CENTRAL CIRCULATION BOOKSTACKS The person charging this material is re- sponsible for its return to the library from which it was borrowed on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft/ mutlkitien, and underlining of books ore reosons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. TO RENEW CALL TELEPHONE CENTER, 333-8400 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAION f £B id 4 1932 - - ^ >IUj (c\\^ 11/9 <°jis IZ/ao 2 ./. 31 When renewing by phone, write new due date below previous due date. 78733 L162 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2017 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates https://archive.org/details/henrydunbarordau00tayl_0 HENRY DUNBAR; OR, A DAUGHTER’S TRIALS. A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS. BOUNDED ON MISS BEADDON’S NOVEL OF THE SAME NAME. Bt tom TAYLOE, Esa., Authm' of “ Babes in the Woodf “ Tlie FooVs Revenge f etc. AS PRODUCED AT THE ROYAL OLYMPIC THEATRE, LONDON, UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OE MR. HORACE WIGAN, DEC. 9 , 1865 , AND AT Wallace’s theatre, NEW YORK, NOV, 2 , 1867 . TO WHICH IS ADDED A DESCRIPTION OF THE COSTUME — CAST OP THE CHARACTERS — ^EN- TRANCES AND EXITS — RELATIVE POSITIONS OP THE PER- FORMERS ON THE STAGE, AND THE WHOLE OF THE STAGE BUSINESS. CHICAGO THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY HENRY DUNBAR; CAST OF CHAItAGTERS. Royal Olympic Theatre^ London^ Dec. 9, 1867. Henry Dunbar. Mr. H. Neville. Clement Austin Mr. H. J. Montague. Arthur Lovell,. Mr. H. G. Clifford. Henry Carter, a Detective Mr. R. Soutar. The Major, with several aliases Mr. G. Vincent. Jerrams, Head Waiter at the Georg-e.Mr. H. Cooper. Hartogg, a Jewel Merchant Mr. H. Rivers. Balderby, J unior Partner in the house of Dunbar & Balderby Mr. S. H. Williams. Thomas Tibbs, Carter’s Mate Mr. Pranks. Office Messenger Mr. Cowdery. Margaret Went-worth Miss Kate Terry. Laura Dunbar Miss Ellen Leigh. Mary Madden Miss E. Farren. Wallack^s Theatre, Nev> York, Nov. 2, 1867. Mr. J. W. Wallace. Mr. B. T. Ringgold. Mr. C. H. Rockweli.. Mr. A. W. Young. Mr. E. L. Davenport. Mr. Geo. Holland. Mr. J. C. AVilliamson. Mr. G. Browne. Mr. T. Ward. Mr. E. Cashin. Miss Rose Eytinge. Miss Annie Ward. Miss Mary Barrett. PROPERTIES. Parcel, letter, prospectus, card, umbrella, “Times” newspaper, dispatch-box, handcuffs, lighted candles, papers, letter and portrait in desk, a diary, tea-table and tea things, envelope and letter, sandwich-box (containing diamond paper) with chain to fasten round waist, diamonds, account books, bank notes, check-book, old shoe, bottles and glasses, brandy, leather belt divided into compartments, little canvasv bag, wine, revolver, night-lamps, pens, ink and paper, oil for lamp. time-the present I day. COSTUMES-OF THE PERIOD. Stage Direction.— R. means Right of Stage, facing the Audience ; L. Left ; C. Centre ; R. C. Right of centre ; L. C. Left of centre. D. F. Door in the Flat, or Scene running across the back of the Stage ; C. D. F. Centre Door in the Flat ; R . D. F. Right Door in the Flat ; L. D. F. Left Door in the Flat ; R. D. Right Door : L. D. Left Door; 1 E. First Entrance; 2 E. Second Entrance; D. E. Upper En* trance ; 1, 2 or 3 G. First, Second or Third Groove. TIME IN REPRESENTATION— THREE HOURS. 3 HKXKY DUXBAR. SCENERY. Cottage, humble, but prettily furnished. Bow Window. Door. (G. 1.) Door, j rx I ^ A^ ACT I. -SCENE 1 ICT I.— Scene 2. Handsome sitting-room— folding doors at the back opening on landing. Folding Doors. [ Fireplace. Easy Chair.2 Door. Door. ACT II.— Scene 1. Drawing-room luxuriously furnished. Door. Tripod Tea-table. ) ACT n.— Scene 2. Waiting-room in the Bank. 4 HKNRY DUNBAR. ACT II. Scene 3. Tlie Bank Parloi’. Window with blinds. GU&s Doors with Curtains. •••:•*•** Door. Door. Door. Door. ACT III.— Scene. Picturesque Elizabethan Room, tapestry hung or pannelled. Window looking on Autumnal Landscape. Door. (E. 3} (X. 3} Door. Fireplace. Side Table. (E. 1) Door. ACT IV. — Scene 1. — Same as last. ACT r\ .—Scene 2. Entrance Hall of Woodbine Cottage. ACT IV. — Scene 3. Sitting-room. £Asy Chair.S IFor Symptit of the Play, see pages 38, 39 and 40.] HEITEY DUE-BAK. ACT I. SCENE FIRST. — Room in Margaret Wentworth's cottage at Wandsworth, humble but prettily furnished — bow window c., with muslin curtain, door R. and L. (Is^ grooves) — a loud ring heard as the curtain rises. Enter Mary, l. Mary. Bless my ’art, whoever’s that a ringin’ at the garden gate, as if they’d wrinch the wire out '? {looking out at window) My, if it ain’t a foot- man and carriage ! And if there ain’t that darlin’ Miss Laura Dunbar a gettin’ out. Oh, if all Miss Margaret’s pupils was like her ! {shuts gate) I don’t mind the footman airin’ his calves, but I can’t keep her waitin’. \Exit Mary, l. Enter Laura, l., escorted by Mary, carrying a parcel. Laura. Well, Mary, you never saw me arrive in Mie state-coach be- fore. {speaks off) Oh, tell George the carriage can wait. I’ve brought you your aunt Madden’s love, Mary. Mary. Thank you, miss ; nothing else, miss '? Laura. No, did you expect anything '? Mary. I hoped she might have found me a situation, please miss I Laura. Why, you’re not going to leave Miss Wentworth I Mary. Oh, please miss, she says she can’t afford two, and she’s cornin’ to a maid of all work. Both me and cook wants to stop if it was at a re- duction and no beer ; but cook’s to stop ’cos I can’t undertake the kitchen. Laura. You shall come to me, Mary. Dear nursey Madden is getting old, and you can take the fag off her hands — dressing me and making the five o’clock tea, and all that. Mary. Call that fag, miss I Fun I call it. Oh, I shall be so happy ! Laura. We shall be very good friends, I’m sure — I always get so fond of my maids. Mary. Which it’s wicy wersa, miss, I’m sure they must get so fond o’ you. Laura. I’m glad Miss Wentworth is not here — I’-^e a surprise for her, a little birth-day present, but it’s such a secret. 1 may run up with it into her pretty bed-room, mayn’t I ? I’ll be so good and not rummage a 6 HENKY DUNBAR. bit, and if she comes in before Fm down, you may say Fm there, but not a word of this {shows parcel) or I shall be so angry, {runs off^ r.) Mary. Ah, bless her bright eyes, she’s like the patent gold reviver cornin’ into a place, she is. Oh, shan’t I be happy dressin’ her ! {knocks l., looks out) Two gents ; what do they want, I wonder. [Exit^ l. Ee-enter immediately^ l., showing in Carter. Carter. So, Miss Wentworth’s not at home, eh 7 ( 5*^5 down^ looks sharp- ly about him.) Mary. Would you leave a message, sir 1 Carter. Well, I don’t know that I can exactly. Mary. Which if I might ask, was it lessons, sir ] Carter. Well, I don’t know but what it might end in lessons. Fve heard so much of Miss Wentworth’s teaching. Mary. Ah, that you may well say, which I’ve heard there ain’t any- thing better to be had from the Royal Academy of Harts, not if you was to give pounds where Miss Marg’ret she have shillins, bless her ! Carter. And a steady, hard-working girl, too, Fm told ? Mary. Steady, sir ! Well, if livin’ on short allowance for a sparrer, and workin’ as regular as the clock, and spendin’ next to nothin’ on her- self, and never havin’ a hard word for nobody makes a hangel. Miss Mar’gret’s one, which I often says “ if all has their rights,” I says, “ yours is the ’evins above,” I says ! Carter. Well, if Miss Wentworth ain’t at home, perhaps her father is 7 Mary. No, sir, he are not. Carter. Ah, sorry for that, I should a’ liked to have made his ac- quaintance. He’s obliged to be away from home a great deal, I sup- pose I Mary. Quite off and on, sir ; sometimes he’ll be here a month togeth- er, then away a week, then at home a day or two, and so on. And Miss Margaret is that fond of him ! Carter. Poor girl, she must find his being away so much a great an- noyance 1 Mary. She do take on about it, sir ; but, bless you, she’s such a pa- tient creature. Carter. And business is business. I’ll be bound he's not much here in business hours I Oftenest after dark 1 — I daresay. Mary. It is mostly latish. Carter. He was here last night, you said I Mary. Did I ! well, I must have mentioned it promiscw5 then. Least- ways he was here, and left early this morning by first train for South- ampton, as far as I understood him and Miss Margaret’s talk about it at breakfast. Carter (to himsef). Too late ! I was afraid I should. However, the Major’s at Winchester, and Southampton will be all in my road. There’s a train in ten minutes. Well, my dear, when Miss Wentworth comes in Mary. Oh ! here is Miss Margaret ! Enter Margaret Wentworth, l. — Carter bows, Marg. a stranger ! (looks at him.) Mary. A gent as have called about lessons, Miss. Marg. Oh, I shall be very glad, I’m sure ; I’ve rather too many hour* open just now. jLCT I. 7 Carter. Well, you see my good lady was thinking of having our girl put to a good music mistress, but I was to inquire about terms first. Marg. {going to mantel-piece). Here is one of my prospectuses, sir. (Mary gives her a letter) A letter in papa’s handwriting ! Carter {aside). Poor young thing, poor young thing ! Mary. And please miss. Miss Laura’s up stair -in your room. Marg. Miss Dunbar ! I’ll come to her. Mary. Yes, miss. I’ll tell her. {aside) I wonder is it an Area-sneak 1 \Exit^ R Marg. If you’ll excuse me — when you have made up your mind as to my terms {giving prospectus) you can let me know. Carter. Thank you, miss ! it’s my good lady you see, she’s that par- ticular to a shilling or two. {looks at card) I'm sure they seem very mod- erate. Marg. They enable me to live, sir, and to pay my way, I can’t venture to ask more. Carter. It’s a hard life, miss, for one so young and delicate looking. Marg. Oh, I’m stronger than I look, and I’ve been used to hard work, and then independence is very sweet. Carter. Yes, but going about giving lessons is rather too indepen- dent, I should have thought, for an unprotected girl like you. Marg. Unprotected, sir! I can dispense with protectors; I’ve been used to take my own part. Carter. And quite right too, my dear, {she looks annoyed) Excuse me, miss, I don’t mean it as a liberty, but I’ve one about your age at home. {earnestkj) Heaven bless you, my poor child 1 Heaven bless you, and keep you I There's no harm in that. Marg. No, sir ; good wishes can never harm us when they’re in ear- nest, and I feel yours are. Carter {going). Good morning, {offers hand) No offence, {aside) Now for Southampton. I’m glad he ain’t here. I shouldn’t have had the heart to clinch him afore that innocent face o’ hers. Hallo ! Master Car- ter, stow that, ’twon’t do for you to be turning spooney. [Exit^ l. Marg. Very extraordinary person, to be sure; but papa’s letter ! {tak- ing it out.) What can be the secret he dared write but not speak I Oh, if I could but wean him from his dark life and desperate courses — if he would but stay here and be always his better self, that others might know the good in him as I do. {opens the letter and reads) “ My darling — {kisses the letter) You know I am bound for Southampton, but