. 
 
 Mai. Hinchman, this possibility does smell, 
 And I tell you, degraded as I seem, 
 Were I convinced that he and she were false, 
 I'd tear their cursed hearts out with these hands. 
 
 Hinch. save your wrath! 
 
 Mai. Retract your intimations 
 Or I will take — 
 
 Hinch. Are you in earnest ? 
 
 Mai. Earnest, man! you run a dagger through me 
 And ask me calmly if I am hurt. 
 
 Hinch. Malone, I had no thought that you would take 
 My sayings seriously, for in good faith, 
 I do not think your wife has been untrue, 
 But on this supposition I had thought 
 To build a good stout structure for divorce. 
 
 Mai. Mean you, that you would prove my wife un- 
 chaste ? 
 
 Hinch. My dear sir, I have somewhere heard it said 
 The law requires some reason for divorce. 
 
 Mai. I could never have it that way, Hinchman, 
 It would wound me in mine immortal self. 
 
46 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 2] 
 
 Hinch. Immortal fiddlesticks! Malone, I'm tired 
 Of all this nonsense. Let it be ended 
 One way or the other, now — yes, right now. 
 
 Mai. But, Doctor, is there not some other ground? 
 
 Hinch. None, absolutely none, I know of, whereon 
 The well-filled person of success may lean; 
 Besides, as to the grounds, what difference, 
 The object being divorce. You prove it thus 
 And keep your money, again your children 
 Will go with you, and still again the public — 
 No small factor — will be on your side. 
 
 Mai. [Aside.] My money I keep — that's no small 
 item — 
 My children — without a valid reason 
 They would despise me — and then the public, 
 Without just grounds, it would deride me. 
 My friend — my good and honest friend — I am 
 In all these matters governed by your views. 
 Proceed upon such grounds as may to you 
 Seem best, acting, I pray you, in strict secrecy. 
 
 [Exit Malone. 
 
 Hinch. The villain knew it all; a hundred times 
 By looks and little words let fall hinted it 
 To me; and now, the ripened time arrived, 
 Made me assume the argument, and he, 
 Defend himself, as if he were a priest, 
 Behind the bulwark of morality. 
 Tush! The villainy of it is too great, 
 Yet am not I the villain, but Malone, 
 Yet is not he the villain, but Hinchman. 
 Well, shall you pay me for it. Not one word 
 Of your morality but shall cost you 
 A double eagle. Ha! a thought! a thought! 
 Quiet, Hinchman! Let daylight in upon't. 
 Suppose that I,, having the divorce procured, 
 Should marry the widow? Good, very good! 
 I will think of that too; she likes me — yes — 
 But she would have no money then. I might 
 Convince Malone, it is his moral duty 
 To divide his property with his wife, ha! ha! 
 Ah! here she comes and while the notion's on me 
 I will feel her inclination to me. 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 47 
 
 Enter Catherine. 
 
 Calh. Was not my husband here, Doctor Hinchman ? 
 
 Hinch. Aye, clearest madam, but a moment since. 
 
 Gath. Know you which way he went ? 
 
 Hinch. Not far, I think. 
 
 Cath. If he would only let me speak to him! 
 
 Hindi. Nay, gentle lady, take it not so hard, 
 I pray you; remember though your husband 
 May dislike you, there is another one 
 Esteems you greatly, seeing in Catherine, 
 Edmund so despises, one o'erflowing 
 With all the virtues of true womanhood. 
 
 Gath. I thank you, Doctor, for all your kindness, 
 Yet do your words cause me to think Edmund 
 Has said much more in disrespect of me. 
 
 Hinch. Alas! Madam I fear — yet would I say 
 No more, lest some unfeeling one might think 
 I had between a wife and husband gone. 
 
 Gath. Good sir, your kindly offices to me, 
 And all your heartfelt sympathy ill-bear 
 Such construction; and Catherine who has not 
 That she ought, appreciates your kindness. 
 
 Hinch. Ah! dearest lady, when the heart is robbed 
 Of that without which it is an aching void, 
 Sweet nature, by her suffering children pained, 
 Doth seek to fill the chasm with another love. 
 Seeing your husband come, I will retire. 
 
 [Exit Hinchman. 
 
 Enter Malone. 
 
 Mai. What, again here! 
 
 Gath. O, Edmund, but to say 
 Our children will be home to-day, and beg thee 
 Save me in their presence from harsh treatment. 
 
 Enter Richard to the window. 
 
 Rich. [Aside.] Now will I give my parents a sur- 
 prise. 
 Mai. Well, have you done? 
 Oath. O, will not you tell me — 
 
48 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 2] 
 
 Mai. Still here ! I hardly thought you eared so much 
 For my poor company. 
 
 Rich. [Aside. ] What is't I hear? 
 
 Cath. Just one little word, and have Fwronged you, 
 I will go down upon these knees and beg, 
 Entreat thee thy forgiveness, the humblest 
 Penitent in all this world of sinners (kneels). 
 
 Mai. Enough! Enough! Out of my sight, woman! 
 No, you will not go! Then will I leave you (going). 
 
 Cath. Please, Edmund, husband for the love I bear 
 you! [Exit Malone, followed by Catherine. 
 
 Eider Richard. 
 
 Richard. Gods, what is this? My father turned a 
 brute! 
 Nor was he given to drinking. His mind 
 Must be deranged to talk thus to his wife. 
 Ha! They come again, she following, all tears, 
 And still beseeching him to tell her wh}'. 
 Unseen, I will their further conduct watch. 
 
 [Richard secretes himself. 
 
 Re-enter Malone, followed by Catherine. 
 
 Cath. O, husband, hear me! 
 
 Mai. No more! No more! I say 
 I will have nothing more to do with yon. 
 
 Rich. [Adde. ] Now, heaven, see those tears. O, 
 witness, Jove! 
 They would melt down a monument of stone. 
 
 Cath. But why, oh, why? Will you not tell me why ? 
 
 Mai. Why, why; and so let why your answer be, 
 Until you ask yourself. 
 
 Rich. [Aside.] He is turned iron. 
 
 Cath. Alas! is this the curse of riches? 
 
 Mai. Riches, indeed! Indeed, riches! Begone! 
 Out of my sight! No? Then I go again, 
 And as you love yourself, follow me not. | Exit Malone. 
 
 Cath. Heaven, forgive me any wrong, in weakness, 
 That I ever did thee, Edmund. Oh, I, 
 So used, could die, but that I live to see 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 49 
 
 My children. O, darlings, you will not forget 
 Your mother, and never will forsake her! 
 
 [Exit Catherine. 
 Rich. Are these my eyes? Are these my ears — my 
 senses? 
 "Was that my father? Was that my mother? 
 These things do but appear to be. The world 
 Is naught, but in our minds, and that I saw 
 Only some horrible hallucination. 
 I am not here, but only think I am; 
 Or else my father has gone mad, for ne'er 
 Did gentleness e'er turn to gall like that. 
 And sooner would this solid world dissolve, 
 And in a minute melt to nothingness, 
 Than one so soft in manner, and in speech 
 So mild, become so hard as adamant. 
 Oh, unaccountable! I did not see it, 
 And yet I did. This self-delusion does no good. 
 
 Enter Sheboin. 
 
 Sheboin. Ho, Dick! Home from school? I have 
 myself 
 Come down for a few days. 
 
 Rich. Yes, I am here. 
 
 She. Here, Richard ? Why, this is not your manner. 
 
 Rich. What is it? The cause, Maurice, the reason? 
 I know that you will tell me what it is. 
 
 She. I do not like that solemn manner, boy. 
 Have you seen aught to make you act this way? 
 
 Rich. Seen, Maurice — seen! Gods! what have I not 
 seen? 
 My father, Maurice — your friend, my father? 
 
 She. Well, what of him, Richard? Is he not well? 
 
 Rich. About him, lately, have you seen nothing- 
 strange ? 
 Has he forgot his friends ? Attends he, 
 As was his wont, to business ? Or has he — 
 
 She. Pardon me, Richard. Concerning that you 
 
 I am a stranger. If with your father 
 
 You have had some trouble, go and mend it. 
 
 [Exit Sheboin. 
 \ 
 
50 QATHERINE MALONE. [Act 2] 
 
 Rich. As a man lost in a mighty forest, 
 I am bewildered. I — ha! the Doctor! 
 That solves it — father is sick. I knew it. 
 
 Enter Hinchman. 
 
 Doctor, what affection has my father ? 
 
 Hindi. Welcome home, Richard! Have you just ar- 
 rived ? 
 
 Rich. One moment, but a thousand years ago 
 If time be measured by events. Tell me, 
 In heaven's name, what is the matter with him? 
 Has reason been stolen from him, or has 
 Some horrible disease attacked his body ? 
 
 Hinch. Have you seen aught indicative of either? 
 
 Rich. I have seen that which would establish both; 
 Aye, and a thousand times as much; for now, 
 A moment since, I heard him use such words 
 To my mother as would put the blush 
 Of sbame upon a hardened criminal. 
 
 Hinch. Indeed! Did he accuse her of any wrong ? 
 
 Rich. No, there it is; for when she begged of him 
 That he would make her known to any wrong- 
 She might have done him, he but made answer: 
 " Out of my sight! Away! Begone!" 
 
 Hinch. Richard, 
 I think your father a very honest man. 
 
 Rich. Why, so did I. 
 
 Hinch. A conscientious man, 
 And that he would do no one an injustice. 
 
 Rich.. As such, I always have esteemed my father. 
 
 Hinch. One slow to anger; of a gentle heart, 
 Having forgiveness strong implanted in him. 
 
 Rich. Yet why acts he toward my mother so? 
 
 Hinch. Perhaps he has some cause. 
 
 Rich. What said you, sir? 
 
 Hinch. Nothing. 
 
 Rich. Aye, but you did, though, about cause. 
 
 Hinch. Oh! that he could certainly have no cause. 
 
 Rich. Cause! Cause! to treat mv mother that way, 
 And not inform her why ? Gods, I think not! 
 
 Hinch. I think not, too. 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 51 
 
 Rich, "What mean you, sir, by that? 
 
 Hinch. Keep quiet, Richard, and closely observe. 
 He who sees nothing, sometimes sees the most; 
 Hear nothing, the better to hear it all. 
 Keep your ears primed, and keep your tongue silent. 
 Withal, trust Hinchman as your steadfast friend. 
 
 [Exit Hinchman. 
 
 Rich. O, horrible, that I should find it so! 
 Without some reason could a man so treat 
 His wife, the mother of his children ? No. 
 Still did she seem as innocent of cause 
 As the newest babe. By heavens, had he 
 Had cause, he would have made some accusation! 
 I can not see it, and I must abide my time. 
 
 Enter Cathebine. 
 
 Cath. O, Richard, thou art come home! No mother 
 Ever longed to see her son as thine has! 
 My boy, my boy — my noble-hearted Richard! 
 
 Rich. Yes, mother, I am here — here by your side, 
 Here, with strong arms and ready, willing mind; 
 And if required, by you to stand and die. 
 
 Cath. Why, Richard, of what speakest thou, my son ? 
 Tr^ voice is such a stranger, thy mother 
 Hardly knew it; and thy face, once so smooth, 
 Is by deep furrows and high ridges marred. 
 
 Rich. How long has it continued so ? Is it 
 A beast born of to-day, or has he hurled 
 Indignities upon you since I left, 
 And was not here to shield you from insult? 
 
 Cath. Of whom speakest thou, Richard? 
 
 Rich. Of him whom 
 Once, unthinkingly, I called my father, 
 And who, for years, has the unmeaning name 
 Of husband to my mother borne. 
 
 Cath. Richard! 
 
 Rich. Or shall I call him that unfeeling brute, 
 Who, but a moment since, with lordly dignity, 
 Drove hence my mother from his royal presence ? 
 
 Cath. Son, thou hast forgot that great command- 
 ment : 
 Honor thy father — 
 
52 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 2] 
 
 Rich. When he who bears that name honors his wife, 
 The son will honor to the father pay. 
 Mother, I was a witness to his words; 
 I saw his haughty brow, his sneering lip, 
 His frantic hand driving you from him. Tell me — 
 Or say thou hast forgot to love thy son — 
 In heaven's name, why thus are these things found? 
 
 Oath. Nay, son, we must not speak with disrespect 
 Of thy father; but tell me this, Richard: 
 Thou wilt not forsake thy mother, wilt thou ? 
 
 Rich. When first these arms of mine refuse to strike, 
 This voice to speak for her who gave me birth, 
 Then let my speech be hushed forever, 
 And this worthless body be entombed among the worms — 
 Aye, though both be raised against my father! 
 
 Cath. O, Richard! say, not another word 
 Against thy father; he has done nothing. 
 
 Rich. Nothing! Gods, nothing! And would you 
 screen him ? 
 Aye, but you cannot, for I o'erheard him use 
 Such w T ords to you as would have been his last 
 Had he another than my father been. 
 
 Cath. Son, dost thou not fear the awful vengeance 
 Of Almighty God upon thee for such 
 Language? 
 
 Rich. Nay, now, undeceive me, mother. 
 Trust me — with moderation I will act. 
 See, I am collected now! Am I not calm? 
 Fear not I will in anywise act rashly. 
 Now, tell me, why does he so toward you? 
 
 Cath. Alas! if heaven knows, it is its secret. 
 That so he acts is all thy mother knows. 
 But that I have suspected, I confess; 
 For only since our wealth was on us cast — 
 O, heavy load! — has he so turned upon me. 
 And from that, against a thousand wishes 
 Of my will, I have concluded, that now 
 He deems me an unworthy wife for him; 
 And that he looks upon me as the relic, 
 Much detested, of his departed state. 
 
 Rich. Of such depravity, so monstrous grown, 
 Think you the human heart is capable ? 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine m alone. 53 
 
 Oath. Nay, Kichard, that name thou must not call it. 
 It is not thy father, but some power 
 That reigns without him, does these awful acts, 
 Which has overthrown the sovereign gentleness 
 That was, in times gone by, his ruling spirit. 
 
 Rich. And think you that this foreign potentate, 
 Of which you speak, is money or some woman? 
 
 Cath. Another woman! I could not think that. 
 That would kill me; nay, son, it is his wealth; 
 And wilt thou try some soft and gentle means 
 To win thy father back? 
 
 Rich. If such fair means 
 Will the good end accomplish, mother, 
 None of a grosser kind I shall employ. 
 
 Cath. Well, Kichard, if the most gentle pleading 
 Of his wife and son can make no movement 
 In your father's passing strange estrangement, 
 It is no use to try the other way. 
 And if we fail, then can thy mother die. 
 When Catherine is no longer worthy 
 To be Edmund's wife; when the sight of her 
 But in him raises foul disgust and shame; 
 When she becoraes a stop to his ambitions, 
 Then does she wish to live no longer. 
 
 [Exit Catherine. 
 
 Rich. Kaises disgust — shames him — unworthy! She? 
 A stop to his ambitions! My mother? 
 And withal his wife, who, through so many years 
 Of poverty and hardship, followed him, 
 His willing slave! Gods! is it possible? — 
 Now, when the years begin to fall upon her, 
 To be cast into the street like a shoe 
 In its owner's service now past service. 
 She, the mother of his children; his wife; 
 In sickness who watched; for him denied herself — 
 To be now treated as not a white man 
 Treats his dog! Ha! were he not my father, 
 'Twere better for him that he should not meet me. 
 
 [Exit Richard. 
 
54 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 3] 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — A room in Malone's country-place. 
 
 Enter Richard and Helen. 
 
 Helen. I can but ill conceive a thing so terrible. 
 There must, Richard, there must be some mistake. 
 
 Richard. Mistake! To know there were, I'd give the 
 world. 
 I say these eyes were burned by seeing it. 
 Can I mistake my ears? I swear I heard it. 
 
 Hel. Oh, I am glad I did not witness it! 
 Such awful discord harrows up the sense 
 As doth inharmony one music-wedded. 
 
 Rich. Discord, did you say ? Why, sister Helen, 
 If, all at once, my body had been stripped — 
 Aye, even to a very nakedness — 
 Tben headlong hurled against a wall of thorns, 
 And every inch of tender flesh been pierced; 
 Or had I, from a fairyland, been thrust 
 Into a well of fierce, up-pointed swords, 
 Plunged into a furnace of white-heated coals, 
 Or thrown from highest heaven to lowest hell, 
 I could not more have suffered than I did. 
 
 Hel. And all thy suffering is to me transferred; 
 No other torment could be great as this. 
 
 Rich. Little sister, do you love your brother? — 
 Not with that flashing love which lovers have, 
 But with that other deep and lasting kind, 
 "Which holds one's life within the compass of his hand, 
 In readiness to give the one he loves ? 
 Nay, keep thy protestations yet awhile. 
 Hast thy love that richer quality than gold — 
 That sterner quality than iron — 
 Which on its object makes thee fix thy eyes, 
 Nor lets thee turn them to the right nor left 
 For any glittering thing? Now mayst thou, 
 If thou hast well considered, answer me. 
 
 Hel. Richard, that thou shoulclst doubt me, hurts me 
 here. 
 Two brothers have I, yet always wert thou 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 55 
 
 Helen's favorite, and dwelt so closely 
 
 To her very being, that all she was, 
 
 Thou hast partaken a part — she looking 
 
 To thee, following thy ways, and trying 
 
 Thy every doing to imitate. 
 
 My life speaks eloquently my worship 
 
 Of thee, brother; but would st thou try me more, 
 
 Til be thy brother knight, and buckling on 
 
 My armor, stand thus between thee and all harm. 
 
 And if thou fallest first, so will I guard 
 
 Thy body till my spirit and thine own 
 
 Shall mingle there. 
 
 Rich. And thou wilt not let gold, 
 From me divert thy love ? 
 
 Hel. Nor yet diamonds. 
 
 Rich. Not though thy father didst disown thee, girl ? 
 Aye, and turn thee a beggar in the street? 
 Ha! I see thou waverest already. 
 
 Hel. It was not my love for thee that wavered. 
 How could our father do an act so bad? 
 Alas! 'twas thinking this weighed down my head. 
 But I will answer thee: Not though I were 
 Scourged from these doors! 
 
 Rich. Now, when thou speakest so, 
 Thou art fit to be a knight, and shalt be. 
 I, too, and our mission be to wrestle, 
 From our father's tyrant grasp our mother's rights, 
 Or die; and so I swear it, by heaven 
 And earth — by all that's good — our mother shall 
 No longer suffer at the hands of him 
 Who's called our father. Swear, Helen, if thou 
 Lovest me, and if thou lovest thy mother. 
 
 Hel. And so I do, by all that thou didst swear, 
 And by the honor of my mother, too. 
 
 Rich. Now are we bound together, avengers 
 Of our outraged and degraded mother. 
 
 [Exeunt Richard and Helen. 
 
 Enter Henchman and Glascoe. 
 
 Glas. Yes, indeed, times have greatly changed since 
 then. Ah, Doctor! in those olden days, men had honor. 
 
56 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 3] 
 
 Hindi. Aye, sir; so they had. A man would chal- 
 lenge you instantly for the lie. 
 
 Glas. And you might leave a sack of gold exposed 
 on a shelf as safely as you might now leave it in a bank, 
 which, however, speaks very little for the shelf. 
 
 Hindi. You should beg its pardon instantly. Ah, 
 no! Such things as the purchase and sale of courts and 
 legislatures were unheard of in those days; but I sup- 
 pose, in these bad times, lawyers are compelled to bribe 
 judges and juries occasionally, just to keep on even 
 terms with their fellow-attorneys. 
 
 Glas. No, sir; you are wrong. Lawyers never do 
 such things. 
 
 Hinch. Indeed! Why, now, I have been much mis- 
 taken in your graces; for I have heard that courts and 
 juries are sometimes influenced by other arguments than 
 those falling from the lips of learned advocates; and, in 
 some way or other, I got the idea that you lawyers 
 played a part in this comedy of justice. 
 
 Glas. A villainous, beastly presumption, Hinchman! 
 One well calculated to bring my profession into con- 
 tempt. Think you a man employs his days in study of 
 the law, only to make it a highway to the penitentiary ? 
 Pish! 
 
 Hinch. Of all the lawyers in this world — arid more 
 particularly, of all great lawyers — do I most humbly 
 beg a pardon. My dear Giascoe, attribute my beastly 
 presumption to ignorance, not intention. And now, 
 right honest sir, how is it these things are done, since 
 you confess you do them not yourselves? 
 
 Glas. Lawyers are always free from the actual un- 
 clean acts, in which particular their souls are quite as 
 white as any ghost that shows itself against the black- 
 ness of the night. These corrupt things of which you 
 speak are done by two classes of persons: First, by 
 the client; but if he be troubled with a tender con- 
 science, then, second, by some particular friend of the 
 party to be influenced. *See ? 
 
 Hinch. See! Well, I think I understand. When the 
 lawyer winks, the client buys. Ah, Giascoe! this is a 
 bad, bad world for two such innocents as you and I to 
 be set down in, unprotected. How sorry I am that your 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 57 
 
 profession throws you in contact with such people. 
 There are so many tricks in your trade that I suppose 
 there is not one chance in a dozen for a shrewd lawyer 
 to lose a case. 
 
 Glas. Oh, as to that, there are, betwixt the com- 
 mencement and termination of a bad suit at law, many 
 stops, appeals and chances not recognized by the codes. 
 
 Hinch. Since we are about to enter upon a suit of 
 great importance, it might not go amiss you should ac- 
 quaint me with these eccentricities of your profession. 
 
 Glas. Why, certainly, so I will; and the information 
 may be of value to you in the coming suit. Still, you 
 must know I have learned these things by observation, 
 not experience. 
 
 Hinch. Ah! 
 
 Glas. First, at the doorway of the suit, lies your 
 pocket appeal to the virtuous judge to quash, or throw 
 the case out of court. Failing in that, your second step 
 is a money application to the witnesses against you. 
 Should they be more than flesh and blood, and point- 
 blank refuse to swear on your side, your third chance is 
 to manufacture witnesses; foryou must know that money 
 is a great manufacturer of evidence. Defeat staring you 
 still in the face, your fourth resort is a convenient jour- 
 ney to the country, for the witnesses upon the other side. 
 Fifth effort of your attorney's client is a pocket appeal 
 to the virtuous Sheriff to procure a jury of your inclin- 
 ing. Sixth stop is at the door of honest jurymen, whose 
 opinions upon the proper ending of the case are not 
 unfrequently based by ttie filthy stuff; and unsuccessful 
 here, your seventh opportunity is a lucre application to 
 the conscientious judge to undo everything that's gone 
 before. Last effort, and, by its nature, topping all, is 
 your appeal to the Court Supreme, where, I have heard, 
 the sack is, at times, a great argument. 
 
 Hinch. Beaten here, I would suppose your honest 
 client's career ended. 
 
 Glas. In the regular line of honest practice, yes. 
 But your shrewd attorney will have so advised his client 
 as, in most cases, to win under an}' circumstances. 
 
 Hinch. Indeed ! Lord save 3 r our virtuous client! How ? 
 
 Glas. On execution, my dear Hinchman; which 
 
58 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 3] 
 
 means no more or less than having your client put his 
 property out of his hands in the early stages of the suit. 
 
 Hindi. [Aside.] O, justice — sweet goddess — how you 
 are played with by your chosen advocates! But, judge, 
 do not these acts squint criminally? 
 
 Glas. Most likely, the majority of them, yet only in- 
 directly or obliquely so, for you must not siippose your 
 well-bred client, would march up to your judge, or jury- 
 man, and offer him cold twenties. Out on such cold- 
 blooded bribery! 
 
 Hindi. Why, now, how little we laymen know of 
 your client* s ways. How is it done? 
 
 Glas. By the sweetest and most delicate circumlocu- 
 tion, that not the prettiest feather of the judicial con- 
 science may be soiled. Thus: Your judge has a mort- 
 gage on his homestead, upon which his wife and little 
 ones depend for shelter from the icy blasts of winter, 
 etc., etc., or your juryman's wife has intrusted a certain 
 interest in her watch, given her by her dying mother, 
 etc., etc., to the Shy lock grasp of Uncle Isaac. It is 
 meet that your kind-hearted client should stand by and 
 see the sacrifice of the judge's home, or the juryman's 
 wife's watch, when a little money will save them ? Cer- 
 tainly not. So out of the kindness of his heart the 
 client offers them money — to redeem their property. 
 
 Hindi. Ah! I see — makes them a loan. 
 
 Glas. Just so, a mere loan — but one not to be repaid 
 till eternity. Ha! ha! you see? [Aside.] I guess he 
 has been sufficiently instructed. But of all this your 
 lawyer knows nothing, unless he has an exceedingly 
 sensitive nose, which no lawyer is presumed to have. 
 But to this case. You are a witness, sir, I believe ? 
 
 Hindi. Well, not to say a witness just yet, Judge; 
 but I had thought some of being. 
 
 Glas. Very well, and you are also in a measure work- 
 ing up the case? 
 
 Hindi. Yes, in a measure. 
 
 Glas. Well, I will tell you what evidence I want, and 
 you will get it. 
 
 Hindi. I will? Oh, yes, I see; you tell me what evi- 
 dence you want and I make it — find it, I mean. Well, 
 what will you have ? 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 59 
 
 Glas. ]Whwper.] Strong circumstaDtial evidence of 
 unchastity. 
 
 Hindi. What you mean is that you wish me to find 
 witnesses who will swear — 
 
 Glas. Excuse me, sir; a lawyer never cares to go too 
 minutely into such things. You know the character of 
 evidence I expect; I leave it to you to procure it. 
 
 [Exit Glascoe. 
 
 Hindi. Oh, virtuous, sweet, clear-conscienced, villain ! 
 Oh, legal villain! Oh, law-protecting villain, fare you- 
 well. So are we all villains in our way. Well, this 
 information is of value — yet, after all, I suppose he is 
 only a representative of a certain class of lawyers. 
 
 Enter Malone. 
 
 Malone have you as yet seen Richard ? 
 
 Mai. No, Doctor, and I have a fear to see him, I con- 
 fess. 
 
 Hindi. He overheard you saying something to your 
 wife. 
 
 Mai. What! is it possible? 
 
 Hindi. Aye, true sir, but about you keep your wits. 
 It was an occurrence most unfortunate, 
 Still do I think it may come out all right. 
 When I beheld him there was no object 
 Upon which these eyes had ever rested, 
 Looked half so pitiful, so woe-begone. 
 
 Mai. Poor boy! At any cost we must not lose him. 
 How looked he, Hinchman ? Did he seem frightened ? 
 Was he startled, or angry ? How was his face ? 
 
 Hindi. It wore the image of profoundest grief, 
 And that I knew the face is oft the dial 
 Of the mind, I watched it closely and beheld 
 Tbe inner corners of his eyebrows drawn 
 To the center of his forehead, which was 
 Into a hard-ridged triangle pressed, 
 Such as a mother wears over the grave 
 Of her darling child; and yet about his mouth 
 There was a firmness, telling me he could do 
 Deeds which, at the trying, ordinary mortals quail. 
 
60 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 3] 
 
 Mai. Now, mark you, Doctor, he hath a nature, 
 In its nobleness, more godlike than like man. 
 Under no circumstances must we lose him. 
 
 Hinch. But leave you that to me, all will be well, 
 And when you meet him put you on a face 
 Of sorrow — a deep and grievous aspect, 
 Which will purport against you the commission 
 Of some great wrong. Slowly give utterance 
 To any accusation 'gainst his mother; 
 Rather act the part of him who injured, 
 Locks in the closet of his breast the wrong, 
 Sooner than lay it on the guilty one, 
 Silentl}' aud painfully enduring all. 
 Should Richard rant and talk to you of wealth, 
 Aye, or of ambition, or of aught else, 
 Lose not your temper, but amidst it all 
 Maintain a calm, but dignified and injured 
 Innocence, saying no words which go beyond 
 The bounds of Alan! Ah, Richard! You know not! 
 And their kindred, making anon deep sighs. 
 Insinuations such as these which fall 
 Like toy arrows on a plate of steel, 
 "Will pierce his tender parts more deeply, 
 Than the iron shafts an outraged father 
 Might hurl against his most rebellious son. 
 Look you, here he comes, and with his mother! 
 No, foolish man, to go now in their face, 
 Would be conclusive evidence of your guilt. 
 Stay — remembering you are the injured one. 
 
 [Exit Hinchman. 
 Enter Catherine and Richard. 
 
 Cath. [To Richard.] Now, Richard, only by the 
 gentlest means; 
 No harshness, either in your words or ways. 
 My son, for my sake, forget not thyself. 
 
 Rich. [To Catherine.] Nay, mother, have no fear; 
 I will do right. 
 
 Mai. Ah, Richard, you have come home at last, 
 And greatly have I longed to see this day, 
 Holding myself through many weary hours 
 Of waiting, sustained by this good reason : 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 61 
 
 That coming Lome you would bring with you, 
 Much stores of useful learning from the school. 
 
 Rich. For all your kindness and solicitude, 
 I thank you, father, trusting my efforts, 
 At the university may have been 
 Some compensation for the untiring zeal 
 And generosity of one so wishing 
 The welfare of his family and all. 
 
 Mai. Aye, Richard, dearly I love my children, 
 And there is nothiug truer in this world, 
 Than that comparison between the love 
 Of the Almighty Father for mankind, 
 And that a father to his children bears. 
 
 Rich. There is an equilateral triangle, 
 Formed by the uuion of three affections: 
 That of the husband and the wife for each; 
 That of the parent and the child for each; 
 That of the children for one another. 
 And when all these three exist together, 
 Then is the unity of love supreme. 
 But either side being taken away, 
 There but remains an empty, shapeless thing. 
 
 Mai. True, Richard; the family only is, 
 When all its parts in uuity accord. 
 
 Rich. This is the very essence of life, 
 The keynote to existence, and the thing 
 For which we live. Thus is the family state, 
 O'er any other in this world, supreme; 
 To the individual of more imporlance, 
 Than government, than church, than anything — 
 This sovereignty where each is sovereign. 
 But mark you, it may be as bright and pure, 
 As the ether facing the vault of heaven, 
 Or may be as dismal as the miasma 
 
 Which, in the black pall of death, enshrouds a swamp. 
 As sweetest music it may be harmonious, 
 Or as grating bars discordant 
 Let but the husband or the wife become 
 Violators of the laws governing 
 This state, and instantly all is ruin. 
 Thus do some children with one parent side, 
 Some with the other — so divide themselves. 
 
62 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 3] 
 
 Thus does the husband hate the wife, the wife 
 The husband, the husband the following 
 Of the wife, and the wife the following 
 Of the husband; the children the parents 
 Whom they follow not, and they each other 
 Who go not together. So do the heavens 
 A hell become, and pandemonium reigns. 
 
 Mai. I assure you, son, it doth please me much 
 To know that you have so profoundly studied, 
 In this particular, the world of ethics. 
 
 Rich. Why, how sweet it is; how like to heaven; 
 How God-appointed, this relationship. 
 Behold it in the stages of its life! 
 At first a man aud woman, young in years, 
 Upon the very threshold of existence, 
 Neither with worldly goods, experience, nor aught 
 Save love aud willingness — so join their lives. 
 Then in their being comes the second period, 
 When their combined strength wages fierce combat 
 Against the world's poverty and hardship; 
 During which time, most like, and, as it were 
 Springing from their beings, baptized by their 
 United love, to the world they give new lives. 
 Third stage arrives, when they have struck the middle 
 Of their lives, and fortune's slow-creeping form 
 Has overtaken them. Surrounded now 
 With all the luxuries of wealth, loving 
 Each other — by their children idolized — 
 
 Cath. O, what a picture to my longing eyes! 
 
 Rich. Then comes the last, when children's children 
 Carry them to their very marriage days, 
 Making them live their past lives o'er again, 
 Stripped of all hardships and privations. 
 
 Mai. A life of such rare, wondrous happiness, 
 Maketh eternity begin on earth. 
 
 Rich. Aye, so it doth. And now I know you will 
 excuse me; for having been home so short a time, I wish 
 to look about the grounds a little. 
 
 [Exit Richard. He at once returns, and secretes himself 
 behind a screen, but in view of the audience.] 
 
 Cath. Husband! O, Edmund, hear me! Hear thy wife; 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 63 
 
 The mother of thy children; the woman 
 God hath given thee, and her who loves thee 
 Till her heart is broken with its weight of love. 
 
 Mai. And dare you still to look me in the face ? 
 
 Rich. Now, Jove, restrain me! 
 
 Cath. O, God, what is it? What is my crime ?" 
 Is it that I worship thee, O, Edmund? 
 Is it that I would give my life for thine ? 
 Is it the plainness of my face ? Is it 
 The poverty of my learning? O, tell me! 
 And have I e'er but thought a wrong against thee,. 
 In righting it I will give all my life. 
 Let me upon my knees before thee, husband, 
 And beg thee tell me of my wrong. O, Edmund, 
 Put thy hand upon me, and let me know 
 Thou hast not yet forgotten Catherine. 
 
 Mai. And thou canst, even now, do things like these? 
 Thou — let me go, woman, and begone! 
 