not my errand there. I told you my first crime was forgery {she shudders) com- mitted to save a young master whom I loved very dearly. The forgery was detected, my master was screened, sent out to India. I was denounc- ed, tried, sentenced. He might have stood between me and the law, but he refused to speak a word or lift a hand in my behalf. From that day I was a blighted, branded man ; I tried to get back to honest courses, but my crime stood between me and them {she sobs) till I grew what I am, an outcast, everyone’s hand against me, and my hand against everyone.” Oh no, father, not everyone’s ! I pity you. {resumes her reading.) “ I learn’ t yes- terday that this man is coming back to England. I mean to meet him, to see if he will do more now for the man whose ruin lies at his door than he would twenty-five years ago, and if he won’t, to give him apiece of my mindff why has he underlined that I “I dared not tell you this last night — I knew you would dissuade me.” Oh, yes, yes ! “I write you his name that you may remember it, not in your prayers, as that of the author of your father’s ruin in this world and the next. It is Henry Dunbar!” Henry Dunbar! Laura’s father! There is indeed a gulf henceforth between her innocent heart and mine ! I wish I could have 8 HENRY DtTNBAR. stayed him from this journey, — my mind misgives me, lest some terrible consequence result from this meeting. Who s there ? Enter Clement Austin, l. Clem. Forgive me for entering unannounced ! Miss Wentworth, you look pale, I’m afraid I have frightened you. Marg. No, no ! It is nothing ; I have not been very strong of late, and a little startles me ; won’t you sit down, {they sit.) Clem. Oh, Miss Wentworth, if you would but take more care of your- self. Marg. No, I can’t afford to be fanciful. You and your mother want to spoil me. As it is, you and your mother pay me twice my terms for your niece’s lessons. Clem. Pay you ! as if anything could pay for the privilege Marg. {interrupting). Ah, you mean you steal a lesson, at the same time Yes, you are certainly the most attentive of uncles. Clem, {earnestly and impatiently). Oh, this persiflage is idle. Miss Went- worth — Margaret Marg. Mr. Austin! Clem. Let me call you so : you cannot have misunderstood my feel- ings. Marg. Yes ! I feel your kind, your compassionate intere:^t in me — your’s and your mother’s. Clem. You talk of interest. Miss Wentworth. That may have first in- spired the wish to serve you. Marg. I felt it, I felt it all. Clem. But as I came to learn your sweet and self-devoted nature, as I sat by your side and marked your gentle grace, and drank the music of 3^our voice, pity kindled to passion, and interest became love ; yes, Mar- garet, I love you ! {getting to her side.) Marg. {extricating herself and turning away) No ! no ! Clem. With a love as true, as pure, as full of reverent regard as ever man felt for woman, I love you, Margaret ! Marg. It must not be, Mr. Austin ! There is a impassable barrier be- tween me and such feelings. Clem. You love another ? Marg. No ! Clem. Then you must love me, Margaret. If not now, in time. A love like mine must command an answer. Marg. Not from me ! Clem. Not from you! You, whose tenderness brims over to meet every advance from a pupil, a child, a pet bird ! And you cannot love ! Margaret I will not believe it ! Marg. Mr. Austin you force me to trust you with a secret which has been my own misery, night and day, since I learnt it. Qow and slowly and half averting her face) My father is a dishonored man — an outcast. {sitU lower and more sadly) a criminal ! Clem. My poor love ! And he is your father. Marg. And yet if you knew all, you would judge him mercifully, I am sure you would — I do, my mother did, she died with a prayer that he might be brought to see the error of his ways, and I prayed with her. Till I grew up our life was one of wandering and wretchedness. At times my father got employment, but before long the curse followed us : a breath, a whisper w^as enough ; he never found any one to hold out a hand to the outcast and say, “ I know your past, I will help you to re- deem your future.” Not one ! not one ! {pause) Now y6u know the bar- i.CT I. 9 rier that stands between Margaret Wentworth and the love of an honest man ! Clem. Not so, Margaret. Knowing all this, nay, all the more because I know it, again I say, Margaret Wentworth, be my love, my wife ! Marg. My generous, my noble Clement! Yes! I love you, I will be your own, but not yet. I have a work to do : to win back my father to the right way : we will watch over him together, with loving hopes, with prevailing prayers ! Oh, Clement, it will be a grievous struggle. Are you strong enough to go through it 1 Clem. Yes, Margaret, if I may share it with you. Marg. God bless you, my own Clemerft {solemnly,) Laura {without), Margaret ! Marg. Hark ! Laura’s voice ! Clement, I must leave you ! (Clement kisses her hand in tender leave-taking) How shall I meet her, with my father’s wrongs between us 'I [Exeunt Clement, l., and Margaret, r., closed in by SCENE SECOND — Interior of a handsofiue sitting-room at the “ Georg e^'‘ Winchester ^folding doors at the back opening on landing — doors^ r. and l. Fire-place with fire burning^ r. Easy chair, l. Enter the I^.Iajor, c., cautiously looking about him, and humming, to The light of other daysf The togs of other days are faded And all their glory fled ! I once was the flower, now I’m the seed ! Yes, Major, you’re down on your luck, disgustingly down ; the traps were after you in the little vil- lage, so you tried country air for the benefit of your health and your only visible resource is now, the k’rect cyard of the Winchester Races, {with^ the hoarse manner of a ring bettor) “ I back the field. Twenty to one against anything, bar one ! ” It’s a precarious profession, brings one into bad company, and is altogether below the pitch of a man who has kept his own running horses — devilish fast ones, too ; so fast, they ran through two thousand a year in no time and landed their pro-per-i-etor in Queer Street ! So, this is Joe Wilmot’s crib ! I never saw Joe in such feather — a slap-up rig out, new and fashionable, from tile to toe-cases. I won- der if Joe would stand a couter, but {shaking his head) ^toggibus nulla fides ! He’s nailed a flat, a slap-up swell : I stalked ’em, in close confab, into that wood near St. Cross. Joe seemed to be pitching it strong. I thought once of dropping down on his little game, and calling ‘‘ halves ” in the stakes ! But I remonstrated with myself severely and decided on waiting for ’em here. Joe may be glad of a third party, if it comes to a rubber and a touch of hankey pankey {imitates cutting the cards,) I flat- ter myself I still know how to walk into a coffee room, as if I mean t custom and scorned the spoons, {looks about him) Decidedly the thing {con- temptuously) for Winchester. “ Here will I plant my torch,” {putting down his umbrella) as 0. Smith used to say in the Di’eam at Sea, and hero “ put off the load of this world-weary flesh.” {takes off F-coat) A P-coat, like charity, covers a multitude of sins, especially sins of omission in the way of linen. There! {takes paper from tab'e) Here’s yesterday’s “Times;” ah, in these provincial places it always is yesterday’s “ Times.” Well, compensation is the great law of nature. . If the news is stale, the eggs iu’e fresh and so are the natives, {reads paper,) 10 HENBY DUNBAR. Enter Jbrrams, r., to lay the cloth^ begins his work, at first not seeing the Ma- jor behind the “ Times, ’ hut seeing him, pauses. Jer. a party ! { 'pauses and works round so as to get a survey) not much of a party, to judge by his hoots ! {ind>Mjust at the Major’s seediness) Sir ! (Major continues to read) Sir ! {same bus ness : very loud) Sir ! Major {looking over the paper). Sir, to you ! {resumes his reading)) Jer. Was you aware, sir. tliis were a private room'? Major. Well, .James '? {mildly.) • . Jer. Which my name is not James, sir. It is hoccupied by two gents. Major. Pardon me, John. Jer. Which my name is not John, neither, sir. Major. Not John either 1 Is it possible ! Jer. Which my name is Jerrams, sir. Major. Oh, thank you. Then allow me to remark, Jerrams, that this room is occupied, not by two gents, Jerrams, but by one gent, Jerrams, that’s you, and one gentleman, that’s me. {resumes paper)) Jer. ’Ang his himpidence ! I tell you, sir, this apartment is took, and nobody but the party as belongs to it has any business here, {lays cloth.) Major. Then what are you laying the cloth for, Jerrams '? Jer. What for '? ’Cos it’s my business. Major. Yet you say nobody but the party as belongs to the room has any business in it. You are not the party as belongs to the room, ergo you have no business in it, ergo you had better go. That’s a syllogism, Jerrams. Jer. Sillygism or not, sir, I ’ave to beg you’ll walk out o’ this. Major. Out of this, Jerrams ! Out of what 1 Jer. Out of this private sitting-room, sir, which its engaged by Mr. Henry Dunbar, the great banker that’s just come from Indy by this day’s P. and 0. boat, worth a million o’ money, they say, if he’s worth a penny, and his friend. Major {aside). That’s Joe ! So, so. He has hooked something like a fish — a million pounder ! {to Jerrams) I’m quite aware of the fact, Jer- rams. I’m a friend of Mr. Dunbar’s, once removed, that is. I’m his friend’s friend ; our friend’s friends should be our friends, so I have called to make his acquaintance — (Jerrams looks at him curiously) and if by that inquiring look you mean to ask me if I’ll take anything before dinner in the way of a pick-up, Jerrams, you may bring me a pint of pale sherry and a biscuit, and put it down to our friend Dunbar. Jer. {aside). Well, he is a cool hand ! Pint o’ sherry indeed ! Major. Dry, Jerrams, mind ; and while you are about it, you may as >vell devil that biscuit. Jer. Oh, he’s too many for me, by a long chalk ! I’ll send master. [Exit Jerrams, r. Major {looking about him). Our friend Dunbar’s traps, I see, all tip-top. {takes a dispatch box) Bramah lock ! {tries it in his hand) looks like money, and feels heavy. Tempting — hut honor, major ! You are under the roof of a friend, and if I know yo i, you are not the man to violate its sanc- tuary. Enter Jerrams, r. 1 e. Jer. I beg your pardon, sir, but was you the major h Major. That is my military, rank, Jerrams ; I go by the name among my intimates. JlCT I. 11 Jer. Then there's one of your intimates in the bar inquirin’ partickler alter you. Major. Indeed ! Did he give a name I {tmeasily.) Jer. Which I think I ’eard master call ’im Carter. Major. Harry Carter {aside) the detective! Scotland Yard, by jingo ! Did you say I was here 1 Jer. Yes, s'r. Shall 1 ask him to walk up I Major. Oh, no, I won’t put him to the trouble of coming to me, I’ll go down to him : tell him so, Jerrams. {looking about the room.) Jer. Y"es, sir. Jerrams, R. Major. A back staircase! I’ll bolt, {going., L., — Tibbs appears at the door, L.) Tibbs. No, you don’t, Major. Major. Carter’s mate ! (Carter appears at the