 Oath. There is an end, an end, an end, O, Father! 
 
 [Exit Catherine, 
 
 Rich. [Aside.] One moment; a little from me let the 
 beast. 
 A curse that nature put relationship 
 Between us! I can not — will not — hold myself. [Gomes 
 
 forward.] 
 Art thou a beast ? — a very reasonless 
 And unfeeling brute? Yet rather, I should say, 
 Art thou not a stone ? for even that brute, 
 Which hath no feeling more than thou, is banished 
 From the world. Oh, that that blood which tingles 
 In thy cursed cheek should form a part of me! 
 For if it did not, no eternal power 
 Of heaven or hell could stop me take thy life. 
 
 Mai. Think what thou sayst! Richard, I am thy 
 father. 
 
 Rich I deny it! By the gods, I deny it! 
 'Tis a lie, and thou art not my father, 
 Or else thou wouldst be more the husband 
 Of my mother. 'Tis but a name thou hast 
 Upon thee fastened to protect thy life. 
 
 Mai. Alas! for this I labored all my life- 
 
84 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 3] 
 
 For Richard. Hear me, oh, ye fathers! 
 To the world's remotest ends, never more 
 For your children toil— never more love them! 
 
 Rich. Aye, there's the curse — the very curse of it— 
 That any father should so love his son, 
 And with such rancor hate the mother of that son. 
 'Tis an act which shames inanimate nature, 
 And would put a blush upon a stone! 
 
 Mai. O, Richard, you know not! 
 
 Rich. I know not what? 
 If that thou meanest by those words to make 
 An accusation 'gainst my mother, beware! 
 For thou dost speak before my mother's son. 
 And that son who would allow the insult 
 Of his mother, even by his father, 
 Is a craven coward, and fit for death. 
 
 Mai. O, my son! those words had ne'er been spoken 
 To thy father if— 
 
 Rich. If what? — no more. 
 Thou puttest my mother off with curses, 
 And me thou thinkest to silence with sighs. 
 But now, ye highest heavens, bear witness! 
 "While Richard lives, his mother shall not be 
 Insulted! Think ye I understand you not? 
 Would you be slow to make it known if you 
 Had aught against your wife ? The noonday sun 
 More clearly is not seen than I behold 
 Your villainy, and like a towering devil, 
 Here it stands: Your speedily acquired wealth 
 Has made you want to put away your old wife, 
 For some curled darling of society. 
 Ha! now you cringe and start — I strike you home. 
 Aye, even the woman who followed you, 
 Through poverty and misfortune, for some one 
 "With a fairer face and glibber tongue. 
 
 Mai. Unworthy son! Yet I forgive thee all. 
 
 Rich. Callst thou me unworthy son, that I defend 
 My mother ? Nor crave I thy forgiveness. 
 Yet am I still unfinished till I tell thee 
 Somethiug which, with all thy boasted learning, has, 
 Mayhap, escaped thee. Thou wouldst have a young 
 And pretty wife; and hast thou heard that saying: 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 65 
 
 " Beauty is no deeper than the skin?" Well, 
 
 It is so, by heaven! and I will tell thee 
 
 How I know it, to which I would thou mightst 
 
 Particular attention pay. One day, 
 
 At the university, a sheet-wrapped figure 
 
 Was thrown down upon a slab of marble. 
 
 Drawing aside the concealing shroud, I saw 
 
 A face and neck which might have envied Venus — 
 
 Such regularity of form and feature 
 
 As sculptors seek to take their models from. 
 
 But one hour later, a student's hungry knife 
 
 Had stripped the skin from off that face and neck, 
 
 And now behold it! See those eyes, which once, 
 
 Like sparkling diamonds, had lit up the night, 
 
 Now bulging out like two disgusting warts; 
 
 And that nose, so like a chiseled piece of marble — 
 
 Why, sir, a piece of gristle is as pretty. 
 
 And those tinted cheeks — aye, and that dimpled chin — 
 
 Why, gods! they were naught but ropes of raw meat. 
 
 And all those veins, which gave Aurora's color 
 
 To the face, lay streaks of clotted gore. 
 
 Nay, but those lips, for but one kiss from which 
 
 Thou mightest have given half a fortune, 
 
 Were drawn back upon the teeth into a grin, 
 
 Ghastly as death itself. Dost thou now know 
 
 In what great depths the seat of beauty lies? 
 
 And wouldst thou of it rather be possessed, 
 
 Than that impenetrable honor and virtue 
 
 Which not a surgeon's knife can cut away ? 
 
 Mai. Such treatment, Richard, I have ill deserved. 
 
 Rich. Not deserved it — when, for a cause like that, 
 Thou wouldst turn out thy loving, faithful wife, 
 And drag thy children through such filthy slums 
 As a proceeding such as this must make, 
 And fling thy fair name into the foul stench 
 Of the public slaughter-house — not deserve it? 
 And all because you have become a rich man! 
 Well, thou mayst take tlrv money into the world, 
 And make easy purchase of a thousand 
 Of those private mistresses there thronging, 
 Who in them, having not virtue enough 
 To go into the public marts, and there make sale 
 
66 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 3] 
 
 Of that which they are pleased to call their chastity, 
 
 Dispose of it at private bargain 
 
 To rich old widowers, slicking the sale 
 
 With a thick-plated coating of church form, 
 
 To protect them from the shafts of public gossip — 
 
 Then for their business dupe their aged husbands. 
 
 Like you such, better than the honest virtue 
 
 Of my mother ? Or has wealth created 
 
 Thee anew ? Is not thy body from the same earth 
 
 Made as hers — in common death to be the same ? 
 
 Than she hast thou a higher Creator? 
 
 Enough! Of one thing know you: I am here — 
 
 Else were I not her son — and here shall I, 
 
 'Gainst all assaults, even of her husband, 
 
 Till I shall be no more, defend my mother. 
 
 And press me not too far, or else these hands — 
 
 Mai. Richard!— 
 
 Rich. Aye, these very hands may not remember 
 That thou art the father. 
 
 Mai. Thou shalt see the day — 
 
 Rich. My mother's rights are sacredly observed. 
 
 Mai. When, on thy bended knees, thou shalt beg — 
 
 Rich. Aye, and implore thy wronged wife's mercy. 
 
 Mai. The forgiveness of thy father for this. 
 
 Rich. Forgiveness! and adds hypocrisy to crime! 
 
 [Exit Richard. 
 Enter Hinchman. 
 
 Hinch. Marvelously well done — marvelously! 
 From yonder place, I have observed it all. 
 Turn an actor, Malone, and play the part 
 Of TartufTe; waste not your talents longer. 
 
 Mai. Hinchman, I fear me much Richard is gone 
 Bevond the hope of reclamation. And, 
 If so— 
 
 Hinch. Why, then, it is your fault, not mine. 
 Have no fear; for, after all, by no means 
 Am I certain it is not all for the best — 
 A sort of Providence, you know, my friend. 
 
 Mai. How figure you it that way ? 
 
 Hinch. So, mark you, 
 The human mind is not unlike a spring — 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 67 
 
 The harder it is pressed down, the weight 
 
 Being removed, the harder will it fly 
 
 Back again. Now, Richard is pressed down 
 
 By the thought that he who stands before me 
 
 Is a villain; but presently he will 
 
 Behold you as the injured party. Then, 
 
 With all the fierce impetuosity 
 
 Of his great nature, will he fly to you. 
 
 Mai. Your jerking style imports a labored reason. 
 I pray it may be so, yet greatly fear. 
 
 [Exit Malone. 
 
 Hinch. He prays it may be so! He prays! He prays! 
 "Why, bless my soul, Malone, you have become 
 So used to playing the hypocrite's part, 
 You act it off the stage, even with me. 
 By Jupiter! there is something, I think, 
 Of which he makes concealment from me now. 
 
 Enter Catherine. 
 
 Cath. O, sir! my troubles are all raised as high 
 As mountains, and I know not what to do. 
 Each day no surer brings the sun, than me 
 Some fresh afflictions. Richard knows it all; 
 And but a moment now my other children 
 Will be here. O, horrible! O, horrible! 
 A thought which might bring misery to the damned 
 Is preying on my troubled soul — killing me. 
 O, Doctor! could my children think their mother 
 Has committed any crime — that awful crime ? 
 O, horrors! What shall I do ? What shall I do ? 
 
 Hinch. My dearest lady, keep thee a good heart. 
 Let not the thought thy children would suspect — 
 Ah! save me, madam — faced by such purity, 
 I can not say it; nor does another dare, 
 In presence of thy friend, make intimations 
 Of such outrageous things. 
 
 Cath. O, Doctor, 
 How much of kindness thou has always shown me! 
 
 Hinch. Grood, troubled lady, all that little 
 Ingenuity of which I am possessed 
 Has been exerted in your dear behalf. 
 
68 CATHERINE MALONE. [A.ct31 
 
 And, yet, I am compelled to own, the cause 
 
 Of all your husband's wretched treatment of you 
 
 Is veiled in death and sphynx-like mystery ' 
 
 Cath Alas! if I could only know the cause. 
 J3ut nothing will he say to me save when 
 With dagger words, he drives me from his sio-ht 
 As if I had committed some great crime ' 
 
 Too heinous to mention. If only he 
 Would make some charge against me, accuse me 
 Oi torgetfulness of wifely duty; 
 Say that I failed to have his house kept right- 
 Or that his food ill-suited him. All that ° ' 
 I could bear willingly, for but I knew it 
 How quickly would I right it ! But to be made 
 Ihe settled object of his proud disdain 
 lo but disgust him— I— this breaks my heart— 
 And not one word from him to tell me why 
 
 Einch. Ah! madam, it has pleased wise' Providence, 
 lo make me stand by many a woeful scene— 
 Of dying children from their mothers parted, 
 Of husbands, Ly the cruel hand, from voung wives 
 lorn apart, and aged much-loved parents 
 -By offspring, in deep sorrow, all surrounded, 
 Ail all, pass o'er that dark and gloomy river- 
 And I have seen such floods of tears poured out, 
 As turned the fountains of my own soul weeping 
 And heard such sighs as harrowed up my heart 
 But now I hear of thy wrongs Catherine 
 Ihey have within my tender breast discovered 
 A new or unknown source of mighty sorrow 
 Alas! I am so all unused to such 
 Occurrences I have no power to think of them 
 
 ower g °° d ' klnd S ° U1, mj t0ngUG haS n0t the 
 My heart would have it, to return you thanks. 
 .Kichard has failed, and unavailing has been 
 All your kindly efforts. Where can I go 
 For more assistance in my deep troubles? 
 
 t i mnC} t' . 1 In a11 my feeble efforts in J°ur services 
 
 1 nave bethought me of a man, who has 
 
 For many a year a close companion 
 
 Of your husband been; and ever have I thought 
 
 i 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 69 
 
 If unto anyone be loaned his confidence 
 It must have been to Maurice Sheboin. 
 
 Cath. I, too, have often thought of Maurice, 
 But have so much dislike to have him know 
 There was between myself and Edmund, trouble. 
 
 H nch. Madam, your tender feelings on that subject 
 Are most commendable; and yet, I think, 
 So much might be the good of such a course, 
 It were good reason to allay your scruples. 
 
 Cath. I think it ill becomes that modesty 
 A wife should have, to talk of such matters 
 To another than her husband. Had you 
 Not been his doctor, and I had a hope 
 He had some ailment and you might have cured \him, 
 I should not so have spoken unto you. 
 
 Hinch. Modesty and all her lovely sisterhood, 
 Good madam, live in the mind, intention 
 Being their very gist, substance and all. 
 And when the human heart is free from guilt, 
 The outward forms and showy ceremonies 
 Of the body, are naught but empty shells! 
 But when the mind is soiled by evil thought, 
 Then, no invented style or etiquette 
 Can purify the act; and what without 
 A cause is gross indecency, becomes, 
 When with a reason coupled, sweetest modesty, 
 Wherefore, with an honest heart, have no fear 
 Of going to your husband's friend, where being-, 
 Your whole case lay before him, from the first. 
 
 Cath. Knowing I mean but good, I will see Maurice. 
 
 Hinch. And were I you, I would do so at once. 
 Where will you meet Sheboin ? 
 
 Cath. Why in this room, 
 The parlor, sitting-room or any place. 
 
 Hinch. Not so, madam; for your own sake, not so; 
 For in this it were best you should observe 
 The strictest and most guarded secrecy, 
 And for this reason: Should your husband know 
 You had intention to inquire his meaning, 
 Such knowledge might but further incense him; 
 Therefore, your object being to do good. 
 So do it that it may bring no evil. 
 
70 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 4] 
 
 Calh. By you I will be ruled, kind friend. What 
 place 
 Would you suggest we meet ? 
 
 Hinch. Now let me see — 
 Had I but bad a little time to think — 
 Oh! yes, meet Maurice near the flower-house, 
 The one about the center of the park, 
 This evening, and after dark. 
 
 Goth. After dark ? 
 No, no, not after dark. 
 
 Hinch. It were better so, 
 Or else, at least, no earlier than dusk. 
 
 Gath. Yes, have it so; at dusk, not after dark. 
 
 Enter Carroll and Charlotte. 
 
 Gath. My children! 
 Garr. and Gharl. Mother! 
 
 Hinch. [Aside.] The devil is master of ceremonies. 
 All things are ready, let the ball begin. 
 
 CURTAIN . 
 
 ACT IY. 
 
 Scene I. — Malone's country place. A park with a con- 
 servatory by which Sheboin and Catherine are standing. 
 Evening. 
 
 She. Catherine, you say he drives you from him ? 
 
 Gath. I am bowed down in shame at saying so. 
 
 She. And uses violent language to you ? 
 
 Cath. Alas! Fain would I tell you that he does not. 
 
 She. And will not give a reason for such conduct ? 
 
 Cath. Not a word will he. 
 
 She. Of all the actions 
 Of which I ever heard, his are the strangest. 
 
 Enter at a distance Hinchman and Carroll. Sheboin and 
 Catherine continue their conversation in a low tone. 
 
 Garr. O, yes, Doctor, at the university, 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 71 
 
 They taught the philosophy of Descartes, 
 But— 
 
 [Hinchman jumps quickly in front of Carroll, and between 
 where he is standing and Sheboin and Catherine.] 
 
 Hinch. See, Carroll! how beautiful the view, 
 Yonder in the gloom of gathering night. 
 
 [Pointing in the opposite direction from Sheboin and 
 Catherine. ] 
 
 Carr. Why, Doctor, -why jumped you so before me ? 
 What was it so startled you ? 
 
 Hinch. Startled me ? 
 
 Carr. Startled you, aye, startled you; and even now 
 Your actions are as frightened as a deer's. 
 I would have thought some poisonous adder 
 Stung you, so quickly did you jump; and what 
 Purports your conduct now? Saw you anything? 
 
 Hinch. Nothing; 'twas but your imagination. 
 Look, Carroll, see with what surpassing beauty 
 Hangs that cloud upon — 
 
 Carr. Hinchman, do you see those people yonder? 
 Is the park become a lover's hiding-place ? 
 
 Hinch. Lovers, Carroll! Nay, do not so watch them, 
 They are but some strollers wandered this way. 
 
 Carr. Strollers, say you ? Why, that's like my 
 mother, 
 Else am I blind; and is that not Sheboin ? 
 
 Hinch. Sheboin! — your mother — look what you say 
 boy! 
 Think you they would be here at such a time ? 
 Methinks your mother's virtue is too strong. 
 
 Carr. I see but illy, and yet it must be. 
 
 Hinch. No, Carroll, your mother would not — could 
 not — 
 Come, come, look on no more — let us go back. 
 
 Carr. Nay, tug not so, I would see who they are. 
 
 Hinch. See no more; the air is chilly, Carroll, 
 And your father waits your coming in the house; 
 Let us go back; this thing you see is naught, 
 Your mother has not so lost her virtue — 
 'Tis but your fancy, nothing, nothing, else. 
 
72 cathp:rine malone. [Act 4] 
 
 Carr. Nothing! Gods, nothing! Let go me, Hinch- 
 rnan. 
 See, it is they — my mother and Sheboin! 
 
 Hindi. Go back! go back! 
 
 Carr. Go back — to hell, go back. Your go-backs 
 mean 
 Much more than mere go-backs. I will not go. 
 Hinchman tell me, is this a common thing? 
 
 Hindi. Tut! Carroll, talk not so; she is your — 
 Take you me to be the retail merchant 
 Of all the gossip in the neighborhood? 
 
 Carr. Answer me; have you seen this thing before ? 
 