door, r.) Carter. And Carter ! {slips the handcuffs on, as he speaks') How are you, Major 7 Major. Dropped a top of! Well, I came down for the races ; but I’d no notion of winning a couple of darbies, {looking at handcuffs) You might have let me get through the week, Han y. Think of my engage- ments. Carter. Y'ou must tell ’em you’d a previous engagement with me How are they 7 {in aUusion to hand-cuffs) Comfortable 7 Major. Tightish, {sighs) but, in this world, one mustn’t be particular. Carter (Jeels them), T thought I’d got your size. Major. Oh, they’ll do very well. I say, what am I wanted for, Har- ry1 Cartek. That Cheapside job — old Abram’s you know. Major. What, the jeweller 7 {radiant) My dear fellow, it’s a mistake That was Scotch Bob and the Yokel. I wasn’t in it at all. Carter {smding). All the better for you. Of course, you’ve your alibi all square 7 {puts his finger to his nose,) Major. I wasn’t, Harry, upon my honor ! Y^ou know I'm not the man to deceive you. Carter. I don’t think you are. Major — ^not if I know it. However, if you ain’t in it, nothing can come out of it. But I say. Major, I want your pal — Wentworth, alias Wilmot, you know 7 Major {dryly). Oh, do you though 7 Carter. I thought I was dead on him at Southampton, but he’s dou- bled on us. If you could give me the office, I’d make it worth your while. Major {with dignity). Mr. Carter, I thought you had known me better. Might I trouble you {to Tibbs) to take out my handkerchief and wipe away a tear, {to Carter) Mr. Carter, you have wounded my belief in my fellow creatures ! Carter. By the way, Major, they only allow second class fares. If you would prefer first, and like to pay the difference. Major. Thank you. Harry, I am sensible of the delicate attention. Might I trouble you {to Tibbs) to pull down my cuffs 7 Now then ! {aside) Joe ought to be much obliged to me. • Carter. I say, though, couldn’t we square it about your pal 7 Major. Henry, don’t oblige me to be personal. Enter Jerrams, r., excited. Jer. Here’s Mr. Dunbar. Was vou a-going, sir 7 What shall I say to your friend 1 Major. Tell him not to wait dinner for me, Jerrams. Carter. Say the Major is going to spend the evening with me. { Ex * U. OF V.X. LH 12 HENKT DUNBAR. eunt Major and followed by Tibbs, k — Jerrams, after a rapid ex^ ecution of the usual waiter's manceuvres at the table ^ th rotes open the c. door — two under-waiters enter with lighted candles, bowing very low, and retiring, after ushering in Wentworth disguised as Henry Dunbar — he takes off hs wrap- per, goes toll s travelling -bag, Jer. Would 3’ou wish dinner to be served, sir 1 You ordered it at seven, it’s getting on for half-past. Dunbar. Thank you, I’ll wait for my companion. He’s only gone as far as St. Cross, with a message from me to my old schoolfellow, Strat- ton. J ER. Beg pardon, sir, but was it Mr. Stratton, of the Hollies, sir % Dunbar. Yes. Jer. Mr. Stratton has been dead this ten years, sir. Dunbar. Dead ! dear me ! {sighs') and who lives at the Hollies now 1 Jer. His widder, sir. Dunbar. No doubt she's keeping Wiimot for an answer to my note. Dead, eh I Well, we old Indians must expect that sort of thing. Jer. Yes, sir, people will drop otf, sir, as the saying is, sir. Would 3"ou ’ave up the soup, sir I Dunbar. No, I won’t sit down till Mr. Wiimot returns. We’re to dine together, and I’ve a great deal to talk over with him. Jer. Naturally, sir — an old friend, I ’spose, sir I Dunbar. Yes, though a humble one. We were boys together, and more like friends than master and servant. Jer. Servant ! bless me, sir, who’d ha’ thought it, sir, to ’ear you and him talking so free together this morning ! Dunbar. Oh, our old feeling came back directly I found him on the pier ready to receive me. No, I won’t sit down without Wiimot. Wheel this chair and table near the lire — so ; give me my writing-case — yonder. (Jerrams obeys orders) Serve dinner the moment Mr. Wiimot arrives. {tries to open his dispatch box, hut bungles at the key which hangs with others at his watch chiin. {exit Jerrams, c.) passes his handover his brow, looks at him- self in glass, sighs, hut by an effort regains h^s self-possession, opens desk, and looks at papers, takes out packet endorsed) Now for it ! my daughter’s letters — her portrait, too. {looks at it, puts it aside) Poor girl — poor girl ! {takes out other packets) Letters from my partners ! — abstract of bank returns — memoranda as to investments, {gets out hook) Diary — Ah, that’s precious. {lays it aside) Balderby’s last letter, announcing that Sampson Wiimot — , yes, that’s Joseph Wilmot’s brother, the old man who had the lit on the road — the only man in or about the house who knows my face would be at Southampton to receive me. His brother came instead ; a far more available man than poor old Sampson ! More letters ! I shall have a hard night’s work, but I don’t care for sleeping in a railway carriage. I don’t feel much like sleep anywhere. Enter Jerrams, c. Jer. If you please, sir, it’s getting on for eight, sir, and I beg your pardon, sir, but missus is a good deal worrited about the soup, sir. Dunbar. Never mind the soup. Jer. No, sir, certainly not, sir, but you see, sir, you being from India, sir, and missus so proud of her receipt for Mulligatawny, sir, which she had it from a native, I ve understood lier, that come over ’ere as a prince, sir, but turned out on’y a ship’s cook, sir, and run up a ’eavy bill, sir, and nothing for it but that receipt. Dunbar. Tell her I never take soup. Jer. No, sir, in course not, sir — dear me, sir, don’t you, sir ! that will ACT ir. 13 be a very great disappointment to missus, sir. Wliat wine would you be pleased to order, sir 1 Here s the wine carte, sir. (gives it) Our French wine’s generally approved, and there’s a very particular forty sherry, sir. Dunbar. Chablis with the fish, Clos Vouglot with the removes; set it near the fire for five minutes, and put some Champagne in ice. Jer. Yes, sir, certainly, sir. Dunbar (rising and walking iif and down). Really, this is rather cool treatment of Wilmot’s. An hour about a mile walk ! It can’t be more than a mile 'I Jer. No, sir, I should say not, sir — I beg your pardon, sir, but from what to which Dunbar. From where I left him, the second field past the cathedral. Jer. Not a mile from there to the Hollies, sir. It’s just through Hag Bottom, sir, that’s the wood in the next field, sir. Dunbar. I know ; I left him on this side of it. The road’s perfectly safe, I suppose I Jer. Oh, dear, yes, sir, safe as the bank, sir. That is, to be sure, there’s the hoppers beginning to be about, and they're a roiighish lot, you know, sir — Irish, a good many on ’em, and I can’t abear Irish. Dunbar. Besides, it was broad daylight, (sits) No, I’ve no doubt Wil- mot has found snug quarters at the Hollies, and is talking over me and my affairs with my old schoolfellow s widow. Long as I’ve known Wil- mot, and much as I value him, he’s an inveterate gossip ! Jer. Yes, sir, he did seem a pleasant, cheerful party, sir. (murmurs heard wi hout) Perhaps I’d better go and order the wine, sir. (he goes to c. doors^ as he opens them^ a murmur is heard.) Dunbar. What’s that ? eh I (in alarm.) Jer. a crowd in the ’all, sir. They’ve got something under a sheet Dunbar. Eh I ^ Jer. On a shutter ! (shrinking hacJc.) Dunbar (fiercely and loudly). Do you mean to give me my death of cold, sir, with that open door 1 Jer. (staring open-mmdhed). They’re a lifting the sheet off! Gracious me ! it’s a corpse, sir ! They’re a bringing it up here ! Crowd appear in corridor. Dunbar. Here — how dare they — what’s this I (goes up to the Crowd, which opens to give him a sight of what they are carrying) Joseph Wilmot 1 Dead ! (Tableau and END OF ACT FIRST. ACT II. SCENE FIRST . — The drawing room in Mr. Dunbar s House in Portland Place luxuriously furnished. Laura Dunbar at a tripod tea-table^ r. c., pre^ sided over by Mary, doors r. l. and c. ^ Mary. Please, Miss Laura, you miTst take something ! Laura. How can I eat if I have no appetite, you stupid girl, and how can I have an appetite if I’m unhappy I Mary. Unhappy 1 You miss 1 Laura (throwing herself back m her chair). Oh, if you knew, Mary ! Mary. You, that aunt says used to be as blithe as a bird, and as merry as a cricket, she says. 14 UENKY DUNBAR. Laura. Ah, that wa.s while I was looking forward to papa’s coming back. ■ , Mary. Well, miss, and now he has come back. Laura. That’s it ! He doesn’t love me. (Mary makes a sign of dissent) Oh, you may shake your head, Mary, and say stuff and nonsense to your- self, but I know ! {she sobs and buries her face in her handkerchief,) Mary. Now just you take a cup of tea, Miss Laura, and swallow all I them vapors with it. Laura {vehemently). It is true, Mary, too true ! Oh, I could be so much to him, and 1 am nothing. Mary. Oh, please, miss, aunt says you mustn’t take on as if fathers with banks and businesses had nothing to do but love their daughters. She says you must make allowances for India. It’s so hot there, people comes to value coolness above everything, and ices their heartsJike their liquors. And then, she says, you must allow for your pa’s liver. Enter Servant, c., announcing. Servant. Mr. Lovell ! Laura {jumpping up), Arthur ! {Joyously.) Mary. That’s the first time you’ve sounded happy since we came from Warwickshire. Enter Arthur Lovell, c. Lovell. Ah, Miss Dunbar, {takes her hand warmly,) Mary. Please, miss, hadn’t I better look out your new bonnet for your drive, {aside to liOv^hh) Don’t you be dashed, Mr. Arthur. [Exit Mary, l. Laura {who has been making Lovell a cup of tea). And when did you come back from Warwickshire ? and how did you leave all my pets at the Abbey — the golden pheasants, and dear old Pluto, and my dar- ling Lily I Lovell. All well. Oh, what would I give to see you on Lily again ! Laura. Oh yes, shan't we have delightful long rides together, this year I Lovell {sighs), I’m afraid not. Laura {looks inquiringly)^ Lovell. I’m going away. Laura. Going away I Lovell. To India 1 Laura. Going to India I Lovell. Lord Harristown has offered me an Indian appointment — I mean to accept it. Laura. I shall feel very lonely when you are gone, {rises) I shall have nobody to care for me much, {crosses to l.) Lovell. You will have your father. Laura {bursting out). Oh, Arthur, if you only knew — I meant to hide it from you — from everybody — but I can’t, he does not love me. Enter Dunbar, r. Lovell {vehemently). Not love you ! Oh, who can know you and not love you I Give me one sweet hope to cheer me in my exile that you return my love. Laura {gives him her hand). I do love you, Arthuj, deeply, truly. JLCX II. 15 Henry Dunbar coma fonoard, they starts and stand confused. Dunbar. Leave us, Laura, for a little, {she looks wistfully at her father 04 if expecting a caress, but receiving none.') Laura {goes into hcf' boudoir). Is lie angry 1 [Ex t, l. 1 e. Dunbar. I guessed rightly then, Mr. Lovell 1 Lovell. Yes, sir. I love her, as truly ever man loved the woman of his choice, bmt [he pauses.) Dunbar. She is the daughter of a man reputed very rich, and you fear her father may disapprove of your pretensions. Eh I “ Faint heart never won fair lady!” (Lovell looks surprised) You are young, with a head on your shoulders, fair prospects, everybody’s good word ; India has taught me to value men for what they are — you have my good will, there’s my hand on it. {rises.) Lovell. Oh sir, you put my dream within my reach ! May I tell her 1 Dunbar. I see no objection. But mind you treasure her love : it is a precious, a holy thing — the pure love of a woman. I, who know so well what a daughter’s love is, have the best right to say so. Lovell. And yet Laura is miserable under the idea that you do not love her. If she could have heard you just now ! Dunbar. It’s not every man who can afford to wear his heart on hii^ sleeve, like you young Adams and Eves of Fool’s Paradise. Yes, you can tell her, and the sooner the knot’.'’, tied the better. I shall be glad to entrust her to a younger, a better protector. The climate and life here, I find, won’t do after India. I’m hipped and half hypochondriac already. Lovell. You do look worn and anxious. Dunbar. All the climate ; I shall have to try the continent, I foresee. {aside — as if struck by a sudden thought) Ha, yes, the very thing ! {to Lov- ell) I must see you married before I go. I dislike lawyer’s jargon. I shall give Laura a handsome sum, make you a good allowance, and as I’ve an old Indian’s love of gewgaws, she shall have the handsomest dia- mond necklace ever seen in St. George’s. I’ll arrange for that myself. Lovell. Then, with your leave, sir, after I ve seen Laura I’ll driv# straight to Doctor’s Commons. Dunbar. Good, and leave this {pencils on a card) for me in Hatton Gar- den en route. It’s for our biggest diamond-wallah, giving him an appoint- ment with me to-day in the city, {aside) The very motive I wanted 1 [Exit, R. Lovell. Now for my little darling ! I’m the happiest man in Eng- land, and Dunbar’s a trump, an ace of trumps, the paragon of all possi- ble fathers-in-law ! [Exit into Laura’s boudoir, l. 1. e. Enter Margaret Wentworth, in deep mourning, ushered in by a servant, c. Servant. What name. Miss 1 Marg. Miss Margaret Wentworth ! {gives eard) Mr. Dunbar may not know the name, say it is Miss Laura's music mistress. (Servant is going, R., but hearing bell, l. 1 e., turns and exits, l.) Yes, he refused to see me at Winchester under my own name of Margaret Wilmot ; slunk away, be- hind a false promise, like a coward as he is. At last I shall confront him. And now the terrible truth will look out of my eyes, will speak through my lips, till he cowers before me, a self- convicted man 1 He could brave the inquest, the purblind jury, the partial and prejudiced magistrates ! “What possible motive?” motive! Oh, had I been there I could have told them the secret of Henry Dunbar’s youthful dishonor, forgotten by all but my father, the man he had destroyed. He shall know that secret did not die with him — that I inherit it. 16 HENEY DUNBA.E. Enter Lauua, l. Marg. Laura! Laura. Oh, Margaret darling I {runs up and kisses her.) Marg. Laura, you here ! I had no notion you were in town. I thought you were in Warwickshire or I shouldn’t have come. Laura. I’m so delighted to see you. I intercepted your card. To think of your having business with papa 1 What is it I Marg. I cannot tell you. Laura. Oh, ho, a secret! But what’s the matter 1 You’re in deep mourning! Marg. {Umis away). I have lost my father since I saw you. Laura. My poor Margaret — and I was thinking only of my own hap- piness ! Marg. Never mind me ; tell me of that, dear. Laura. Arthur Lovell has i)roposed and been accepted by papa. Marg. I congratulate you ; and from my heart I wish you happy. Laura. I wanted cheering up so much ! Papa was so cold and stern. He seemed always to have some dark thought on his mind. Marg. Yes, yes. Laura. But it seems he was very fond of me all the while. He has been speaking to Arthur so feelingly, he says, about the blessing of a daughter’s love. Marg. {with a wild little cry). Oh, I cannot bear this ! Laura. Forgive me, I did not think of your loss : it’s so hard not to be selfish, when one’s so happy. Marg. {aside). And I must destroy all this happiness, and so horribly ! Not now, not while she is here, {to Laura) On second thoughts, dear, give me back my card, I will not see your father. Laura. Oh, but you can’t help yourself now, your card has gone in. Marg. Not here, at least — not before you. Laura. In that room {pointing l.) you will be quite alone. Marg. There is no escape ! {aside) Heaven ! guide me aright ! Fa- ther, he had no mercy upon you ! [Exit into Laura’s boudoir^ l. Laura {runs joyously across to r. door, and calls) Papa, papa ! Dunbar {frmn ivithin). You are alone, Laura I , Laura. Yes, papa, quite. Enter Henry Dunbar, r., evidently agitated, Margarefs card in his hand. Dunbar. Mar — the young person who sent in this card, where is she I Laura. In my boudoir — waiting to see you. Yes, you needn’t stare, she’s my dear friend, Margaret Wentworth. Dunbar. Your friend ! Laura. Yes, she used to give me music lessons. She’s the dearest creature. (Dunbar turns away) But she has lately lost her fathe’-. Dunbar. What do you mean by all this I {fiercely) As if didn’t know enough — too much about her. Laura. What do you know 1 Dunbar. That she’s the daughter of that poor wretch, Wilmot ; the man — the man Laura. Who received you at Southampton and was so cruelly mur- dered ! Dunbar. Girl, how dare you 1 Don’t you know I can’t bear to think of it, to hear of it, that it well nigh crazes me to look back 7 Laura. I beg your pardon, papa, but her name is Wentworth. Dunbar. One of Wilmot’s many aliases, he told me so. I cannot see her. ACT 11. 17 Laura. Not see her, papa ? Dunbar. No, the sight of her would shake me too much. I should liave to live that miserable week over again. I tell you, child, I could not answer for the consequences. Laura. Must I tell her 1 Dunbar. Tell her what you will, so that she goes, now and forever. * More than this your acquaintance with her must end. Laura. Oh, papa, I love her so — she is so fond of me 1 Dunbar. Slie is not a proper acquaintance for you. Her father was a dishonored man, an outcast, who knows what she may be. {checking himself) No, no, Heaven help me! I know nothing but good of her! Would I could say as much of her miserable father, (he turns away.) Laura. How am I to give her such a message % Dunbar. Your love will find j^ou words, words that will spare her pain — tell her that I will never see her ; that she must cease to seek it — that I will make her an allowance of two liundred pounds a-year. Here is the first fifty i30unds : make her take it : poor girl, I owe it to her, Heaven knows, though he was not much of a father to her. Laura. Yet she loved him so dearly. Dunbar. As if I did not know that ! {impetuously) Go to her, I say, get her away, let me never hear of her again ! [Exit R., in a state of strong excitement. Laura. Pale, quite pale, and scared ! 1 have never seen him look so before, {at door h.) Margaret ’ Enter Margaret Wentworth, l. u. e. M AUG. {eagerly). Weill Laura. I’m so sorry, dear, papa refuses to see you. Marg. Then he knows who I am — Margaret Wilmot'? Laura. Yes, he cannot bear the shock. Marg. I understand. Laura. He fears to call up the horrors of that week again. Marg. He may well fear ! Laura. And — and — he says our acquaintance must end too ! Marg. Better it should, oh, so much better ! Good-bye, ray darling. Laura {embraces her passionately). Oh, Margaret ! It breaks my heart to leave you, in your unhappiness, too. Marg. It is not your fault, {aside — going) I will bide my time. Laura. Stay, darling, he told me to give you this, {gives envelope with note) You will receive the same every quarter. Marg. {tearing up and throwing down the envelope) I would sooner crawl from door to door begging my bread of the hardest stranger in this cruel world — I would sooner die of starvation, pulse by pulse, and limb by limb — than I would accept help from his hands ! Laura. Margaret ! Why, why is this ? Marg. I cannot tell you, Laura. May you never know ! Now, for the last time, good-bye, and Heaven bless you ! Laura {sadly). Stay a moment, I will tell my father, {going r,. turns) Oh, Margaret ! (Margaret signals her in, passionately.) [Exit Laura, r. Marg. Another broken, of the few ties that linked my life with love ! But he shall not escape me. I will dog his steps — I will haunt his go- ings-out and his comings-in, but I will see him, and he shall see me, if I wait till I drop down dead ! {going, c.) 18 HENKY DUNBAH. Mnter Clement Austin, c., with papers in his hand, Clem. You here, Margaret! {takes her hand affectionately) Ah, I little an- ticipated the pleasure of this meeting. It is so many weary days since we met. ^ Marg. That was by my own wish, Clement, I can wrestle best with my sorrow single-handed. But you know this man, or you would not be here 1 Clem. Know him, Margaret ? Scarcely ; but I’m chief cashier in the great house he is senior partner in. Look, {shows paper^ I am bringing him this abstract of accounts, as a preparation for his first visit -to the house this afternoon. Marg. {eagerly). Clement, you must take me there. Clem. To the City, darling 'I Marg. Where he will be. You must put me where I can see and speak with him — alone, if possible ! Clem. Margaret ! what have you to do with this man ? Marg. Henry Dunbar owes my father an awful debt. I want to re- mind him of that debt : to claim, not restitution — Heaven help me and him, it is too late for that — but reparation ! Clem. Why not let me urge your claim upon him ? Marg. Nobody can speak to him as I can. Question me no more, Cle- ment. Will you do this for me, for the sake of our love '1 Clem. I will. I know you would ask nothing it would be wrong of me to do. Marg. My own noble Clement 1 _ [Exeunt Clement, k., Margaret, l. SCENE SECOND. — Waiting-room in the Bank of Dunhar^ Dunbar and Bal- derhy. Snter Mr. Balderby, r., rubbing the sleeves of his coat, and the knees of his trousers, the Major following in the act of apology. Major. I’m immeasurably grieved ! Allow me, my dear sir. {assisting him to remove the dirt.) Bald. No morei-apologies, sir, you knocked me down, you’ve picked me up again, you say you didn’t mean it, there’s an end of the matter. Major. Excuse me, sir, there is not an end of the matter. There’s my self-reproach. Major — I shall have to say to myself for some time to come — Major, you’re an ass ! Major, you’re a moon-calf ! Bald. Pooh, pooh, sir ! I’m not hurt : a brush and a basin will do all that’s necessary — so good morning. Major. Good morning ! By the way, I should like to know the name of my preserver — that is the gentleman I’ve had the misfortune (Bal- derby g ves card) Balderby ! Mister Balderby of the Great Indian House of Dunbar, Dunbar and Balderby ! My name is Vernon, Major Vernon ; I’ve the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with Mr. Dunbar, and was com- ing here to improve it. Bald. Ah, made in India, I