 Hindi. It is not for me to say; nor will I. 
 I had rather be a snake and half my life 
 Live coiled up dead, than be the trumpeter 
 Of every bastard rumor to which 
 The pregnant air gives birth. I will not say. 
 
 Carr. You shall or I will force it out of you. 
 Tell me, sir; is this the first? Speak, Hinchman! 
 
 Hinch. I will not. 
 
 Carr. Yes, by the heavens you shall. 
 O, I will twist it from your silent tongue! 
 
 Hinch. For shame, Carroll! Such treatment for a 
 friend ! 
 Since you would stay, I could not help you look 
 On yonder sight, but — 
 
 Carr. Oh, my soul, look now! 
 See her entreating him with outstretched arms. 
 Oh, would I had been born without these eyes! 
 Their voices rise. Hold! Listen! 
 
 Caih. O, Maurice, 
 Can it be possible, another woman! 
 
 Carr. Hear, she upbraids him for another woman. 
 Peace my soul, I cannot hear his answer. 
 
 Cath. And has it come to this ? Oh, no Maurice, 
 I can not, can not think it! Say it not! 
 O, God, that man could be so cruel. Oh! 
 This breaks the last cord of my weary heart. 
 
 ^Catherine sivoons, and as she falls, Sheboin jumps for- 
 ward, catches her in his arms, and takes her into the con- 
 servatory.] 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 73 
 
 Garr. Death! Death! Loose me, Hinchman. 
 
 Binch. You shall not go. 
 
 Garr. Not go ? Ha! Out of my way! Stop me now! 
 Stop me when she — 0, God — away from me! 
 
 Binch. 0, man, wouldst thou thine eyes consume by 
 seeing — 
 
 Garr. Hell, yes; and its horde of millions devils. 
 
 Binch. I stand between thee and a sight so monstrous. 
 
 Garr. "Who stops me, dies! 
 
 Binch. So will I die for thee — 
 To save thee from a view of such disgrace. 
 
 [They struggle. 
 Carroll, she is your mother, and there is 
 For thee another and a better way. 
 
 Garr. Aye, thou art right; it would but sear my eyes 
 To look on such a sight. Oh, gentle friend, 
 Who would have shielded me from this dire scene, 
 Forgive me, for I knew not what I did. 
 
 Binch. Nay, think you not of me; it may not yet 
 Have come to — 
 
 Garr. Chaos, chaos, Hinchman, 
 To that, and desolation — ruin — hell. 
 
 Binch. Think you not so. What we have seen may be 
 But the appearance of unchastity. 
 And 'tis proverbial how deceitful 
 Are appearances. These eyes of ours may, 
 In the approaching darkness, see it but 
 Indistinctly; and to say your mother 
 Is guilty, when she but seems to be so, 
 Is to wrong her, wrong your father and wrong 
 Yourself, andwhat a crime that such a charge 
 As that of gross unchastity should be, 
 Upon a woman laid, and mark you, sir, 
 She your before-thought virtuous mother. 
 
 Garr. Oh, kinder friend to me than any father, 
 You would with seeming gloss this foulness over, 
 And I humbly thank you. I am no more; 
 But that these threads may for a little time, 
 Spiting the spirit, hold themselves together, 
 And for me do one sacred office more. 
 
 Binch. Ah, Carroll, your judgment is too quickly 
 drawn. 
 
74 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 4] 
 
 'Twere better that this go no further, but, 
 If you would arrive at some conclusion, 
 Touching your mother's guilt or innocence, 
 Leave it to time — await developments. 
 
 Carr. Await the development of ruin ? 
 Gods, what a thing this body is when virtue's 
 Taken from it — a mass of rotten flesh — 
 No more. Alas! nry poor father. Doctor, 
 Knows my father aught of tins villainy ? 
 
 Hindi. I know not, Carroll, but that he hath 
 Suspected something of it I believe. 
 
 Carr. Upon me now a double burden's laid; 
 To lay it down, and then lay down my life. 
 Oh, what a load for son to take to father! 
 
 [Exit Hinchman and Carroll. 
 
 Re-enter Catherine and Sheboin. 
 
 Calk. I know I never did a wrong to Edmund, 
 Nay, nor so much as ever thought him wrong. 
 For with my whole soul have I always loved him, 
 And ne'er a day but of him I have thought, 
 And for him raised my prayers to heaven. 
 
 She. Catherine, you shall, at least, be made aware 
 "Why he so treats you. It is possible, 
 He has by some designing one, been duped. 
 But if his acts, which now appear so dark, 
 From motives unworthy of your husband spring, 
 He shall to you a quick accounting make, 
 Or Maurice has forgot the name of Catherine. 
 
 Gath. Good Maurice, Catherine thanks you from her 
 heart, 
 But keep in your remembrance, noble friend, 
 That all I ask is his return to me, 
 Which done, let the whole past be buried deep. 
 
 Scene II. — A room in Malone's country house. 
 
 Enter Carroll. 
 
 Garr. I do believe it, and yet I do not. 
 If it were possible, it were so; but, 
 Being impossible, it cannot be. 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 75 
 
 Nature doth not so rip herself apart, 
 
 And cast her precious vitals to the dogs. 
 
 The veriest glutton feeds not on himself; 
 
 And yet I heard her voice talk love to him, 
 
 And saw her body in the foul meshes 
 
 Of his lascivious embrace wrapped up. 
 
 Oh, my immortal soul, what suffering! 
 
 Could these eyes see more, and keep their sockets? 
 
 Yet could she do it, and lose her children, 
 
 And lose her husband, and lose her honor, 
 
 And her hope of heaven, which all so strong, 
 
 Were in her spirit bedded? It stands not 
 
 To reason. Yet the logic of the eye 
 
 Outweighs, disproves the logic of the mind. 
 
 I think it can not, that it ought not, be; 
 
 But that I see, I know. Gods! can I thus 
 
 Calmly reason while my soul is burning? 
 
 I would be just, yet would I kill the world. 
 
 But, oh, my father! how my heart for thee 
 
 Doth bleed! — thou, who hast labored all thy life 
 
 To make a home for thy declining days, 
 
 To find thy wife unfaithful to thee, and 
 
 Thy house a den of infamy ! Oh! Oh! 
 
 Enter Malone. 
 
 Mai. You desired to see me, son ? 
 
 Carr. Yes, father. 
 
 Mai. Why, Carroll; } t ou are pale, trembling, sick. 
 
 Carr. To death, father, of a dread disease 
 That knows no remedy; that makes all men 
 A toy for death, and doctors but a thing - 
 For sport. In my most vital part I'm stabbed. 
 
 Mai. Carroll, you are overwrought by study, 
 And your unsettled mind slept not last night. 
 
 Carr. Slept! Slept! Gods, sir! I saw a sight last 
 night 
 That would have roused one from the eternal sleep 
 Of death, and made him sleep no more forever. 
 Oh, would, my father, that this mind, which now, 
 So like a worn-out garment stripped in shreds, 
 You see, had had its cause in overwork. 
 Last night I had a sight of hell! 
 
76 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 4] 
 
 Mai. Carroll, 
 Your words and looks strike terror to my soul. 
 Calm yourself, son, if you would speak to me. 
 
 Carr. Calm! Calm! Am I not so? Look at these 
 hands. 
 Do they tremble ? Is not my eye steady ? 
 Calm, sir! Why, I am as calm as a dead 
 Ocean. Are you ready now to hear me ? 
 
 Mai. Aye, son; if aught you have to say, say on; 
 And yet I see your manner speaks but ill. 
 
 Carr. If one who dearly loves his country 
 Should discover traitors undermining it, 
 Ought he not make known his knowledge? 
 
 Mai. He should. 
 O, Carroll, how you have relieved my breath! 
 
 Carr. If one should know his friend's wife had be- 
 trayed 
 Her husband, would it be a friendly act 
 To tell him of her infidelity ? 
 
 Mai. Conduct of such heroic mien I call 
 The supremest act — the very acme — 
 Of friendship, pure, sublime. But why these ques- 
 tions? 
 Carroll, I fear they do import no good. 
 
 Carr. Anon, they will explain themselves. One 
 more: 
 If a son should know that his father's wife 
 Had been untrue to him, what think you now ? 
 Would it be the part of filial duty 
 To keep the secret locked up in his breast, 
 Making his being putrid with its foulness? 
 
 Mai. Carroll, your arrow shoots me through the 
 heart. 
 You make my blood stand still. Oh, say no more! 
 I know too well the meaning of your words. 
 Th}' mother, Carroll, Carroll — thy mother! 
 
 Carr. O, father! I have seen that makes a son 
 Forget he has a mother, and curse her. 
 
 Mai. Tell me no more; I am not made of iron; 
 And yet I will be brave — my heart be stone. 
 Now pour it forth, even to the sentence 
 Of the damned. Wbat saw you J that you so speak? 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 77 
 
 Carr. Thy wife — by which cursed cause, my mother — 
 Wrapped in the amorous hugging of one 
 Whom thou didst vainly think thy dearest friend. 
 
 Mai. What say you — wrapped in his lascivious arms ? 
 And has it gone so far as that — Maurice ? 
 
 Carr. Aye, and I heard her beg for her dishonor, 
 As a sucking babe cries for its mother's breast; 
 And then — my God! — I saw him pack her off 
 To a hidden place, that even the stars 
 Might not behold such infidelity, 
 And, shaming, cease to shine upon the night. 
 
 Mai. Hold, Carroll — hold ! Spare me the awful sight, 
 If such you saw. Yet you did not see it; 
 Your senses have deceived you; whom you saw 
 Was not thy mother — not my wife. Oh, no! 
 Such perfidy is inhuman, and goes 
 Beyond the bounds of earth, and enters hell. 
 None but the damned — the everlasting damned — 
 Could do such acts of monumental baseness. 
 
 Carr. I swear, these eyes which now see you, saw 
 them as plain. 
 
 Mai. Oh, no — not that! I have seen much — 
 Enough to melt this softer heart than flesh 
 Into an iron casting, but not, not 
 Thy mother's actual unchastity — 
 The open, loose and bawdy thing itself! 
 O, leave me, Carroll, and let me alone 
 Hold up this awful sorrow. Yet art thou 
 Deceived, my son. 
 
 Carr. In highest heaven's name, 
 And for the good and virtue of the world; 
 For your sake, and for her own; for woman's, 
 And for your children's, I pray'I am deceived; 
 And yet — 
 
 Mai. Nay, do not say it, Carroll. 
 If it be true, it is not of to-day; 
 Nor has the foul disease yet run its course. 
 Unchastity is a sore that never cures, 
 And proof most positive should be our guide 
 In any accusation of so grave a kind. 
 
 Carr. From your abiding spirit will I be j 
 
 Advised, holding this dagger in my heart 
 
78 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 4] 
 
 Till time and your good wishes shall have plucked it 
 forth. [Exit Carroll. 
 
 Mai. O, Hortens! for thy love I do it all! 
 For thee I am a traitor to my wife; 
 For tbee do I betray my children thus, 
 And act the hypocrite to every one; 
 And yet Carroll said tcings I did not like — 
 In Maurice's arms, at night, and from the house. 
 There's villainy in that! He might have planned 
 To have them meet, but amorous hugging 
 Is a voluntary act. Suspicion, 
 Like a sly tiger, creeps down upon me 
 That what I would have, in appearance had, 
 Is come to light as gross reality. 
 Hinchman has played me false, and all this time 
 Has been the means for their accursed ends. 
 I'll find him out, and wrench this business from him. 
 
 [Going.] 
 Here comes the traitorous creature now. 
 
 Enter Hinchman. 
 
 Have you played me false ? Are you a villain ? 
 
 Hindi. Ha! ha! Villain? Why, if you think I am, 
 Then to you I am; if you think I am not, 
 Then to you I am not; for nobody 
 Is a villain, nor a liar, nor a thief, 
 Nor a murderer, except as some one 
 Thinks him to be such. The reason is plain. 
 
 Mat. O, you could reason a man into hell. 
 
 Hindi. Aye, most men, without trouble. But, trust 
 me, 
 I could never reason them out again. 
 What ails you, sir? 
 
 Mai. Is my wife false to me ? 
 
 Hindi. Why, sir, unless you have escaped the rule 
 Of a general average, yes; if so, 
 No. Plainly, I suppose so, that being 
 As you desired it. 
 
 Mai. You lie, you villain. 
 
 Hindi. First, you ask me if I am a villain, 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 79 
 
 Now you answer yes, and add me liar. 
 
 First, you hire me to prove your wife untrue — 
 
 When I do 't, you pay me off in curses. 
 
 Mai. Enough! How came my wife in Maurice's 
 arms? 
 
 Hindi. Now, just between your holiness and myself, 
 That self-same action somewhat puzzleth me, 
 I guess she has succeeded in fulfilling 
 Your desire — as 'twere given you cause, you know. 
 
 Mai. O, you gross traitor, you have betrayed me! 
 And since I knew you, have been but the means 
 For the accomplishment of this evil end. 
 
 Hindi. Ha! ha! O, what a joke! 
 
 Mai. Hinchman, I will — 
 
 Hindi. Make a fool of yourself — let me end it, 
 And change all our hard work into a farce. 
 From what you say, I would suppose Carroll 
 Has told you what he saw last night. Well, well, 
 Now let me tell you what I saw; for know you, 
 Hinchman kept his head, while Carroll lost his. 
 And that which Carroll's flaming fancy saw 
 As the lascivious, beastly* hugging 
 Of two amorous lovers, I beheld, 
 In plain language, as a woman fainting. 
 Maurice, near by, not wishing her to fall, 
 Caught her in his arms; and as there was 
 No seat at hand, with gentlest kindness, 
 He led her to the conservatory, 
 That she might there regain her wonted strength. 
 
 Mai. O, I am glad it was not otherwise! 
 
 Hindi. Well, so I think it was. 
 
 Mai. You think it was ? 
 Why, you know it. 
 
 Hindi. Well, I think I know it. 
 
 Mai. Hinchman, there is no difference between 
 " I think it," and " I think I know it" — since 
 Thinking makes you know. You do not doubt it? 
 
 Hindi. No — that is, not to speak of. 
 
 Mai. Stop, Hinchman! 
 Tell me you know Catherine's honest. 
 
 Hindi. Ha! ha! Well, then, as near as eye can see, 
 And mind can reason, she is as virtuous 
 
80 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 4] 
 
 As any woman. Now, I pray you, leave me; 
 For at this hour she meets me here, on matters 
 Further relating to our worthy cause. 
 
 Mai. Have you not all the evidence you need ? 
 
 Hinch. Why, mark you, sir, how little you know of 
 law. 
 Think you a court of justice sits to judge 
 With its imagination ? No, no, sir. 
 Judicial proceedings involve the man 
 In his reasoning department, passion, 
 Fancy and figures being foreigners 
 To them. Besides, a cold-blooded lawyer 
 Would make mince meat of all such evidence. 
 So, since we take our cause to court, we must 
 The court convince; and what would, to your children, 
 Be conclusive, would but make an old judge — 
 Used to the foibles of the world — dismiss 
 Your case, and call the cause that follows it. 
 
 Mai. Well, Hinchman, let it all be ended soon; 
 For weighty matters hinge on its comjDletion. 
 And mark you, sir; carry it not too far. 
 
 [Exit Malone. 
 
 Hinch. A strange old villain that you are, Malone, 
 To want a separation from your wife, 
 And yet not want a cause for it; and still 
 I think it human nature to be so, 
 Or else Malone must be the most consummate 
 And outrageous hypocrite I ever saw. 
 And whether he be honest in his villainy, 
 Or hypocritical in his virtue, 
 I know not now, nor never have, nor can. 
 
 Enter Catherine. 
 
 Good morning, Catherine. I hope and trust 
 Your interview, last evening, with Maurice, 
 To your advantage terminated. 
 
 Oath. As yet, Doctor, I do not know. Maurice — 
 Good, kind-hearted Maurice — will do for me 
 What lies within his power, and I pray God 
 He may find out the cause of Edmund's acts. 
 
 Hinch. And have you not since then seen Maurice ? 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 81 
 
 Gath. Nay, but my heart is bursting with impatience. 
 
 Hindi. At what time do you expect to see him ? 
 
 Gath. I know not; heaven grant it may be soon. 
 
 Hindi. See him to-night. 
 
 Gath. I would I might. 
 
 Hindi. Why not ? 
 In a matter of such great importance, 
 Shall any say you nay ? Write him a note, 
 Asking that he should meet you in the park 
 This evening, and I will take it to him. 
 
 Gath. Ah, Doctor, you have been so kind to me! 
 My aching heart gives you its greatest thanks. [ Writes.] 
 
 Hinch. Think not of me, dear lady — all my thoughts 
 And services — though by old age enfeebled, 
 Are as much at thy command as though thou wert 
 My sovereign queen, and I thy humble subject. 
 
 [Exit Hinch man, with letter. 
 
 Gath. Now is my fate in the just hands of heaven. 
 If Maurice's efforts fail, farewell to hope. 
 
 [Exit Gatherine. 
 
 Enter Carroll as Catherine retires, seeing, but unseen by 
 her. 
 
 Carr. Is it for me to judge and her condemn ? 
 In violation of the great decree, 
 Shall finite mortal sit in stern judgment 
 On his fellow ? Why, what a thing am I ? 
 But flesh and blood and bone — no more than she, 
 And shall what is no more its equal, judge ? 
 Pish! Out on such sophistry! Yet, would I 
 To her be just, nor her condemn unheard, 
 If aught to justify her act she hath 
 The breath to say. Justify — an act like that — 
 Then foulest murder is no longer crime, 
 But hath approval of divinity. 
 O, heavens she was — aye, is — my mother. 
 I can not, can not, bring my mind to think it. 
 
 Enter Hinchman. 
 
 Hinch. [Aside.] Wavering! then these be my argu- 
 ments. (Holding up letters.) 
 
852 CATHERINE MAL0NE. [Act 4] 
 
 [Carroll turns and as he sees Hinchman, the latter 
 attempts to conceal the letters in his pocket.] 
 
 Carr. Ha! What have you there, Hinchman ? 
 
 Hindi. Nothing, sir. 
 
 Carr. Nothing? Nothing? Why, Hinchman, should 
 a man 
 At the concealment of mere nothingness 
 
 Make efforts such as these. You have something 
 
 I feel it—about — O, heavens!— about 
 That woman— give it to me this instant. 
 
 Hindi Sir, what I have is not your property, 
 Nor have I anything that belongs to you. 
 
 Carr. It is a lie! You have that there concerns me 
 In my birth, my life, my honor, my all. 
 I saw letters but a short moment since, 
 Which your attempt to hide, convinces me, 
 I have a right to see, and now produce them. 
 
 Hindi. For shame, Carroll! 
 
 Carr. No; shame has done its worse. 
 Yield, or by heaven I'll take them from you. 
 
 Hindi. Art thou my sovereign, I thy subject base/ 
 That thou dost dare command me in this way? 
 If thou clost think so, thou hadst better have 
 At thy address the means to execute 
 Thy mandate, ere thou speakest so king-like. 
 
 Carr. The means! the means, sir! Dost thou see 
 these hands ?_ 
 They could grapple with a lion, or o'erturn 
 A mountain, and think you that they would pause 
 At such a very pigmy as thou art ? 
 
 Hinch. Boy, 1 have the age to be thy father, 
 And though the white and black are mingled here, 
 Still do I have an oaken body, which, 
 When thou wouldst have beheld thy mother's infamy, 
 Clasped thee within these vice-like arms, and now 
 As then I held thee from a sight of hell, 
 Defy thee that thou dost of me demand. 
 
 Carr. Defy me, and with that accursed hour 
 Fresh in my memory ? 
 
 Hindi. Aye, that I do, 
 In mine own right. 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 83 
 
 Garr. No more; all right is murdered! 
 
 [They struggle. 
 
 Hindi. Oh! oh! I am too old! 
 Garr. Old man, forgive! 
 
 [letting letters. 
 
 Hinch. Thou hast o'ercome me and taken the letters, 
 I know not what they may contain, and 'twas 
 For thy sake I refused thee sight of them. 
 Now, on thy own head rest the consequence 
 Of thy rashest act; Hinchman forgives thee. 
 
 Garr. [Reads.] " Dear Maurice— Meet me at the 
 summer garden-house this evening at the same hour as 
 last night. Oh, I so want to see you! 
 
 Catherine." 
 
 and this 
 
 " I will be there, 
 
 Maurice; 3 
 
 O, sir; I am so bowed beneath this load 
 Of shame I cannot look you in the face. 
 O, speak; but ask me not to raise my head. 
 Doctor, whence came these hellish letters? 
 
 Hinch. One from your mother — 
 
 Garr. Hated appellation! 
 Use some other name. 
 
 Hinch. Your father's wife — 
 
 Garr. Nor that either— O, world of sin!— say she. 
 
 Hinch. [Picking up the letters from the floor.] Then, 
 she — p Ure woman! — who did write this one, 
 Begged me to give it to your fathers friend, 
 And all unknowing that it held such vile 
 Proposals, I took it to the gentleman. 
 A certain mood with which he took and read it — 
 An amorous blush which overspread his face — 
 As he perused and reperused the letter, 
 Eoused my suspicions, and when he noted not, 
 I picked it up, intending to consign it 
 To the flames. This is his answer; the two 
 Speak for themselves; you know as much as I. 
 
84 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 4] 
 
 Carr. I am dead, Hinchman; these hands of mine 
 feel not; 
 This heart beats not; these eyes but see things black. 
 Good friend sustain me; hold me, or I sink. 
 Mother! 
 
 Hinch. Poor lad, I would have saved thee this. 
 
 Carr. Enough ! Enough ! Am I a puny boy, 
 A very baby spewing in my nurse's arms ? 
 I am a man — who dares — Let it go on, 
 I will be there with you to see it all. 
 Let them but live so long, and after that 
 Let the world die! O, hell, give me thy power, 
 Furies be with me, for I shall kill my — 
 What — who says she is my mother, dies. 
 
 [Exit Carroll followed by Hinchman. 
 
 Scene III. — A park and conservatory. Evening. 
 Enter a man and a woman. 
 
 Man. Its curious how we were sent for from the city 
 so suddenly, to come here. I half believe there's some- 
 thing isn't right. 
 
 Woman. Do you know where we are? 
 
 Man. Since we left the station in the carriage, I can't 
 tell exactly where we are, but I know about the place. 
 
 Enter Hinchman. 
 
 Hinch. The bawds were to be here at this hour. Let 
 me see; have I the wigs and everything? Yes, all's 
 right. The hundred thousand dollars shall be mine. 
 Ah! there they are. Are you the man and woman who 
 were sent for from the city to see a gentleman here ? 
 
 Man. We came here by the order of somebody that 
 we don't know Be you the man, and what do you 
 want with us ? 
 
 Hinch. Yes, I am the man who had you brought 
 here. I want you to help me play a joke, ha! ha! ha! a 
 devilish good joke! 
 
 Woman. Ha! ha! ha! a very good joke; but, sir;ha! 
 ha! for the best joke in the world we can't come here 
 for nothing. Your messenger gave me but five dollars 
 which isn't half what we're worth in the city to-night. 
 
[Scene 3] Catherine malone. 85 
 
 Hindi. O, I'll pay you well; see, here's a twenty 
 for you each. All I ask is that you play your part well. 
 
 Man. That's good; now what's your joke ? 
 
 Woman. It must be an awful funny joke for so much 
 money. 
 
 Hinch. Ha! ha! Well, you see my dear, I am one of 
 those fellows who never cares for money when he can 
 play a good joke. Now, to tell you what it is. I am 
 here visiting a country friend of mine and have sworn 
 to him that this house is haunted, ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Man and Woman. Haunted ? 
 
 Hinch. Yes, that it has spirits in it you know. 
 
 Man. Why, who the devil believes in spirits ? 
 
 Woman. Well, I'm not so certain. 
 
 Hinch. Why, nobody believes in spirits, of course; 
 and that's why I've brought you here to play the joke 
 on my friend. I've told him that I've seen the spirit of a 
 man and woman in here at night, and have laid him a 
 bet that he can see them to-night, too, ha! ha! 
 
 Man. Ha! ha! ha! I see we're to be the spirits, ha! 
 ha! ha! 
 
 Hinch. Not so loud, please, } r ou might raise the spirits. 
 Now, what I want you to do is to put on these wigs and 
 things, [they do so,] and then go into that house. By 
 and by you will see a lady and gentleman pass this way, 
 and following them at some distance will be two gentle- 
 men and myself. When you see me lift up my cane, so, 
 then you woman raise the window and cautiously put 
 your head out and look around, then put the window 
 down; after that sit you on each others' laps and fumble 
 each other over — for so I have told him the spirits do. 
 Should any one try the door, wbich will be locked, 
 scream and run out the back way; so escape. 
 
 Man. Capital joke, ha! ha! excellent joke. 
 Woman. Very funny. 
 
 [They go in and Hinchman locks the door. 
 
 Hindi. Good joke! a hundred thousand good jokes 
 and every one of them a big round dollar in Hinchman's 
 pocket. [Exit Hinchman. 
 
 Enter Sheboin and Catherine followed at some distance 
 by Malone, Hinchman and Carroll. The former pass 
 
86 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 4] 
 
 round the house by the door — which cannot be seen by Cae- 
 eoll — and out of sight; when Hinchman raises his cane, 
 then the woman lifts the window, puts out her head, looks 
 around and closes the window again. 
 
 Hindi. Wise, wise, so carefully to look before — 
 
 Mai. O, heavens, was that not my wife who looked ? 
 
 Garr. It was not my mother! 
 
 Mai. Then, not my wife. 
 
 Garr. But one who for five and twenty long years 
 Has disgraced, dishonored and befouled that name, 
 Next sacred to the greatest one in heaven. 
 This da}' her acts shall reach a period. 
 Such monumental faithlessness as this, 
 No longer shall debauch God's footstool. 
 
 Hindi. What, Carroll, you would not kill your 
 mother ? 
 
 Mai. O, no, my son; pity thy poor father, 
 And help him to bear this awful sorrow. 
 What is her crime, she is still thy mother. 
 
 Garr. She is not my mother! It is a lie! 
 Who dares say so ? But I would not kill her, 
 Have no fear, I would but see her in the act, 
 That I might curse her sex from off the earth. 
 
 Hindi. This that we see may but appearance be. 
 Wait you here while I go yonder and observe. 
 
 [Hinchman crosses to window. 
 
 Garr. Silence seal up my tongue; let me not speak 
 Or that before my time I die. 
 
 Mai O, Carroll, 
 What is thy anguish by the side of mine ? 
 I am a father, yet a doubtful one, 
 A husband, yet a dishonored one. 
 
 Garr. I ask no measuring of torments, 
 Only the silence of the grave, and death. 
 
 Hindi. [Raising the window a little so as not to be seen 
 by Carroll] Woman, get you over on his lap — you fel- 
 low undo her dress at the neck — so, so, that's good — 
 now pinch her cheeks — well, well — cover each other with 
 caresses — now — so — well — keep it up. Should any one 
 try the door scream and run out — remember that. 
 
[Scene 3] Catherine m alone. 87 
 
 [closes window.] The gathering gloom and Carroll's ex- 
 citement shall certainly deceive him. [Beckons Carroll 
 and Malone who pass over. Malone first looks into win- 
 dow — then Carroll.'] 
 
 Garr. [Drawing a dagger and trying door. ] 
 The end, the end, now for the end! Locked! [Screams 
 
 within.] 
 Not though you were of solid iron made 
 Could you resist me. [Breaks in door.] 
 
 Mai. He will kill them, Hinchman. 
 
 Hindi. Have not a fear, that is provided for. 
 
 Carr. [Reappearing.] Escaped me ! No, by the 
 gods, you shall not. 
 Now Mercury give me thy swiftest speed. 
 Help furies, help me on ! 
 
 Mai. Carroll, Carroll — gone! 
 
 Hindi. Let him go — they are well on their way. 
 The noise wiJl soon attract the others here, 
 As if escaping knowing not where to fly. 
 Now, summon all thy strength; make every nerve 
 And muscle do its duty — wear you a face 
 Of thunder; look fierce as hell; seem outraged, 
 And strike terror when you speak; so drive them 
 From your presence as the Almighty did 
 From Eden expel the first great sinners. 
 
 Mai. I am prepared. [Exit Hinchman. 
 
 Enter Cathekine and Sheboin running. 
 
 Cath. What is it, Maurice ? 
 
 She. Here! Here! 
 
 Cath. My husband! 
 
 Mai. Well mayst thou be af lightened woman, 
 Now, I have found thee in thy very shame. 
 O, thou infamous, outrageous villain; 
 Thou cursed traitor to the cause of friendship, 
 Betrayer of my wife, destroyer base 
 Of all my peace, my happiness, my home, 
 Thou hell-born viper, made by the devil 
 For this especial cause, who all these years 
 Hast kept thy poisoned fangs within my heart, 
 Living upon my blood, my honor — 
 
88 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 4] 
 
 Cath. I am struck dumb; what mean you, Edmund? 
 
 Mai. Silence thou wretch, unnameable! Thy time 
 Ere long will come — meanwhile thou mayest well 
 Be stricken dumb. 
 
 She. Thought I that you were sane, 
 Those words you just have said would be your last. 
 
 Mai. Eight! Eight! The very thing! the very thing! 
 Steal first the honor of my wife; then seek 
 A pretext for the murder of her husband. 
 
 Cath. The honor of thy wife? O, Edmund! 
 
 Mai. Be still thou hellish bastard breeder. 
 
 She. Another word like that, I tear your heart out. 
 
 Mai. Another! a million and repeated, 
 Could not express her vileness. Come tear it out — 
 What's left of it. Hast thou not taken all 
 That's worthy of a man ! Why leave the flesh, 
 When thou hast robbed it of its immortal part ? 
 Aye, wring thy hands as thou hast wrung my heart. 
 
 She. Mean you Malone, by that which } 7 ou have said, 
 I have betrayed the honor of your wife ? 
 
 Mai. Why, witness highest heaven! was ever 
 Such deliberate villainy seen before ? 
 This is the very hardened iciness 
 Of long standing criminality. 
 Or do you mean to play upon the words ? 
 'Tis no matter whether you say betrayed, 
 Stolen or robbed, plundered or purchased; 
 Honor or virtue, chastity or what not. 
 Thou hast taken that which was neither mine, 
 Nor hers, nor any one's to give, but was 
 A gift from heaven, a veiw loan at birth 
 To be returned at death — that, without which, 
 A woman is a bag of rotten flesh — 
 That which is the immortal part, the soul, 
 The essence of her existence — thou vulture, 
 Such as hell is made of, thou hast taken, 
 And left her there the thing, even you see, 
 A mass of dung! 
 
 She. Enough! Enough! death now. 
 
 Cath. Hold you, Maurice; he is still my husband. 
 
 She. Am I a man to see thee so outraged, 
 And by him who should be thy protector ? 
 
[Scene 3] Catherine malone. 89 
 
 Cath. Na}', Maurice; to rail insult against me, 
 Insults me not, nor soils the purity 
 Of mine honor; for that is a something 
 Which no amount of saying can take from me. 
 My fate is yonder and I fear not man. 
 
 Mai. So would you — vilest thing — your body make 
 A shield against my vengeance, and protect 
 Your lover with it. Indeed 'tis not unfit, 
 Since you have made one use of it, stop not 
 To put it to the other. Out of my sight! 
 You public shames away! nor ne'er again, 
 By your accursed forms, make dark my presence. 
 
 She. For thy sake, Catherine, do I hold my peace. 
 
 Cath. Edmund, I have endured your insults; 
 I have stood your taunts; I have been withered 
 By your disdain; I have been hurled from your 
 Disgust — all this and more than tongue can tell, 
 Have I borne from you, hoping to win you back, 
 And I as innocent of any cause, 
 As is the newest babe. It was the wife — 
 The loving and obedient wife — 
 Such as my mother taught me how to be — 
 That bid me do all this. But now thou hast 
 My chastity impeached, and this shaft pierces. 
 Beyond the wife and strikes the woman, 
 And 'gainst this last and heinous outrage, 
 Every atom of the woman in me, 
 Stands up in fierce rebellion. I leave you, 
 Though not as one having upon her soul 
 One spot of infamy, but as pure and chaste 
 As when thou tookest me to wife. I go, 
 And going shall demand, if there be justice 
 In this world, the rights which God has given me. 
 
 Mai. Have spoken all your fill ? Then you vile thing 
 Away from me ! 
 
 She. Can I endure this? 
 
 Cath. Make no resentment, for my sake, Maurice. 
 Edmund, I launch no curses on thee; 
 But, as she lives, thou shalt from Catherine hear. 
 
 [Exeunt Catherine and Maurice. 
 
 Re-enter Hinchman. 
 
90 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 4] 
 
 Hindi. Well done, Malone; well done — my word. 
 
 for it! 
 Mai. Leave me, Hinchrnan! I have done that out- 
 rage 
 To even my manhood makes me shudder. 
 
 [Exit Malone. 
 