suppose 7 Major. Exactly, in India, up country ; I’ve been knocked about in most quarters of the globe. Then we had a mutual acquaintance, that poor fellow Wilmot Bald. What, Joseph Wilmot, the man who Major. Exactly ! melancholy case. May I ask if Mr. Dunbar is in the house at present ! Bald. He’s expected every minute. ACT ir. .10 Majok {aside). If I could draw liim of a fiver — a post obit on poor Joe’s account I {to Baldekby) I should like to see him, to talk over our old Indian reminiscences. Bald, {aside): Free and easy — looks shabby — dare say Dunbar has known some queer customers in India. If you’ll send in your name to Mr. Dunbar, Major Miter Hartogg, l. Ah, Mr. Hartogg I Our first diamond merchant, Major I (they bmv.) Major {aside). A diamond merchant ! My heart warms to him, and hands too. {breathes on his Jingers, while he speaks Balderby and Hartogg talk apart.) Bald. What ! you don’t mean that Mr. Dunbar has begun buying dia- monds already ? Hart. Means to give his daughter the finest thing in brilliants ever made up, so he has sent for me, and samples of my best stones. Bald, {shrugs his shouldey's). Well, if he likes to make ducks and drakes of his money ! Hart. Would you like to see the stones, Mr. B. ? {getting out diamond paper from sandwich box ^ fastened round his waist by chain) There’s beauties, single and double cut ! Bald. No, no ; Ive no taste for such trumpery, if Dunbar has. I'll send you word when he comes. \Exit Balderby, l. Hart. Trumpery ! Call stones like these “ trumpery,” Major 'i Major. A narrow-minded man, sir ! Only understands money in the rough, /know something about stones, I flatter myself j if you would permit me to glance at them. (Hartogg opens paper ^ Hart. There, I think you’ll own these specimen brilliants are stunners; they’ll eat into about three hundred a piece ! Major {taking the paper). Beautiful, beautiful ! No objection to my flashing ’em a little, eh? {flashes diamonds in paper) A perfect feast of iri- discence ! {as Hartogg / oz/s up the other paper ^ the Major, stdl pretending to look at the stones^ is about to palm one.) Enter Carter, r. Carter. Mind, Major ! Your cuff’s so wide one of ’em might slip up. {taking stones from him, folds paper and gives it back to Hartogg') Best put ’em up, Mr. Hartogg, they’re ticklish things to handle. Major {aside). Confound his interference — it’s unhandsome ! | Hart. I little expected to see you here, Mr. Carter. Carter. The Major here is an old friend of mine. I saw him come in with Mr. Balderby, and could not resist the temptation of shaking hands. Major {aside to him, severely). None of your chaff, sir. Hart, {looking off, l.). Well, I’m off to the parlor, here’s the Governor. Major {shows agitation]. Where? {looking off, l., starts) That! By George ! I Carter {looks sharp at him). You've seen him before ? Major. Yes, in India ; you know I stopped there on my way home from Carter. Australia, eh 1 {looking significantly at him.) Major. Exactly,' when I came home as subaltern in charge of invalids. Carter {aside to him). You are a cool hand, Major. Major {aside to Carter). If you tpust spoil sport, Harry, you needn’t take aw^ay a fellow’s character^ 20 HENRY DUNBA.R. Enter Messenger, l. ' Messen. Mr. Dunbar will see Mr. Hartogg. [Exit Hartogg. Major {writing on card in pencil). Take in my card, Major Vavasour ! [Exit Messenger, l. Carter. Hallo, Major, another alias ? Major. You drive me to it, Harry ; you’ve no respect for the feelings of a fellow’s godfathers and godmothers. Carter. I was just in time ; another minute and you would have ramped one of those sparklers, you know you would. Major. Your remark is jjersonal, Mr. Carter. You nobbled me at Winchester on an unfounded charge ; you ought to be ashamed of your- self. Luckily I did prove my alibi tlien^ to the satisfaction of a jury of my countrymen ; but if I’m to have you always at my heels, I might as well be in quod at once ; so good morning, Mr. Carter. [Exit Major, l. Carter. No you don’t, Major ; I don’t lose, sight of you so easily ; with money and blank checks about, and diamonds handy — who knows — you might be tempted. " [Exit Carter, l. SCENE THIRD. — The Bank Parlor ^ glass doors with curtains over them, c. ; doors first and second, l. and R. ; window with hlinds — Dunbar at table, with Hartogg, who is refoldhig his papers, Balderby with his hack to the fire. Dunbar. Then we understand each other. By Thursday you will bring me the diamonds” unset, to the tune of from seventy to eighty thousand pounds. You see I want an investment as well as an orna- ment, Mr. Hartogg. Hartogg. And white stuff like that is rising twenty per cent, every year — I’m proud of the order, sir, and I’ll do justice to it. [Exit Hartogg, l. Balderby comes forward and sits at table, c. Bald. Now we can go into business. I only got your letter from Warwickshire on Saturday. Luckily every thing was ready, so if you’d like to look at the books Dunbar. No, Mr. Balderby, I'm quite content to remain a sleeping partner : the house will get on quite as well without me. My business to-day is purely personal. I’m a rich man, but I don’t know exactly how rich, and I want to realize a large amount of read}^ money. (Balderby boivs) There are the settlements for my daughter’s marriage with Arthur Lovell, and their allowance and this gew-gaw. I mean to do things handsomely. I’m not a demonstrative man, Mr. Balderby, but I love my daughter, (passes his handkerchief over his face.) Bald. No doubt of that, Mr. Dunbar. Dunbar. My father’s account has been transferred to my name, I think I Bald. Last September, {rises and rings) If you’d like to see the^state of it : it’s all ready. Enter Messenger, c. Send Mr. Austin with Mr. Dunbar's account. [Exit Messenger, c. Mr. Austin is an invaluable cashier. ACT II. 21 Enter Austin with b.oks^ Dunbar bows to him, c. — He places the book before him open at a mark — Dunbar rims his finger down to the total. Dunbar. £137,926 17s. 2d. How is this money invested 1 Clem. £50,000 in India stock, about £20,000 in railway debentures, most of the rest in Exchequer Bills. Dunbar. They can be realized at once. Bald. Rather a large amount to draw out of the business ; (^rubbing his hands cheerfully') but I hope we can afford it. Dunbar. You will hold yourself ready to cash some heavy checks of mine in the course of the week, {rising.) Bald. Certainly, Mr. Dunbar. Is that all I Dunbar. All at present. Bald. Then I’ll bid you good morning, {aside) Short but sharp and to the point. Quite like business. Exit Balderby, c., Austin takes books and is following, Dunbar. Stay, Mr. Austin. (Austin down books and pauses, listening respectfully^ I want to arrange about an annual payment — not my own account. Perhaps you will have no objection to letting the money pass through you. Clem. None whatever, sir, if you will let me know the amount and the person. Dunbar. Two hundred pounds, to be paid quarterly to Miss Margaret Wilmot. Clem. Margaret Wilmot ! Dunbar. Or Wentworth, the daughter of my old servant. He may be said to have died in my service, besides, I owed him some compensation for an early and involuntary injury. Clem. I know, sir. Dunbar. You know I You know my early relations with that man — from whom ! Clem. From his daughter herself ! I told her I was sure you would acknowledge her claims on you. Dunbar. You only did me justice. You know her well then ? Clem. Very well, sir. I am deeply interested in her. We are engaged, sir. Dunbar. Engaged ! I am glad of it from my heart — I congratulate you. You have found a treasure. Clem. How little she dreams that you appreciate her so truly^ Dunbar. I do. Heaven knows I do ! Let her know it. Clem. She thinks you hate her. Dunbar. Hate her ! Clem. At least that you avoid her in a way only to be explained by hate or fear. Dunbar. She is wrong, very wrong. I don’t wish to see her, you can understand that. But I mean well by her, and I shall be a happier man to know her happy. Look here, Mr. Austin, the management of our In- dian Branch is vacant, what do you say to taking it I Clem. Sir ! I never dreamed of having such a chance. Dunbar. You would take her with you. Clem. I fear she would refuse, she has set her heart on discovering her father’s murderer. Dunbar. So I’ve heard, but she must not waste her life on fruitless quest j at least, let her know of this offer, and assure her, do assure her, HENRY DUNBAR. she has a friend in me. Promise me to satisfy her of that — promise me. I shall not be easy till I know you have succeeded. Clem, {going). I will do my best and let you know the result, (^going — aside) He means what he says, and yet this morbid unwillingness to meet her face to face ! [Exit c. Enter Messenger, c. Messen. Mr. Carter ! Dunbar. Carter ? Messen. The famous detective, sir. The house has often employed him in forgery cases, sir Dunbar. Show him in. — {Exit Messenger.) — I cannot bear this much longer. Enter Carter, c. You wished to see me, M 'arter? Sit down. Carter. Thank you, Mi. Dunbar. It’s about that man that was mur- dered at Winchester — W ilmot Dunbar. Am I never to hear anything but that name. I beg your par- don. Go on, what of him 1 Carter. I was thinking of going down to the spot myself, and I thought perhaps you might like to meet me there. You see the County Constabulary is a slow lot, and in spite of your £100 and her Majesty’s £100, the job seems to hang tire. Dunbar. It would be very painful — still if I could get away from busi- ness — but you see there’s so much to do after my long absence in India. Carter. Naturally, sir. B unbar. Don’t start without seeing me. Meantime if you want an ad- vance for preliminary expenses Carter. Well, these things does walk into money. If you like to stand a tenner or two. Dunbar. Take this, {gives notes) And if you require more, command my purse, Mr. Carter. Carter. You cant say fairer than that, sir, can youl {putting up notes) You see I’m rather sweet on the job. It ain’t so much the reward, though two hundred pounds ain't to be sneezed at, nor the man himself — he was a bad lot — but it’s his daughter, as nice, pretty-looking, hard- working a girl as you’d wish to see, sir ; she’s set her heart on spotting the parties — finding on ’em out, that is. Dunbar. What is her idea 1 Carter. If you’ll not mind my mentioning it, sir — in course there’s nothing in it — but she've the idea you had a hand in it. {half laughing .) Dunbar. I ! Monstrous ! And she accuses me } Carter. Ah ! it ain’t agreeable to have that sort of thing entered in the charge-sheet agin one, is it, sir 1 ‘‘But where’s the motive 1” I says to her: “My father’s knowledge of his secret she says to me: “Non* sense,” I says to her, “ Mr. Dunbar’s got money enough to buy all the se- crets that ever was kept : secrets is like other articles,” I says, “ they’re only kep’ to sell.” Well, I’ll let you know, before I start. Good morn- ing, sir. tExit Carter, c. Enter Messenger c.