 Hindi. Indeed! And still at it, even with me. 
 Well, thou mayst carry the belt to thy grave, 
 And no competitor worthy of the find. 
 Poor woman! Poor woman! It hurts my heart. 
 
 [Exit Hinchman. 
 Re-enter Catherine and Sheboin. 
 
 She. Nay, Catherine; no more. 
 
 Calh. O, Maurice, I can not! 
 It was the woman only in me spake, 
 And not the fond wife and loving mother. 
 Before I go, I must look on my children, 
 And know that they believe me innocent. 
 O, God, if they should think me guilty now! 
 Maurice, I shall go wild — O, awful thought! 
 But if they do, then I shall live until 
 By some sweet light from heaven, I am proved 
 Innocent. O, God! thou wilt not let me die, 
 And have my children think I am unchaste? 
 
 She. Dear Catherine, thy troubled spirits calm. 
 Thy children will not think thee else than pure; 
 Their mother is thy children's dearest idol — 
 Worshiped by them o'er all else on this earth; 
 And nature's hand to thy safe rescue coming, 
 Will teach their love their mother's purity. 
 
 Oath. O, thank thee, Maurice! thy words are all so 
 kind; 
 But 'twas a thought that pierced my very soul. 
 And thou art right — they will not — can not — think 
 Me gone to shame. This feeling holds me up, 
 And but for it — ah! I have much yet to do, 
 And must be strong. Fare-thee-well, Maurice, 
 Till I see my children — precious darlings. 
 
 [Exit Catherine. 
 
 She. If it be true there is an unseen hand 
 
[Scene 3] Catherine malone. 91 
 
 Tbat guides the destiny of man, how stranger 
 
 Than the world itself its movements are! 
 
 'Tis these that make me doubt; these snap the cord 
 
 Of faith, making the universe an anarchy. 
 
 0, Justice, hast thou no part in divinity? 
 
 [Exit Sheboin. 
 Pie-enter Carroll. 
 
 Garr. They have escaped me, and 'tis well they have. 
 Re-enter Catherine. 
 
 Cath. [Aside.] I saw him come this way; aye, 'tis 
 Carroll. 
 
 Garr. [Aside.] My mother? No, not she; aye, even 
 she — 
 Even she, whose labors gave to me birth. 
 Oh, God! oh, God! become a harlot! 
 Even she, who suckled me at her breast. 
 Now there is virtue killed, since one who has, 
 From out her bochv, fed a life, made of it 
 Uses such as these — Oh, base, base uses! 
 And, after five and twenty j'ears, to turn — 
 O, stop my breath, that I speak not the word! 
 'Tis a curse — a curse of hell — upon me, 
 That my poor heart can bear this and not burst. 
 O, highest Judge in heaven! 0, oracle 
 Of hell! O, nature, air, earth, universe! 
 Listen to my appeal, and make me answer: 
 Could such a thing as this be possible ? 
 When, from her body, the lascivious 
 Had, by age been robbed, to turn a lewd! 
 When at her feet the world's wealth lay, and she, 
 Stripped of the shabby raiment of necessity, 
 Which even the veriest bawd can blazon 
 To the world as an excuse ! And after 
 All this age of virtue. Aye! aye! What is it? 
 'Tis but the boldness of unchastity — 
 The ripeness of lost virtue — that I saw. 
 It has — it has — it has lived before; 
 This monster serpent was not born to-day — 
 Till now the shroud of night has been its shield. 
 And I — I— who am I? Who is my father? 
 
92 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 4] 
 
 My face, these eyes, this nose, this mouth, these cheeks, 
 And ever}^ lineament, proclaims me bastard! 
 Oh, God! oh, God! now let me die! 
 
 Gath. Carroll! 
 
 Garr. Ha! hast thou come back to have me kill thee ? 
 Where is my dagger, and where thy lover? 
 Ye did escape me but a moment since. 
 But now, ha! thou must die. Hast said thy prayers? 
 And is thy soul prepared to meet its Maker? 
 
 Gath. My soul has not that sin which makes me fear 
 To meet my God. I am not guilty, Carroll. 
 
 Garr. Not guilty? And hast thou power to say these 
 words, 
 When, but one moment hence, thou shalt behold 
 The yawning depths of hell ? O, think it, woman, 
 But one minute more, and thou shalt stand — 
 Thy sins labeled upon thy naked soul — 
 Before that Judge who never errs. Canst thou 
 Then say, " I have committed no adultery?" 
 
 Gath. Not though thou hadst power omnipotent, 
 Could thy words blanch my cheeks, nor send one quiver 
 Through my body, I am so innocent. 
 
 Garr. O, monstrous sin, that could so stand un- 
 daunted 
 In the face of heaven! Now shield my eyes, 
 Power, furies! O, heavens! where is my strength! 
 This arm, which, but a moment since, had fought 
 An army, is now turned traitor to my will. 
 I can not strike thee, and thy life is saved. 
 
 Gath. Thou dost not believe thy mother guilty? 
 Say it, Carroll — say it, O, my son! 
 
 Garr. Son! Son! Woman, darest thou to call me 
 By that sacred name ? Thou didst bear me, 
 True, true, true; but canst thou name my father? 
 Ha! Now thou dost cringe. O, that thou couldst, 
 But for one moment, have this heart put in thee, 
 That, thou mightst learn what suffering is! 
 
 Gath. O, kill me, Carroll, with thy steel dagger — 
 Not with this one of words; I fear not death. 
 
 Garr. A vaunt, thou thing! Thy manner doth con- 
 fess 
 Thy guilt, had these eyes not been consumed 
 
[Scene 3] Catherine malone. 93 
 
 By seeing it. What more have I with thee 
 To do? 
 
 Gath. To do with thy mother, Carroll? 
 O, son, dost thou believe that this poor body, 
 Which gave nnto thee birth; which fed thy life, 
 And watched thee grow from tiniest babyhood; 
 Which, for so many years, followed thy father 
 Through sickness and through poverty, could now 
 Commit so great a crime against thy father, 
 Against her children and against herself? 
 
 Carr. Who could do acts like these, disgrace her 
 husband, 
 Degrade her children and debase her honor, 
 Could say this too, and it affects me not. 
 
 Oath. O, Carroll, I could have stood the taunting 
 Of thy father — his hatred, his disdain; 
 I could have borne the flings the world might cast 
 Upon me; the smarting slaps from papers; 
 The cruel gossip; the lies and calumnies; 
 But to have thee, my son, who speaketh only 
 From the deep convictions of his honest heart, 
 Accuse me — his mother, who so loves him 
 That she would give her life for him — of lack 
 Of virtue — O, God, this is too much 
 For one poor heart to bear! Carroll, darling, 
 Look in my face. Seest thou shame or guilt there ? 
 Do these lips speak to thee lies ? Do these eyes 
 Look to thee lies ? Do I so act as one 
 Whose virtue, honor, chastity are gone? 
 
 Carr. Gods! if I had not seen it, I could not 
 Believe it; but the disgusting act twice seen — 
 The letters! Get thee gone from me, woman! 
 I know thee not; thou art not my mother, 
 And I am a bastard. 
 
 Enter Richard and Helen. 
 
 Cath. O, cruel, cruel son! Can not these tears 
 Plead with thee, Carroll ? Let me upon my knees 
 Before thee, as thou, a little child, wert wont 
 To come to me with all thy little troubles, 
 And beg thee do not think thy mother guilty. 
 
94 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 4] 
 
 Carr. O, honor, honor! thou art made of iron! 
 Enough! Enough! My heart is stone — made so 
 By thee. Thy presence causes me to think 
 Of naught but death, damnation, hell — away! 
 
 Helen. Great heavens, Richard! what is this we hear? 
 
 Rich. Carroll, have you lost all your self-respect, 
 And all respect which you should have for others ? 
 Has the divine spark of filial love gone out, 
 And a volcano of unnatural hate 
 Usurped its place? Or art thou mad, that thou 
 Dost dare to so insult mine and thy mother ? 
 
 Carr. Cease, boy! You know not that of which you 
 prate . 
 
 Hel. For shame, Carroll — for shame to act so! 
 
 Carr. Thou, too, thou saucy brat; and wouldst thou 
 Follow the track which she has made for thee ? 
 
 Gath. My children — 
 
 Rich. Shall I, who bid defiance to my father 
 When he dared heap insult on my mother; 
 Shall I, who would have battled with an army, 
 In vindication of my mother's honor, 
 Be now backed down, sneered at and spit upon 
 By thee, who art no more than Richard's equal? 
 I tell thee, Carroll, thou shalt never live 
 To grow so great thou canst insult this lady 
 In my presence; and I cry thee now, beware! 
 
 Gath. Richard — Carroll — sons — 
 
 Carr. No more ! No more ! 
 Get you away, and follow your professions. 
 
 Hel. Carroll, fear you not the awful vengeance 
 Of Almighty God upon thee, when thou 
 Darest thy mother to so dishonor? 
 
 Carr. She is the author of her own dishonor — 
 My mother never. 
 
 Rich. Retract that, Carroll, 
 Or else thou makest me a fratricide. 
 
 Carr. Why, thou puny imp, what wouldst thou do ? 
 Begone from me ! 
 
 Rich. Not till thou hast withdrawn 
 Thy beastly saying 'gainst my mother's honor, 
 Or Richard brands thee the hired defamer 
 Of thy own mother, for thy father's gold. 
 
[Scene 3] Catherine malone. 95 
 
 Carr. Ha! boy, I will tear thee into pieces. 
 
 Rich. Thou mayst do so, Carroll, if thou canst. 
 
 Cath. My sons — 
 
 Carr. Use not that cursed name to me ! 
 I have a dagger by me, boy; I meant 
 To use it here; but since thou darest say 
 Carroll is bribed by gold, IT1 let thee use 
 Thine own upon me. 
 
 Rich. I am prepared. Come on! 
 
 [They make for each other, but Catherine goes between 
 them.] 
 
 Cath. Hold thy yet bloodless weapons, sons of mine! 
 Would ye be brother murderers? If so, 
 Then must ye kill your mother first. 
 
 Carr. Unloose me, or this blade will find thy heart. 
 
 Cath. I am ready, Carroll; thy mother's heart 
 Is here. [Carroll throws down his dagger.] 
 
 Carr. Where am I now? The world grows black. 
 Richard — my father's gold — did you not say 
 My father's gold bribed me ? I was dreaming. 
 Father! father! they are there — O, shame, shame! 
 Hinchman! Hinchman! I will be there with you! 
 
 Enter Hinchman and Malone from one side; Sheboin 
 from the oilier. 
 
 Einch. What noise so loud is this ? 
 
 Mai. Art thou still here ? 
 
 Cath. Yes, Edmund; but I am going now. 
 
 Rich. What, mother, to leave thy home and children ? 
 
 Cath. Richard, thy father drives me from my home. 
 
 Rich. O, thou unnatural husband — father! 
 But enough ! I might rain curses on you 
 Till hell itself would feel the want of them; 
 Thy conscience be thy executioner. 
 Thou hast driven thy w T ife away from thee, 
 And by that act thou drivest Richard also. 
 
 Hel. And Helen, too. 
 
 Rich. And these strong arms bid thee, 
 And all the world, defiance, in our right. 
 
 Cath. [To Carroll.] Thou yet shalt know thy moth- 
 er's innocence. [Exeunt all. 
 
96 CATHERINE MALONE. |Act 5] 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene 1. — A room in Malone's house in San Francixco. 
 Enter Hinchman and Malone. 
 
 Mai. Since that last night of sovereign infamy 
 You have seen neither Richard nor Helen ? 
 
 Hindi. I know where they are but have not seen 
 them. 
 
 Mai. I greatly fear me they are lost to us. 
 
 Hindi. Then make a grave for all your fears. Think 
 you 
 That they will longer follow her fortunes, 
 "When they shall know a court of equity — 
 Wherein clean-handed justice reigns supreme — 
 Shall have declared the woman an adultress ? 
 But once an age does nature bear that man, 
 Who, for the love of it, sinks with his ship. 
 And when this woman is by strong evidence 
 Stripped of her honor, they will for honor's sake — 
 If not for prudence — quickly desert her. 
 
 Mai. O, Hinchman, say to me not — dishonor! 
 For it so rends my heart in twain to think 
 How woman could so lost to virtue be. 
 
 Hindi. Indeed! Ah, Malone, I am so sorry — 
 So very, very sorry, your heart is made 
 Of stuff so tender; for I must tell } 7 ou — 
 Such my hard duty — duty over all — 
 That in the court we must so move our case. 
 
 Mai. Oh, me! How this affliction weighs my life. 
 There's not a beast that ploughs the fields nor plods 
 Before a drayman's heavy load, so burdened 
 As I am! Yet, will I bear it as becomes 
 A man, unflinchingly. Hinchman, have you 
 "With Grlascoe talked, touching the evidence? 
 
 Hindi. Else had my duty and friendship to you, 
 Illy made payment of your friendship to me. 
 
 Mai. And doubts he not of its sufficiency? 
 
 Hindi. He has assured me that the evidence 
 Is most abundant — well I remember 
 How the great man laid down the law to me. 
 Drawing his brows down very learnedly, 
 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 97 
 
 He squared his mouth, sent up his chin, and said — 
 
 Clearing his throat anon most knowingly: 
 
 " Why, my dear sir, in actions for divorce, 
 
 Upon this ground, it is unnecessary 
 
 That we should show the guilty criminals 
 
 In actual flagrante delicto. 
 
 Darkness and secrecy being the shield 
 
 For this crime, circumstantial evidence 
 
 Of its commission are quite sufficient. 
 
 Show a previous liking for each other, 
 
 Add to this, clandestine correspondence, 
 
 Then, in addition, stolen interviews 
 
 Going with passionate declarations, 
 
 And, ending all, the opportunity 
 
 For the consummation of tbe offense, 
 
 And, sir, my dear sir, I ask no better case." 
 
 Mai. We have such evidence in its fullness — 
 Alas! I would the case were not so strong — 
 As witness their love, of such long standing, 
 Their secret meetings, by you and Carroll seen, 
 Her passionate language used to him then, 
 The letters, and that awful night which makes 
 My brain burn when by memory recalled. 
 O, Hinchman, what havoc can a woman make! 
 How doth the universe, when she goes wrong, 
 Become a very hell! And Carroll, now, 
 He that was once so gentle and so kind, 
 Is, by her action, turned a mass of hate. 
 O, would her conduct were not so heinous, 
 Or that I were not thoroughly convinced 
 Of her unfaithfulness, so, for his sake, 
 I might forgive her and withdraw the suit. 
 But would it be justice to my children, 
 Or justice to myself, or to the world — 
 The morality of which we must sustain — 
 To longer live with such a fallen woman, 
 Aye, or allow her longer wear my name? 
 
 Hinch. Now, by all the honored saints in heaven, 
 And devils in hell, I bave imagined 
 Myself a villain, a very large villain, 
 A monstrous, damned villain, but I know now, 
 
98 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 5] 
 
 I am a very paragon of goodness 
 
 By the side of some people I have known. 
 
 Mai. My dear Hinchman, do not, I pray of you, 
 Think so meanly of yourself; your action, 
 In laying bare the faithlessness of my wife, 
 Covers you with greatness, and, as for me — 
 Hard as the mighty burden lies upon me — 
 For your brave act I am profoundly grateful. 
 
 Hindi. [Aside. ] Hinchman, out-Hinchmaned by the 
 eternal, 
 But it shall cost him, else I am an angel. 
 My dear Malone, in view of the great value 
 Of my eminent services, I think 
 It might be well I had a small advance, 
 On my oft promised compensation. 
 
 Mai. "Were it not best that I should pay you all 
 When the divorce is granted finally ? 
 
 Hinch. Think not that for one moment I would doubt 
 Tour good intentions; rather I fear me 
 The tenderness of your heart may overcome 
 Your disposition to prosecute the suit; 
 So all my efforts might but go for naught. 
 
 Mai. Ah, my dear Hinchman! — why, I see it all; 
 You are in some emergency for means. 
 How thoughtless of me; how much do jo\x need? 
 Hinch. Well, say fifty thousand dollars. 
 Mai. So much! 
 Ah ! well it is no difference, Doctor; 
 When one friend doth refuse to help another, 
 How meanly looks the act; contemptible! 
 
 Hinch. Indeed, so; and I have observed of late, 
 How bad the old world is become, till now, 
 Virtue has laid aside her past white robes 
 And wears the raiment of necessity — 
 Foul, tarnished garment! it makes the nose ill. 
 
 Mai. Indeed, I greatly fear it is the case. 
 I shall retire and get your check at once. 
 
 [Exit Malone. 
 