^ with card — Henry Dunbar’s hach is to c. door. Messen. {giving card). Major Vavasour. Dunbar I cannot see strangers — {ciiter the Major quietly, c.) say I’m engaged. (Messenger tu7'ns to go, sees the Major, and exits a^omshed.) Major {coming forward). Don’t say so, Mr. Dunbar. Don’t cold shoul- ACT II. 23 der an old friend, who has had rather too much cold shoulder lately, and is anxious to return to hot joints. (Henry Dunbar 7'ises^ and fixes his eye upon him — an inward struggle — he drinks a glass of water ^ and remains stand- ing and sile^it) I see you icraember me. Dunbar. Stephen Vallance. Major. Excuse ne, didn’t you get that card ? Vavasour — Major Va- vasour ; my friends at the corner — Field Lane Corner, I mean — gave me my military rank, and I treated myself to the family addition. If one in- sisted on calling people by their true names, (significantly) who knows what it might come to. But I see you don’t mean to cut me. Dunbar. I never disown an old acquaintance. What do you want I Major. Well, not to put too fine a point on it, most of the things you’ve got — a good coat on my back, a quiet trap, a recherche dinner with a bottle of sound claret to it, and above all, a handsome balance at my banker’s. Dunbar {sighing ^'draws check-book to him). How much I Major. Well, as you are kind enough to propose a check, make it a thumper. Dunbar. You shall not find me stingy. Major. No, there always was something princely about you ; suppose we say a couple of thou Dunbar. Two thousand pounds ! at once ! Major. Yes it seems a lump of money, especially when there’s only two hundred pounds offered for the discovery of a murder ; but you see I’ve an investment or two in my eye— and then, (surveying himself) what the builders call “ general repairs ” come expensive. (Dunbar gives him check — the Major examines it carefully) To bearer — that’s right. But I "say, Mr. Dunbar, honor bright, you mean business Dunbar. I should think that check a pretty good proof of it. Major. A splendid beginning, but it’s not to be beginning, middle, and end, is it I You aint a-going to come the gentle bolt — an early mizzle across the Herring-pond, eh, friend of my soul I Dunbar. Why should I run away 1 Major. Just what I say ! Why should a man cut landed estates, fine houses, half a million of money, and attached friends who knew him in earlier days I Still, I’ve seen a thing or two— that little diamond game, you know, (signijica^itly) If this attached friend’s re-appearance has any- thing to do with such an idea — dismiss it. Dunbar. You may make your mind as easy about any probability of my bolting as I do about any chance of danger from you. Major. Oh, you’re not afraid of me, then 1 Dunbar. You’re no fool, and you know the story of the Goose with the Golden Eggs ! No, Vallance — Vavasour, I mean — I’m not afraid of you. Major. Well, you know best. Now to cast my chrysalis, and emerge the gilded butterfly of the summer hour, (takes his hand) How cold your hand is. Re-action from India, I suppose — ta, ta, au 7'eservoi7\ as we say in the classics ! \Exit^ c. Dunbar. There must be an end of this or an end of me ! Another sword hanging over my head ! As if she was not enough ! I must have Austin’s decision, (going — opens c. door^ but starts back and closes it hastily) Ha ! she is there, in close conversation with Austin ! She didn’t see me ! (rmgs.) Enter Messenger, c. Send Mr. Austin to me. By the way, is there no way in and out of this room without facing the draught of that passage I 24 HENKY EUNBAK. Messbn. There’s the private door, sir, {pointing to mor, r.) leadiiit^ through the yard into Botolph’s Lane. [Exit Messenger, c. ” Dunbar. That is my road. Who can have brought her here 7 Does Austin share her suspicion '? Enter Clement Austin, c. — Dunbar takes care to station himself so as not to be seen from the passage when c. door opens, Clem. I have seen Miss Wentworth. Dunbar. I know you have, {sternly) Was it you who brought her here, who stationed her in that passage % Clem. It was at her earnest desire. Dunbar. So, j’^ou make yourself a party with her in dogging your €nii- ployer ! Take care, Mr. Austin.^ Clem. I don’t understand you, sir. I assist her in an object which seems to me perfectly natural. She wishes to urge the claims that flow from her father’s wrongs. Dunbar. You have explained to her that I admit them to the full % Clem. She is not satisfled. Dunbar. You have told her of my offer of this Indian appointment'? Clem. She refuses to accompany me — she urges me to decline the situation. Dunbar. And you are content to be a puppet in her hands ! Poor weak fool. ' Clem. Mr. Dunbar ! these are words I will not put up with from any < man. Dunbar {inore and more vehemently). Quarrel with your opportunity! Thrust fortune from you ! Plot against your employer — his good name, , and while you arQ the salaried servant of the house ! - ^ Clem. I will not touch its pay from to-day. Mr. Dunbar, I give the ; firm notice to provide themselves with another cashier. [Exit, c. Dunbar. Come back, Mr. Austin, {going after him, shrinks from the door) He’s gone ! I cannot encounter her pale, sad face ! {rings) There is noth- ing left but this. Enter Messenger, c. ! Tell Mr. Balderby I shall not be back to-morrow. I am going down to * Maudsley Abbey, till after Miss Dunbar’s marriage. i [Exit hastily by private dom\ \ Marg. {at door, c.). Let me go, Clement 1 I will see him ! Enter Margaret and Clement, c. Marg. Gone ! Mbssen. Mr. Dunbar, miss '? Off* down to Maudsley Abbey. [Exit Messenger, c. Marg. What did I tell you, Clement '? Is this flight or is it not '? He avoids me. I will not be shaken off*. He flies from London. I will fol- low him to Maudsley Abbey ! Clem. Nay, Margaret, his early wrong to your father was heavy, but that’s near thirty years ago. Marg. {interrupting) His early wrong ! do you think that is the crime I mean '? Clem. What other has he committed ? Marg. I may speak it now — now that you no longer eat his bread. {ivith concentrated earnestness) Henry Dunbar is my father’s murderer ! END OF ACT SECOND. ACT III. 25 ACT III. SCENE. — Eomn in Ilundsley Abbey — Bicturesque Elizabethan room, tapestry- hang or pannel.ed— window, c., looking on an autumnal landscape — doors, R. 3 E., and l. 1 and 3 E. — -fire-place, r., antique chairs, tables and cabinets, heavy crimson draperies, bottles and glasses on side table, l. — time, late on an autumn afternoon — Mary discovered at window. Mary. There they goes, bless ’em ! Oh wherever have I been and put that old shoe % {finds it in her pocket and throws it out of window, l. u. e.) Oh, my, if I haven’t hit the butler right atop of his bald head, {calls out of window') Beg your pardon, sir, I didn’t go to do it. Oh, my, here’s master ! [Exit l. 1 e. , Enter Dunbar, l. 2 e. Dunbar {goes to window and looks out). Gone at last ! I hope she will be happy. But I musn’t waste time moon-calfing. I can’t undo the miserable past, but the future is mine still — a dreary one at best, but bet- ter than this life. It’s growing too dark for to-night’s work, {rings) Yes, by to-morrow morning I shall have put the sea between me and the pry- ing eyes that make my life here one long, miserable watch. Enter Servant, l. u. e. Lights ! {sits and leans his head on his hands) Give me the brandy. Say I do not wish to be disturbed. {Exit Servant — drinks brandy) Now for my travelling arrangements. No circular notes, no courier for me, nothing to leave the milord trail behind me. {takes out leather belt divided into com- partments — lights brought by Servant) A relic of life at the diggings — it must carry diamonds instead of dust now. {takes a little canvas bag from his pocket, pours diamonds from it into a paper and begins to put them into the belt.) Etiter Major quietly, r 3 e. Major. A delicate job rather, wants a steady hand. (Dunbar pauses in the act of filling the belt and looks at the Major; a diamond or two drops.) You’ve dropped some. Dunbar. I gave orders I was not to be disturbed. Major. That’s w'hy I came in so quietly, {takes hold of belt) A remark- ably neat thing in belts, and the best way of carrying a large amount of ready in a small compass I ever saw. Dunbar. They are brilliants I have bought for a necklace for my daughter. Major. Ah, you are so fond of your child ! {sits) If you find the lot too heavy I should be happy to accommodate you. Dunbar. Thank you. Major. Well, the happy couple have departed. A roughish night for a honeymoon. It’s only fit for social enjoyment indoors. What’s that passage of my favorite Cowper I {recites, suiting the action to the words) Now, stir the fire, and close the shutters fast. Let fall the curtains— wheel the sofa round, And let us welcome peaceful evening in. By the w'ay, isn’t there something in it about the cup that cheers but not inebriates waiting on each I Suppose we have in the cups I 26 HENRY DUNBAR. Dunbar. I presume you’d prefer Chamberlin to Congou, (rin^s.) Major. That dear Dunbar ! Kemembers my old tastes to a hair ! JSnter Servant, r. u. b. Dunbar. A bottle of Burgundy. Major. Two, James L [Exit Servant, r. u. e. Dunbar {takes a tumor twv around the room, then stops suddenly). Stephen Vallance, how long is this to last ? Major. While the present is so cozy, why should we pry into the fu- ture 1 Dunbar. Or the past either ! Major. No, it’s seldom pleasant 1 do you ever lookback, Mr. Dunbar Dunbar. As little as I can. Enter Servant with wine, which he places on table, ttien exit r. u. e . Major. My own rule ! But there are times, {thoughtfully, his tone grad- ually deepening into sadness) To-night, for instance — this room that looks so warm and snug in the fire light. It reminds me of just such a room, • some thirty years ago, in an old-fashioned rectory, with a grey-headed couple at the fire-side, and a lad fresh from college, with his head full of wine-parties, and cards, and the odds, sick of home and its innocent pleasures already. Ah, well, let’s wash away such musty memories — what’s the use of thinking. Dunbar. Or awakening thought. I can remember things too, things better left sleeping. Stephen Vallance, you should know I am not a man safe to provoke too far. Major. Like Othello — slightly altered — one not easily savage, but, be- ing riled, nasty in the extreme. Dunbar. Drop this tomfoolery ! Yet, knowing what you do, you dare to provoke me thus ! Major. Provoke, my dear Dunbar ! Dunbar. To dog me in London ! Major. Dog I Oh, hang it ! Dunbar. To follow me down here ! Major. Don’t say follow, if followers ain’t allowed. Dunbar. To intrude upon me here in my own house ! Major. Your own house 1 “ ’Twas his, ’tis mine, and may be slave to thousands.” The immortal William down on it as usual ! Dunbar. There must be an end of this. Major. Of course there must, as of all things here below, but I mean to keep it up as long as possible. You’ll be happy to hear I’ve set up my tent not three miles from your park gates. Dunbar. You have 1 Major. Yes, you behold in me the contented proprietor of Woodbine Cottage, 'late the freehold of Admiral Manders, now the property of Col- onel Vallancey. Dunbar {sneeringly). Colonel Vallancey % Major. Yes, I’ve got my step since I last saw you, and I’ve removed into another family. Dunbar. At least you stick to the V’s ! Major. Yes, it saves the necessity of altering the initials on one’s linen. Dunbar. I did not know you had any. Major. Henry Dunbar, that is not kind. When I first met you, my early friend, I don’t blush to own I was short of shirts ; but as soon as I ACT III. 27 came into my fortune my first investment, I give you my honor, was in four dozen Eurekas, first quality, fine cambric front and wristbands. Linen is my pet weakness, {pulis down his cuffs.) Dunbar. Clean cufls may help to dispense with clean hands occasion- ally, ell 1 Major. Ah, a lesson of life we have both learned. But now that we are neighbors let us be neighborly, (tahes the bottle and sings.) Dunbar. Well, if it must be, let us drink a long and a happy tenancy of Woodbine Cottage, {drinks) Colonel Vallancey, your health ! Major. Mr. Henry Dunbar, yours, and many of them ! We shall meet often, and I trust always as pleasantly. I can’t give you the splendor of your own Elizabethan mansion, but in my little box you will at least find comfort and a certain modest elegance, and, talking of that, my kyind, my generous benefactor, may I remark that a freehold investment, how- ever modest, walks into money, and that furnishing, simple as one’s tastes may be, runs expensive. Dunbar. You mean you want to bleed me again '? Major. You Anglo-Indians are so quick I Dunbar. How much this time 1 Major. Well, the last prescription did me a great deal of good. Sup- pose we say, the draft as before. Dunbar. There ! {gives him check) And now you’ve a rough walk be- fore you, let me light you to the door. Major. Don’t trouble yourself ! (Dunbar takes the lamp., Major takes it from him and puts it down on side table) It’s flaring up, you see, as you did just now ! {turns down light.) Dunbar {at window). A dark night ! {looking out.) Major. The sort of a night a man wouldn’t be. very safe in, if any- body wanted to knock him on the head, eh, Mr. Dunbar '? Dunbar. You are in no such danger here, if that’s your meaning, Val- lancey. Major {ironically). In danger from you, my early friend ! Still, if any- body did think of trying it on, it’s as well they should know I always ^arry a young man’s best companion — the six volumes bound in one ! {produces a revolver f [Exit Major, r. u. e. Dunbar. No peace — no escape from this constant terror here or in London ! And now a spy on guard at my very door This decides me. {rings) I will not sleep another night in England ! Enter Servant, l. 1 e. Send Mary Madden to me. {exit Servant, l. 1 e.; Yes, I can trust her, the other servants might chatter. * Enter Mary, l. 1 e. Oh, Mary, I’ve a sudden call to Paris to-night. Mary. To Paris, sir 1 And the night that dark, and like to be a gale afore morning, keeper says ! Dunbar. We shall have a rough crossing, but I must face it. The business is urgent and secret. I don’t want my journey talked about, you understand 7 Mary. Oh nobody shouldn’t get it out of me, sir, not if they cut my tongue out. Dunbar. I know you are trustworthy. I want you to pack me a small portmanteau yourself, and order the brougham to be ready at ten. 28 HENllY DUNBAK. Mary. That I will, punctual, sir, and I’ll say you was going out for a night airing. [Exit l. 1 e. Dunbar. Let me see : {looks at Bradshaw) I can catch the night mail at Maudsley, and still be in time for the tidal train to Dover — and yet, what’s the good of flight 1 I may escape the gallows, but I can’t fly from myself, my own thoughts. Oh, if I could but sleep away the time from now till then Is there no forgetfulness for me in this I {takes up wine) In brandy, in opium 7 — no waking but what is full of blood and bitterness — no sleep without dreams worse even than waking I By day or night, in the darkness or the broad sunshine, I see him before me al- ways. I set my brain — I brace ray nerves, I thrust the hideous thing from me, but it will come back — with those wide-open, glassy eyes star- ing up into mine ! {shudders') Oh, if the darkness could hide him from me — could hide me from myself ! If I could sleep and never wake again ! {he lets his head fall on his hands, and sinks down at the table in an attitude of despair.) Enter Margaret Wentworth cautiously at the door, she listens, first for sounds of pursuit, then for sounds in the room, then softly locks the door be- hind her, then listens and peers through the half -dark of the room. Marg. All is quiet, he sleeps ! {steals toward him, pressing her hand on her heart as if to still its beating) He can sleep, while I am here ! {she draws nearer) He mutters in his dreams ! {she listens intently.) Dunbar {in sleep, as if wrestling with a horrid memory). Cover his face ! why can’t you close his eyes, some of you, for pity’s sake ! (Margaret shudders.) Marg. Again ! {she listens ; he mutters indistinctly) What is it I Dunbar {in his sleep). Margaret ! ^ .«*• Marg. My name ! {she turns up the lamp) Awake Henry Dunbar, awake, and look on the daughter of the man you murdered, {as Wilmot awakes and springs to his feet, the light falls on his face ; he gazes as if bewildered^ Wilmot. Margaret ! Marg. Father ! not dead ! {she moves toweirds him with her arms held out as if to clasp him, then suddenly recoiling, shrieks and falls in hysterics aUhis feet.) Wilmot. She’s found me at last ! All’s over now — better so, better so — better discovery and the gallows, than this daily and nightly horror. Look up, Margaret, my poor girl, look up ! Marg. {struggling to her feet and gazing .wildly at him). Is this a dream I Am I mad ? Who is this I Father ! {he approaches her, she shrinks back) No, no ! Wilmot. Margaret ! {he holds oid his hands to her) Come to me ! Marg. No, no ! {shuddering) There’s blood on them ! Wilmot {looking mournfully at her and then at his hands). There is ; blood which time nor tears — your tears and mine — can ever wash out. Don't look so at me, Margaret ! Marg. But they call you Henry Dunbar 7 I do not understand ■ you sit in his place, this house is his! Oh, father, father, there is blood on everything around ! {looks round shuddering — Dunbar approaches) Do not come near me, father, let me die, I will say nothing, only let me die ! Wilmot. Margaret, it’s bad enougli with me, but not so bad as you think. I killed him, (Margaret cowers together) but it was no foul blow, no^planned assassination — no murder ! Marg. No murder ! Wilmot. No. Unless hot blood, and blow for blow in sudden quarrel be murder, this was none. ACT IV. 29 ^Iarg. Father — {ivith a shade of joy, hut checking it) think before whom you are speaking ! WiLMOT. Before my own child. Marg. And before Heaven ! Think too, the deed is done now : no lie can help, no truth, not the blackest, can make it blacker. WiLMOT. Margaret you know me and my life ! I have blushed before you — ^before my own c aughter — often : 1 have been silent sometimes be- fore you, but I have never lied to you. Marg. {throivs he self into his antis) Never ! Oh, I can kiss those poor sinful hands — there is blood on them, but not the blood of murder. {again recoiling f rom him) But since then you have lived a lie ! WiLMOT. My only thought was how to hide my crime. Marg. Oh, would to Heaven it had been to confess it ! WiLMOT. Amen! but love of life is strong, Margaret, and the devil is ever at hand. He it was that whispered “ Why not take the dead man’s name and place V None here remembered him, he was a stranger even to his child. We were not so unlike — and so, the devil still prompting, I changed clothes with the dead. Maikj. {she shrinks away, from him). Horrible! WiLMOT. You know the rest. What you can never know is the hell my life has been since then. The devil helped me bravely before the ju- ry, the magistrates, among strangers, but he left me so soon as I was alone. Then came the horror of my deed, the terror of detection, the stifling of the mask that must be worn for life, or torn off only to leave my face bare under the gallow’S ! {he hides his face, in his hands and shakes with the violence of his emotion.) Marg. The gallows 7 Oh no, no ! This is a case for Heaven’s justice, not man’s. You must fly. And some safe retreat abroad, I will join you there. WiLMOT. Needless, needless. There’s too short a future before me that I should shun it. Marg. No, no, I will watch over you, give you warning of danger, only promise me to fly to-night. Heaven will grant you time for repent^ ance : it will come. WiLMOT {sadkj). It to’come, girl; if repentance be misery unutterable, to wake with the wish that you may never see the night, to clos« your eyes and hope they may never open on the morning ! Marg. No, father, this is remorse, not repentance. This is but the mis- ery of guilt, repentance brings the prayer that guilt may be forgiven. Father we will pray that prayer together ! {she clasps him in her arms and kneels at his side, trying to draw him to his knees.) END ON ACT THREE. ACT IV. SCENE FIRST . — Same as the last scene . — Laura and Mary discovered. Night lamps. Laura. Three days ago, Mary ! and never out of his room since 7 Mary. Not so much as over the door-sill, ma’am. Why, they’ve never even took his clothes off, not so much as the belt he wears about him, all full of little ’ard knobs — as bad as vvearin’ a nutmeg grater around his waist, I should say. 80 HENRY DUNRAE. Laura. Poor father ! How iucky it was we were witliin telegraphic reach, Mary, or we might not liave heard of the accident for weeks ' Mary Yes, ma’am, we’re guided, that you may take your Bible oath on, which when your pa told me that he were a-going to start oft’ to Paris all of a heap hke, I felt something was a goin’ to happen. In course I didn t know it was the train a-goin’ to bust off the line, but somethintr I knowed It was, and so 1 told Eliza. “ Eliza,” I says, ” mark my words.” I says “ something’s a-goin to ’appen,” and the next thing I see not eight hours afterwards, was master brought back to the ’all door in the Maudsley fly, and the man in his stable boots, for all the world like a corpse, only groanin’, and as such he’ve lied ever since. Laura. Oh, Mary, how I wish I might go to him. He might love me now now that he is weak and helpless, and wants tender nursing. Enter Lovell, r. u. e. Don’t you think I might go to him 7 Lovell. No, darling, Doctor Dean insists on perfect quiet, or he can- not answer for the consequences. Under any excitement he m\^ Enter Carter, r., with the belt, removing his hat reverently. Clem, {waves him back). Too late ! Marg. Not so, his judge knows, his judge is merciful ! {looking intently at the body.) CURTAIN. SYNOPSIS. play opens in the little parlor of a humble but particularly nice-looking cottage at Wandsworth. Mary, the servant maid, is startled by a rii^ at the garden gate, when, looking out, she sees that the visitor, in a carriage, is a Miss Laura Dunbar, whom she appears to greatly admire. Miss Dunbar had called to take a music les- son of Margaret Wentworth ; but that young lady being absent, the maid in- forms Laura that she is about to leave Miss Wentworth’s service, as her mistress can no longer afford to keep two servants. Laura thereupon engages Mary to come to her at the expiration of her service. Miss Dunbar then tells Mary that she has a little birthday present for Margaret, and proceeds to her room to leave it as a surprise. While Laura is out of the room, two men knock at the door ; Mary ad- mits one, the other remaining outside. This person, after some preliminary ques- tioning as to Miss Wentworth’s terms for tuition, etc., begins to question the girl as to Mr. Wentworth’s habits. While the conversation is proceeding, Miss W ent- WORTH enters ; but not before Mary had informed the stranger that Mr. Went- WORTH had left early that morning for Southampton. The strange man, Mr. Car HENBY DUNBAB. 