 Hinch. Now, who am I ? A saint or nobody. 
 I shall no more be dead than canonized, 
 For between me and that other villain, 
 
[Scene 1] CATHERINE MALONE. 09 
 
 There is a chasm such as parts the throne 
 From purgatory's firiest furnace. 
 I now know the different degrees of hell! 
 Yet, I have heard it said a lie oft told 
 Becomes the truth to him who tells it; 
 And can it be Malone believes his wife 
 Untrue to him, having so often said it? 
 
 Enter Carroll. 
 
 Ah! Carroll, you are looking very ill; 
 I fear me you are not so well to-day. 
 
 Garr. Indeed! now what traitors our feelings are, 
 I had supposed I was the first charmer 
 Who lives in all this mighty commonwealth. 
 
 Hindi. My dear boy, may I not give you something ? 
 
 Garr. Give me something ? Pardon my under- 
 standing. 
 
 Hindi. Some medicine, Carroll, some medicine. 
 
 Garr. Why, sure enough, so you are a doctor. 
 Your business had wellnigh slipped my memory. 
 But 'tis a mighty noble occupation! 
 For look you what great deeds it has accomplished. 
 Once men had sound minds in healthy bodies, 
 Behold the end of your herculean work! 
 A perfect man's the scarcest work of God! 
 Yes, sir; you have outwitted the Almighty, 
 And nature has succumbed before your efforts. 
 O, you are a most potent agency, 
 You doctors of the heavenly art 
 Of making well people sick, and so forth. 
 
 Hindi. But, Carroll, it were little short of crime 
 To make bad doctoring the creator 
 Of all the ills to which mankind is heir. 
 
 Garr. Very well, very well, father them where you 
 will, it's all one to mankind — we have them. There's not 
 one of God's human creatures in a thousand but is de- 
 formed, crippled or ill-shaped. Take the face — the eyes 
 bleared, ball, squint, meaningless, villainous, shrewd, 
 thieving — .a hundred such to one that's fit to look on. 
 The nose — stub, hook or crooked— an outrage on the 
 countenance. Ah! but the mouth, flabb} 7 , open, gap- 
 ping, loose, lascivious, long-lipped, short-lipped, grin- 
 
100 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 5] 
 
 ing or villainously taut, the head malformed and ugly 
 generally — 
 
 ffinch. Hold, Carroll! 
 
 Carr. Hold, yourself! Look at the rest of your 
 wonderous work! The body — fat, blubberly or lean and 
 cadaverous; dwarfs and giants; hunchbacks and sway- 
 backs, and deformities ad infinitum. O, when you see 
 one man or woman perfect formed, behold a million 
 malformed, ill-shaped eyesores! and where's your being 
 but has some pain — a weak stomach, bad liver, dis- 
 ordered kidneys, aching bones, stiff back, decayed lungs, 
 affected hearing, fading sight — Lord! what a thing has 
 man degenerated into — a sickly, ill-shaped mass! Out 
 on it! The world had better begin over again! 
 
 Einch. But, Carroll, jo\x look at the outer man 
 only — his mechanism merely. Behold the inner man — 
 the mighty mind, the pure heart, the contrite — 
 
 Carr. I think you have become a sightless old idiot! 
 Your inner man — your mental, moral, spiritual man! 
 Why this thing Avhich covers us is a perfect paragon of 
 beauty by the side of the hideous hidden devil that 
 lurks inside. Out on your inner man! He is a very 
 mass of corruption, dishonesty, and hypocrisy. He is 
 the most monstrous criminal in the world — a committor 
 of all the crimes upon the statute books every day — a 
 murderer when ruffled; an adulterer at the sight of a 
 pretty woman; a grasping thief each minute, a covetor 
 of other people's property; a secret blasphemer; a 
 notorious liar — lying even to himself; and as for that 
 other class of crimes, called by some good people, 
 moral errors — why, God save us! — your inner man lives 
 on them! Hypocrisy, insinuation, prying into other 
 people's business, and their thousand and one sisters 
 and brothers; Oh, your inner man is a fine villain, a shaip, 
 shrewd villain, a villain who commits most of his mur- 
 ders, adulteries and other crimes in thought; for mark 
 you his outer accomplishment is as big a coward as your 
 inner man is a villain! What a splendid thing, indeed, is 
 your man; your inner and your outer deformity, and 
 outrage upon nature! 
 
 Hinch. I fear me, Carroll, you look too much on the 
 dark side of life. 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 101 
 
 Carr. O, well, very well, I would be alone, being in 
 no mood for argument to-day. 
 
 Hindi. [Retiring — aside.] Then I should not like to 
 find you when you are. [Exit Hinchman. 
 
 Carr. And this is life; the thing for which we're born; 
 For which we make our minds and bodies slaves; 
 To which men cling with such tenacity, 
 And even the crippled, blind, lame and halt, 
 Despised misery and crooked old age 
 Hold sweet — but suffering and death the end, 
 When death is life or may be. Out on it! 
 I had rather be among the tombed and rest, 
 Than live besmirched by such an infamy. 
 As passing by, each scandal-monger points 
 Me out, saying with readiest tongue: There goes 
 The son of — Ha! I can see the thousand 
 Raised glasses in every public place 
 Pointed at me — more deadly than cannons; 
 And hear the hissing viper whispers! 
 Oh, my soul, why. why, why, am I thus cursed? 
 
 Enter Charlotte. 
 
 Chart. Carroll, are you alone? 
 
 Carr. Alone, alone, alone! 
 Even to the exclusion of myself. 
 
 Chart. M} r dearest brother, there is one now here, 
 By whom thou shall never be forsaken. 
 
 Carr. Why, now Charlotte, I think thou art honest; 
 Yet, since virtue has become an article 
 Of merchandise, does the world hold honor? 
 
 Chart. O, Carroll, thou wouldst not think thy sister 
 Otherwise than pure and virtuous ? 
 
 Carr. No; for the whole world I would not think so. 
 Yet, come to me; I would look you in the eyes, 
 Feel of your flesh if you are honest made. 
 O, vain man who doth believe he can detect 
 Hypocrisy! Put your arms around my neck, 
 So, so. O, you minx, you can hug a man — 
 Kiss and betray him all in a moment. 
 
 Chart. Brother! 
 
 Carr. Nay, sister, thy touch feels honest, 
 
102 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 5] 
 
 So thy looks import, and so I think thee; 
 And I will tell thee something, the half of which, 
 Thou dost already know — which half a whole is 
 Far too great. The same woman bore us both, 
 And she is gone — so much thou knowest now. 
 
 Charl. And 'tis a bitter, bitter, knowledge. 
 
 Garr. Yet, will I tell thee more: that that woman 
 When she left took not her virtue with her, 
 It had gone before. Poor, little darling, 
 It kills my tongue to tell thee, as it doth 
 Thine ear to hear this. The rest thou mayst learn 
 By slow degrees. Leave me now Lotte dear, 
 For companionship with me, is not so good 
 As it may once have been. Thou art so weak, 
 And thou doth shake and tremble like a leaf! 
 I can feel thy heart throb; it beats in me; 
 I know its suffering; it is my own 
 That beats in thee, and I can feel it in thee, 
 Tugging, and straining, and trying to burst 
 The solid flesh that holds it prisoner. 
 Thou and thy brother have a common sorrow, 
 And on his sholders he will help thee bear it. 
 Leave me now. Yet, ere you go, I would vouchsafe 
 This little woid of brotherly advice: 
 When you marry, let it be with some one 
 Not unlike you! \Exit Charlotte. ] So soon to turn a beast! 
 The mother's milk that fed me's turned to gall. 
 By heaven I have no power to help it. 
 
 Enter Hortens Technor, veiled. 
 
 Horts. This is Carroll, son of Edmund Malone ? 
 
 Carr. Indeed! Is it? Ah, madam, you little know 
 Of what surpassing wisdom } T ou are possessed. 
 I would know more concerning you. Who are you ? 
 
 Horts. One who knows your father, and has known 
 him. 
 
 Carr. Wise, very wise, mysteriously wise! 
 I would change places with you when I think 
 You would be less informed than you are now. 
 
 Horts. Peace, sir. Of the trouble now existing 
 Between your father and mother, I know much. 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malose. 103 
 
 Carr. Think not that you surprise me any, madam. 
 Being a modest looker-on in the world, 
 I have observed this characteristic 
 Of your sex; that you take on the knowledge 
 Of others' troubles, as if the bearing 
 Of the knowledge helped to bear the troubles. 
 
 Horts. Sir, I came here as your friend. 
 
 Carr. Oh ! indeed ! 
 Good, friendly madam, friends are like gnats: 
 In our summer-time they swarm about us, 
 But in our winter period, I am told, 
 These insects do prefer a hill of dung- 
 To our poor company. Aye, good lady, 
 Friends are as abundant in this great world 
 As other creeping things, and yet you might, 
 With the finest comb scrape the universe, 
 And ne'er catch one. Does not the homeliness 
 Of my figures make you in love with them? 
 
 Ho?is. Sir, I should be angered at your manners, 
 Did I not appreciate your feelings; 
 But I am here to help you, and trifles, 
 Though unpleasant, as are these, shall not deter me. 
 
 Carr. Really, lady, your kindness is excessive. 
 One, of a mean and gross suspicious nature, 
 Might have imagined that you came hither 
 For some purpose other than helping me. 
 
 Horts. As is the sun from earth, so far from me 
 Is any other than an honest motive, 
 And by my acts I shall convince you, sir, 
 'Gainst your will, I am an honest woman. 
 
 Carr. An honest woman ! Now, heaven preserve you ! 
 How desolate and lonesome this world must seem. 
 Die, lady, die, and I will have a monument 
 Erected to you in a public place. 
 It shall be a stately, solid column, 
 Towering to the world's notice, and you 
 Upon the top, worked by the finest sculptor 
 Of the age; about you there shall be a space, 
 Gigantic in its proportions, crowded 
 With the broken statuary of your sex. 
 To right and left, and front a triangle; 
 Of broken promises of marriage one end, 
 
CATHERINE M ALONE. 
 
 Blasted virtue and foul unchastity, 
 The other two; then lies, hypocrisy, 
 Frivolity, makeshift and enticement, 
 Mingled among their thousand sisterhood. 
 Yet, shall you be made of hardest marble, 
 Lest, even immortalized, you fall; 
 For I knew a woman once, who after — 
 Oh, woman, if thou wert pure and honest, 
 Above fche bribing power of money, 
 And unseduced by beauty, I'd grapple thee 
 To this breast, and hug thee till thy spirit 
 Freed from flesh, should take its flight to heaven! 
 
 Horls. Sir, if you should sometime see a woman, 
 Who, holding wealth — aye, millions in her grasp, 
 Would <>ive it up; who, loving society, 
 Would with her own band raise up a barrier, 
 Debarring her forever from its pleasures; 
 Who, having ambitions high, would drown them, 
 And sink the mightiest love that ever filled 
 A woman's breast; and you should know she did 
 All this, to> save a sister from a wrong — 
 Would you count honest such a woman? 
 
 Carr. Aye, that I would; and since a sight like that 
 I never hope to see, I'd give these eyes 
 To look upon it. 
 
 Horts. Then, sir, behold it! [Lifts veil.] 
 My name is Hortens Technor, and here I am, 
 By God's good help and will, to save your mother 
 From an outrage, cowardly and infamous, 
 By a sacrifice even so great as that. 
 
 Carr. A cunning and well-spoken lie is that, 
 A verj^ blackmailing lie, w T ell worked up. 
 May I inquire how much she pays you for't? 
 Or rather, I suppose, it is Sheboin. 
 
 Hort<. Never have I beheld, nor in any way 
 With either of them communicated. 
 
 Carr. Why, now, strange lady you! one might have 
 thought, 
 On a hot charger you had come from them. 
 If you have aught to sa} T , you have my ear; 
 Though madam, pardon me, it is so crammed 
 With sounds discordant, it mav not hear you well. 
 
[Scene 1] CATHERINE MALONE. 105 
 
 Horts. I, too, Lave had my wrongs, and yet, I swear, 
 By even the honest man before me, 
 It is not they which make me tell you this, 
 And that my sole and only actuator, 
 Is the desire to lift from off a pure 
 And honest woman, a cloud of infamy, 
 With which two scoundrels have enveloped her. 
 
 Carr. An object laudable and plausible. 
 Yet, methinks, it sounds too well committed. 
 
 Horts. Short is my tale in words, yet long in acts, 
 As is a life crowded with deeds of crime. 
 On the occasion of your father's visit 
 To the city by the Golden Gate, when first 
 He had discovered his wealth, I met him, 
 And so as if some hideous black fate 
 O'ershadowed me, he loved me from the first. 
 
 Carr. Aha! 
 
 Horts. Or that he loved me, made pretensions great. 
 His honest way of wooing caused no thought 
 That he was other than a single man, 
 Nor did he mention otherwise to me. 
 His hotly -pressed affection by degrees 
 Grew on me, till at length I loved him 
 With all the ardor that my nature had. 
 Then like a fireball from an unclouded sky 
 Came the knowledge of your father's marriage. 
 Post-haste I charged him with his infamy, 
 And would have ended him there but that — 
 
 Carr. I listen ! 
 
 Horts. His well-constructed lie, coupled with love 
 On my part, and his great protestations, 
 O'erthrew my will. This was that cunning lie 
 Which drove determination from her throne, 
 And set a foul usurper there: That his wife, 
 Your mother, had betrayed her marriage vows, 
 And that he was about to institute 
 Proceedings for divorce; that for my love 
 He wished it ended before I knew it, 
 And when 'twas over we should be united. 
 I listened, doubted, but love o'ercame me, 
 And I believed him. 'Twas by such means 
 He led me on to — alas! I cannot 
 
106 CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 5] 
 
 Say it. O, sir, I Lave erred grievously, 
 Bat here I am to extirpate it all. 
 
 Carr. Ha! confessed, I thought you were a — 
 
 Horls. O, sir, condemn me not just yet; hear me: 
 'Twas but a night ago he came to me, 
 Deep-flushed with wine, and either from that cause, 
 Or from that other one which makes a man 
 Tell to a woman things which he would not 
 To his own mind confess, with raillery 
 He told me that a certain Doctor Hinchman, 
 Yourself, and he, had seen the faithlessuess 
 Of your mother, and the divorce would soon 
 Be granted. 
 
 Carr. On, on, stop not on that! 
 
 Horts. The boldness of the act and its relator 
 Abashed me, and led me on to discourse 
 On the depravity of such a thing, 
 And said, above all things, it passed wonder, 
 How any woman could to him be faithless. 
 This seemed to touch him in a tender point, 
 For straight a solemn aspect overcame 
 His raillery; then he paused; then wavered; 
 And then, with a shrewd cunning in his eye, 
 He winked and said he would confess to me — 
 To only me — for that, in me, he had 
 Such confidence, he knew I would not tell it, 
 That it was naught but talk and balderdash 
 About his wife's unfaithfulness to him. 
 
 Carr. Woman, let what you say be true, or die! 
 
 Horts. So is it, word for word; and more he said: 
 That the appearance of your mother's guilt, 
 Had been produced by Hinchman and himself, 
 To furnish evidence for the divorce. 
 
 Carr. This is a lie! I saw it all myself. 
 
 Horts. Nay, hold! and I will tell you of that, too. 
 At such tremendous infamy I grew 
 Indignant, and formed the resolution, 
 Then and there, to save your mother from it. 
 To which end I gave him good encouragement 
 To tell me all, with a pleased mien my purpose 
 Well concealing. Then he related to me 
 The dreadful stoiy of that awful night, 
 
[Scene 1] Catherine malone. 107 
 
 When he led you, his son! — O, sovereign shame! — 
 To look into the window of some house, 
 There to behold your mother and Sheboin. 
 
 Carr. O, kill, and not refresh my memory! 
 
 Horts. Wait, sir! 'Twas not your mother nor She- 
 boin 
 You saw, but two masked bawds, by Hinchman's hand, 
 Cunningly disposed there to deceive you. 
 
 Carr. Go on, liar! Tell me I am not here; 
 Tell me the world is not; disprove my being; 
 Show that the sun is but a red-hot pot, 
 By the blowing of the cook's breath kept so. 
 I am a little baby, to be told 
 Of giants, goblins, fairies, devils, gods. 
 Come, be my nurse, fair lady; sing a song. 
 
 Horts. O, sir! I see that you believe me not. 
 Then, since you will not take my word, take me, 
 And put me where to tell a lie is death. 
 Take me to mid-ocean, to some high peak, 
 Or to a lion's cage, and then tell me 
 To take that back which I have told to yon, 
 Or you will cast me bound among the furies. 
 Do this, or anything, and I will ^ay 
 The same. Sir, I plead not for my own wrongs; 
 For nothing but disgrace can this bring me. 
 I plead for yours and for your mother's sake. 
 
 Carr. Will you face my father and say these things? 
 
 Horts. Face him, face heaven, face hell, face courts 
 of earth, 
 Face an} 7 place, if only I can save 
 From this disgrace your outraged mother. 
 
 Carr. Lady, thy words are noble, and if thy acts 
 Keep tally with them, thou mayst have this life. 
 But mark thee, I will put thee to the test; 
 And failing, rest everlasting infamy 
 Upon you! Take yonder room, and anon 
 I will explain what I w 7 ould have you do. 
 
 [Exit Hortens. 
 That this woman knows my father, I believe; 
 That she knows not my mother, seemeth true. 
 Still, have I little faith in this adventure, 
 It is so like a dream — a sudden dream. 
 
10S CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 5] 
 
 Yet can these matters be no worse than now; 
 And knowiDg where they stay, I'll send for them, 
 Making them one and all so face each other 
 As shall try their several honesty. 
 
 [Exit Carroll. 
 Scene II. — Another room in same. 
 
 Enter Carroll and Hortens. 
 
 Garr. And, lady, thou wouldst honest prove thyself? 
 
 Horts. Aye, sir; but bring my purpose to the test. 
 
 Garr. Thou shalt have tests, and tests, and tests, 
 fear not. 
 Kather wilt thou be equal to the same? 
 
 Horts. I will. 
 
 Garr. Why, now, T like the way thou sayst " I will." 
 Come, let me look into thy face, for 'tis 
 A spring from which outleaps the hidden secrets 
 Of the human soul. There's meaning in thy mouth, 
 And it is not one loose, lascivious, 
 Speaking a yielding and lascivious soul. 
 I think thy thin lips, and these taut, white lines 
 About their corners, call thee determined; 
 And I like the stare and flash of thj eyes — 
 The fixed expression of th}^ face as well; 
 Combined, they show in thee some settled purpose. 
 Well, well, we shall soon see whether thou art 
 Naught but a base and gilded counterfeit. 
 
 Horts. Sir, will you not say what you expect of me? 
 
 Garr. What I expect of thee? O, woman! 
 I have not dared allow my expectation 
 Flower, but have nipped off each tender bud, 
 And planted it all in soil most sterile. 
 But should I tell thee that of everything 
 Which I would have thee do, it would be this: 
 Prove, O, prove my mother that pure angel 
 I was wont to think her ere damnation came! 
 
 Horts. To do this is the end and not the means. 
 I thought you had laid out a course for me. 
 
 Garr. Thou art the actress, lady — not I; 
 And howsoever good ni} r piece might be, 
 If you fail in the acting, it is naught. 
 Generally speaking, I would have thee 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 109 
 
 Staud steadfast and unyielding through it all. 
 As to the particulars of your acts, 
 I have provided a little instrument 
 Of man's first inventive genius typical. 
 
 [Produces a dagger. 
 "What! dost thou shudder and start back from this? 
 
 Horta. O, sir! 
 
 Garr. Listen! If all the men this little devil 
 And his brothers, long and short, have taken off, 
 Were in one mighty heap piled up, they'd make 
 A pyramid of human skeletons, 
 Piercing the skies. Booming, noisy cannon 
 They have made ashamed, and the smaller guns 
 Hold but a lot in this great master's graveyard. 
 And look at its bright and glistening sides. 
 Is it not wonderful how man can take 
 The black and shapeless metal from the earth, 
 And make a thing of such exquisiteness? 
 How sharp its edges, that the keenest eye 
 Scarcely can see them; and that little point! 
 Is it not a wonderful instrument, 
 Possessing a most wonderful record 
 For killing kings, betrayers, seducers, 
 And men in general? For, mark you well, 
 When this blade cuts through the heart, or the lungs, 
 Or skull, or rips open the intestines 
 Of a man, not all the quackery invented 
 Oan scarcely save him. What! dost thou draw back 
 From such an honest, unassuming thing? 
 
 Hortx. I am but a woman, sir; not over strong, 
 And ill accustomed to such sights and words. 
 I pray you, nothing you expect of me 
 Shall have in common anything with this? 
 
 Garr. Ha, woman! now 3 r ou show you as you are. 
 Confess yourself dishonest, and withdraw. 
 
 Horts. I swear to you that I am honest, sir; 
 Tet is my honesty but womanly 
 And human. But stay not; I will do all, 
 And doing it in honesty, fear nothing. 
 
 Garr. Thou shalt come before my father, madam. 
 
 Horls. I am ready, and willingly will meet him. 
 
 Garr. What if he should deny he ever knew you? 
 
1.10 CATHERINE MALOJfE. [Act 5] 
 
 Or that he ever said what you have told nie? 
 
 Or should denounce you as a woman of the town ? 
 
 Horis. He will not dare. By heavens, he will not dare ! 
 
 Carr. Aye, but should he ? Canst thou take this 
 dagger 
 In thy hand, and, holding it 'gainst his heart, 
 Unseal his lips, and make the truth fly out? — 
 Or wouldst thou rather suffer the branding 
 Of dishonor ? [She reaches for dagger. ] Ha! now I like 
 
 thy looks. 
 Good! Good! Go you now into yonder room, 
 And when you hear me strike upon this stand, 
 Enter, and then conduct you as you will. 
 
 Horls. Sir, I would I might be more acquainted 
 How I am to act in this strange meeting. 
 
 Carr. Go thou, and let thy inmost honesty, 
 And the inspirations of the moment, 
 Be thy sole guides. Stay a little, lady. 
 O, if thou didst but know what suffering 
 This heart has stood — what torturing this brain— 
 Thou wouldst forgive me for my harshness. 
 And O, if thou canst only take away 
 That cursed stigma, why, thou mayst have me 
 For thy bondman all thy life. Go thee now, 
 And within thee, strong be thy woman's heart. 
 
 [Exit Hortens. 
 She hath an honest manner in her acts, 
 Which in her favor greatly doth impress me. 
 Out upon honest manners since I have seen 
 Such hell-born hypocrisy dressed in ways 
 Which would have honored heaven's oldest saint! 
 For either my father be infamous, 
 And this woman honest; or he honest, 
 And she infamous; or both infamous, 
 And robed in honesty; and, any way, 
 Honest looks have the last time deceived me. 
 Yet she can have no motives but honest ones. 
 To hell with motives, too! for mark this down 
 Upon the tablet of my memory: 
 Men do acts devoid of any motives 
 Which human ingenuity can see. 
 Quiet! here come my mother and the rest. 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. Ill 
 
 Enter Catherine, Sheboin, Kichard and Helen. 
 
 Calh. My son ! 
 
 Carr. Nay, madam, not another word. 
 'Twas for another that I sent for you. 
 
 She. What want you with us that you brought us 
 
 here ? 
 Carr. In good time I hope you may find out. 
 Behind yonder screen I have provided 
 Places for you. Take them, and abide events. 
 Rich. This is a very strange proceeding. 
 Hel. I know it can import no good to us. 
 Cath. Patience, my children. As you bid us, son. 
 
 [They secrete themselves behind screen. 
 Carr. Now to bring Hinchman and my father here. 
 
 [Exit Carroll. 
 
 Re-enter Carroll, Hinchman and Malone. 
 
 Mai. What want you with us, Carroll, in such haste ? 
 
 Carr. In short, to hold some counsel with 3^011 both, 
 Touching the subject of your impending suit. 
 Not that the matter is a pleasant one, 
 But since to meet and fight it we are compelled, 
 'Twere best we be prepared against the tricks 
 Of the opposing counsel. What answers 
 Your wife to your petition for divorce ? 
 
 Mai. Oh, Carroll! I would we might avoid it. 
 
 Carr. Stuff, sir! Be man, not child. What says 
 she? 
 
 Mai. She denies her guilt, and pleads cruelty 
 Against me as ground for divorce from me. 
 
 Carr. The very boldness of a denial 
 Such as that covers one with amazement. 
 Can she have hope to escape the proving 
 Of her repeated criminality ? 
 
 Mai. Carroll, do not, I pray, refer to it. 
 It wrings my heart, and heaven knows how glad 
 Would I be here to end it all forever, 
 Did such a course not bring such infamy — 
 Such foul infamy — upon my children. 
 
 Carr. Sir, if you have not more manhood in you 
 Than to talk of letting such dishonor 
 
112 CATHERINE M ALONE. [Act 5] 
 
 Pass unnoticed — aye, condoned, forgiven — 
 I shall be justified in classing you 
 Among the apes, gratefully thanking God 
 My parentage is doubtful. Full, complete, 
 Is the evidence of her adultery. 
 
 Oath. Oh, God! No, no, no! 
 
 Garr. What, spies! What's here? [Knocks over screen.'] 
 By heavens, the very criminals themselves! [Strikes 
 
 table.] 
 Infamy, thou hast reached thy highest tide 
 When these things be! 
 
 Enter Hortens. 
 
 More coming to the feast ? 
 
 Ha! this woman is some confederate. 
 
 [Aside.] Now let them work it out — it's not my plaj'. 
 
 Mai. Hortens! Whnt's tins? Why are you here, 
 madam ? 
 
 Horts. The disappointment is most agreeable. 
 I was afraid you might not have known me. 
 
 Garr. [Aside. ] The start is fair. 
 
 Cath. Amazement strikes me dumb! Who are vou, 
 lady? 
 For never before did these eyes see you. 
 No answer? Maurice, know you who she is? 
 
 She. Till now I never saw her. 
 
 Garr. [Aside.] Well, very well. 
 
 Sorts. I am none would harm you, madam — fear not; 
 But am come here to help you, if you will. 
 
 Hindi. There's villainy here. [To Malone.] Who is 
 this woman ? 
 
 Mai. I know her not. 
 
 Garr. [Aside.] Ha! 
 
 Hindi. You know her not? Why, but a moment 
 since, 
 "You called her Hortens. 
 
 Garr. [Aside.] Well s .id, old fool. 
 
 Horts. So heard you all, and then he spake the truth. 
 But this last moment, m}\steriously, 
 Has blotted me from out his memory, 
 Or else some other, greater recollection, 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 113 
 
 Has engulfed the one of me; possibly, 
 Since he has made confession unto me 
 Of your combined and villainous attempt 
 To ruin yonder woman, he has good cause 
 No longer to remember me. 
 
 Garr. [Aside.] See, O, my soul, how strong she 
 strikes him home! 
 
 Hindi. Confessed to her? O, you old imbecile! 
 I see it all! You have ruined your cause 
 By making a priest of your sweet mistress. 
 Well, I am done with you! Dismiss your suit; 
 Settle with your wife; for Hinchman leaves you. 
 I had rather be a dog than a fool. 
 
 Garr. Going, Hinchman? What, run from a woman ? 
 I'll make you a free loan of my courage 
 To help you stay. [Stops him.] What say you to this 
 woman? [To Malone.] 
 
 Mai. That what she says is all a wilful lie, 
 And that I never told her aught of it. 
 
 Horts. Never told me that the unfaithfulness 
 Of your wife was but a scheme concocted 
 To furnish evidence for a divorce ? 
 O, thou coward — liar! 
 
 Garr. [Aside.] Gods, give her courage. 
 
 Gath. Alas, that I have lived to see this day! 
 
 Mai. Thou blackmailing street-tramper, how dare 
 you 
 Dun my Avay like this? I never wronged you. 
 
 Horts. Dare you call me blackmailer ? 
 
 Mai. Aye; and more, 
 Thou scurvy strumpet, since this be my reply, 
 Thou ungrateful and degraded woman. 
 
 Horts. Seest thou this dagger? 
 
 Gath. Stop! Richard! Carroll! 
 Look to her, Maurice ! 
 
 Horts. Nay, do not touch me. 
 I only know one action now — 'tis here — 
 And may not be responsible for others. 
 I am upon you, coward! Confess or die. 
 
 Gath. O, spare his life! 'Tis I am wronged, not thee. 
 
 Horts. Yes, thou art wronged in me, and I in thee; 
 And for our common wrongs, I will kill you. 
 
114 CATHERINE M ALONE. [Act 5] 
 
 Mai. Oh, Hortens, is it for this that I have loved thee? 
 
 Carr. Ha! loved. 
 
 Hindi. Who'd beg for life deserves but death. 
 
 Carr. Enough ! Enough ! He has confessed enough. 
 And thou art pure, O, holy, holy mother! 
 
 Gath. O, miserable woman Catherine is, 
 The day that proves her honest, stabs her thus! 
 
 Carr. Mother, I know not what to say. My tongue 
 In my sheer amazement, is, like one asleep. 
 Yet if, by any mighty act — some deed 
 Surpassing human strength or bravery, 
 Or by some action God-like in its virtue — 
 I could convince thee of my overwhelming love, 
 And prove that naught but honor has inspired 
 My every word and thought and act— oh, then 
 I could with patience bear torments of hell. 
 
 Calh. Thy mother knew thy love, and for it loved 
 thee; 
 She knew thy honor, and for it honored thee; 
 And for thy every word and act, she did, 
 Ere they were passed, forgive thee, loving thee still. 
 And with a mother's love, which doth surpass 
 All other in this world, opens her arms 
 To take thee to her heart, oh, thou, my son! 
 
 [Carroll starts to go to Catherine, when 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Oh, horrible! Oh, awful! Charlotte's dead. 
 I found her strangled in her room, just now, and at her 
 feet this paper. 
 
 Carr. Give it me [reads]: "Death before life and 
 infamy." 
 My noble girl — my royal little sister! 
 O, Charlotte, thou art brave, and I a coward! 
 Why, I am but a very piece of flesh, 
 And thou wert soul. To thee, to thee, Charlotte! 
 Thou worthiest example for thy brother, 
 Ere long by thee will Carroll be. Oh, earth, 
 Thou coward earth! 
 
 Gath. Oh, woeful, woeful day! 
 
 Boris. [To Malone.\ Thou thrice-accursed liar, 
 traitor, coward ! 
 
[Scene 2] Catherine malone. 115 
 
 Thou art tbe cause of all this misery. 
 
 Look on thy hellish work — one daughter dead, 
 
 The other as thou seest; and look upon 
 
 These sons of thine; well mayst thou hang thy head. 
 
 And then look on that wife — thy loving wife — 
 
 And this thy faithful friend, than but for whom, 
 
 To-day thou hadst but been a common miner. 
 
 And last, see me, whom thou hast more than murdered — 
 
 Disgraced, dishonored, robbed of virtue, damned! 
 
 One moment since, and thou didst call me strumpet. 
 
 Then if I be so, here do I bury 
 
 Id thy accursed breast my tarnished honor, 
 
 And may its poison stay with thee forever! [Stabs him.} 
 
 No, no! Away from me! [Stabs herself, j Thus, also, I. 
 
 Carr. More, more, more blood! Hinchman, thy 
 turn is next. 
 
 Hindi. Whatever will be, will; I have no care. 
 
 Carr. Then with thee take thy fair philosophy. 
 [Stabs him.] 
 
 Cath. I cry you mercy, Carroll, oh, my son! 
 
 Carr. My dearest mother, quiet all thy fears. 
 Death to those only who deserve to die. 
 Thou art pure; thou didst no wrong; nor thou, Maurice; 
 Nor you, Richard; nor you, Helen. But I — 
 Wiry, what a thing am I? Deformed in mind, 
 Ill-balanced, and but the subject to till up 
 A dungeon. Yet is the bitter cup made sweet, 
 When dying, know the living do not curse them. 
 And in the future, should any ask of me, 
 Tell him of one who rather had been dead 
 Than live the son of such a man as that. 
 
 Cath. Nay, Carroll, nay; live thou for me. 
 
 Carr. Too late! 
 Charlotte, thou reached the period of thy life 
 When thou didst think thy mother was unchaste. 
 Now that I know my father was so great 
 A villain, do I thus make an end of mine. [Stabs himself. ] 
 Mother, thine honor, oh, how bright it is! 
 There's not a star in heaven shines so lustrous. 
 Thine arms! I am a little child again; 
 And on thy breast, which fed it, yield my life. 
 Charlotte, Charlotte! I come, I come, Charlotte! [Dies.] 
 
lie CATHERINE MALONE. [Act 5] 
 
 Gath. No more, no more! Let death be satisfied. 
 My two remaining children, come about me; 
 And thou, dear friend, help me lament my loss. 
 O, desolation, thou hast done thy worst! 
 My husband dead, his good name dishonored — 
 To judgment gone with all his sins upon him; 
 My children, by their own hands, their sweet lives taken. 
 Thou Great Eternal Power, reliance 
 Of poor Catherine in her every hour, 
 On these dear souls let heavenly mercy rest.