39 riB, continues the conversation with the mistress after the maid has left to apprise Miss Dunbar of Maboarbt’s return. During her absence, Carter takes his leave ; but, before doing so, ejaculates a blessing on Margaret, to that young lady’s great surprise, Margaret then takes out a letter which she had received from her fa- ther, but before examining its contents, she feelingly expresses a wish that her father would quit the dark and desperate courses that he at times followed, so that others, besides her, might know something of the good there was in him. In this letter her father tells her that very many years ago he committed the crime of for- gery to save a much loved young master ; the forgery was detected, the master was screened, and sent off to India, while he was denounced, tried, and convicted. His master might have saved him, but never opened his lips. “ From that day,” con- tinued Margaret’s father, “ I have been a branded man ; every man’s hand has been against me.” Wentworth proceeded to say that this man was coming back to England, and that he meant to meet him, and try if he would not. do something for the man he had seen ruined twenty -five years before, and if he would not, he in- tended to give him a piece of his mind. The father concluded by saying that the name of the man he expected to meet was “ Henry Dunbar.” This was none other than the father of her dear friend, Laura. While Margaret is pondering over this evil news, Clement Austin enters, and it is soon apparent by his tender manner and his manifestations of interest in her welfare, that he is her lover. Indeed, he proceeds to declare his affection, and to ask her hand. Margaret refuses ; but be- ing hard pressed for her reasons, acknowledges that she loves CLEMENr, but an in- superable bar prevents their union — her father is a dishonored man— an outcast— a criminal. Clement expresses his willingness to wed her, but Margaret, while grateful for his nobleness, will only consent to wed him after they have jointly tried to bring her father back to the right path. The seqond scene introduces us to an amusing vagabond, who enters the sitting room of the “ George” at Winchester. This individual, whose habiliments are “ in the sere, the yellow leaf,” indulges in a characteristic soliloquy, from which we learn that he is a broken-down sport, and a criminal, indeed; that he had found that “Joe Wilmot ” was putting up at this hotel, and that he intended to await his arrival ; that he had seen Joe with a stran- ger enter a wood near St. Cross ; that his first move was to accost Joe, and try to borrow some “brads” from him; but finally thought it better to come to his hotel and await his arrival. A waiter enters, and not liking the cut of the Major’s coat (for a major he announces himself to be), tries to bow him out of the apartment, telling him the room is engaged for the great banker, Mr. Henry Dunbar, who has just come back from India, and “ who’s worth a million if he’s worth a penny.” The servant leaves the room, and in his absence the Major proceeds to examine the trunks of the banker, which have arrived. His inspection is cut short by the ser- vant’s return to tell him that a gent named Harry Carter wants him. The Ma- jor starts to leave by a back door, but is headed off, caught, and handcuffed by an as- sistant of Carter’s. He is taken off in custody, having, however, previously re- fused to reveal Wilmot alias Wentworth’s whereabouts. Soon after, Went- worth, disguised as Henry Dunbar, enters, and orders that dinner shall wait until the arrival of his friend Wilmot, whom he had sent across the country (he said) to apprise a Mr. Stratton of his arrival. While dinner is waiting, Mr. Dunbar pro- ceeds to open the trunks, and reads aloud the contents of some of the papers. From these documents he learns all the particulars about thebusiness of the firm of which Dunbar was leading partner, and he, also, finds a lot of letters written by Laura to her father. Dunbar declines still to set down to dinner until the arrival of Wil- mot, and while talking to the waiter about his unaccountable absence, a noise is heard outside; a crowd appears in the corridor ; Henry Dunbar advances to it, lifts a sheet that covers a body just borne in, and exclaims, “Joseph Wilmot! dead I” In the second act Laura is complaining to her maid, Mary, of the little affection which her father manifests for her, when Arthur Lovell is announced. This gentleman is informed by Laura of her father’s coldness. Lovell tells her he has a fine appointment in India, and had he but her hand in marriage he would be perfectly happy. Dunbar, who had entered unobserved, comes forward, and after asking LauraTo retire for a few moments, surprises Lovell by briefly telling him that his health is broken by his long life in India, that he must seek the continent at once ; but before he goes he desires to see Laura, his dear daughter, happily married ; he observes that they love each other, and wishes their union without any delay ; adding that instead of settlements, he will give his daughter a handsome sum in money and a present of magnificent diamonds. Lovbll, transported with delight, rushes off to Laura’s boudoir ; Dunbar having left the room before him. 40 HENKY DUNBAlt- Just afterward^ Margaret, in deep mourning, is ushered in. Lauba enters and embraces her. An affecting interview takes place between them. Margaret be- ing determined to follow up Dunbar to the death for the supposed murder of her father. Dunbar sends his daughter, who had gone in search of him, back to Mar- garet, to say that he will never see her, but that he will make her a handsome yearly allowance, and gives his daughter fifty pounds to hand her as a first pay- ment. Laura returns to Margaret, and hands her the fifty pounds in an envel- ope. Margaret passionately throws down the money, signals Laura to leave her, and exclaiming, “ But I will see him, and he shall see me, if I drop down dead !” is about to enter, when Clement Austin enters. The young man informs Margaret that he is the cashier in the house of which Dunbar is head, and is in attendance with important papers. The young girl reveals to Clement part of her story, and he determines to manage to get her ah interview with Dunbar In the next scene the Major reappears ; he has run against Mr. Balderby while entering the bank of Dunbar & Co. Here jthe Major gets into conversation with the diamond merch- ant, and is only prevented from filching some of the gems by the entrance of Car- ter, who warns him. The Major hangs about to get an interview with Dunbar. Meanwhile, Dunbar has the books of the bank brought to him by Clement Austin, and proposes to draw a very large amount out to buy diamonds and for other pur- poses. Dunbar tells Austin that he wishes an annuity to be paid to a Miss Went- worth ; the young man tells Dunbar that he knows her ; indeed, is betrothed to her. Dunbar advises him to marry her, and says that he will befriend them, but that he cannot see her. Just then Carter enters to inform the banker that he is employed to investigate the murder of Wilmot, and that Wilmot’s daughter, Margaret, even accuses him of the crime. Dunbar gives the detective a fee, and advises him to try and clear up the mystery. Harldly has the detective left, ere the Major enters. He is announced as Major Vavasour, and soon gives Dunbar to understand that he sees through the whole affair, and that he must be bribed to silence. The banker gives him two thousand pounds, which satisfies him for the nonce. Clement Austin now determines to bring Margaret and Dunbar face to face, but the banker frustrates his plan by leaving the city for his country bouse, Maudsley Abbey. To this place he is followed by the Major, who fears that he is about to leave England, and thus give him the slip, especially as Laura had just been married to Arthur Lovell and is off on their wedding trip. The Major tells Dunbar that he has taken a small place close to his lodge gates, and will not stir from there. The banker has to again bribe the fellow to silence, and he departs. Dunbar, once more alone, begins casting retrospective glances over the past events, and in the midnight silence conjures up all the fearful doings of that eventful night, when the returned India merchant and the wretched forger stood face to face beneath the dark branches of the wood near St. Cross. He has determined on flight ; has tried by copious draughts of brandy to dull his senses, and has at length fallen into an unquiet slumber at the table, his head resting in his hand. Then Margaret stealthily enters, and listens to the broken sentences that proceed from the wretched man’s white lips. At length he utters the word “ Margaret.” Terri- bly affrighted is the girl to hear her own name, and uttered by her father !— the father that she supposed was now lying in his shroud. Margaret rouses her fa- ther. An explanation ensues, in which Dunbar convinces his daughter that the banker was killed by him in a struggle for life, and that he then assumed the name and personated Dunbar in order to save himself. Margaret no sooner gets over her surprise, than she urges her father to fly at once, and evade the death penalty that surely would befall him, as no one but a daughter would believe his statement. Dunbar obeys her and escapes. In Act the Fourth Laura has been recalled to the Abbey, her father having been terribly injured by a railroad accident. The doctor has forbidden any one seeing Dunbar. The wretched man, terribly shaken and bruised, is barely able to sit up, when Margaret raps at his window, and begs to be let in. Dunbar with great difficulty opens the window, when his daughter almost falls in, her hair dishevelled, and her whole aspect most pitiful and woe-begone. In a few hurried sentences she tells her father that Carter and Austin, impelled by her, had investigated the murder affair; had become convinced that Dunbar had killed Wilmot, and that they were even now on their way to arrest him ; she had managed to get ahead of them ; and there was not an instant to be lost ; he must escape at all hazards. Yielding to his daughter’s tears and prayers, the still feeble man mounts a horse, which Margaret procures from the stables; and partly sup- ported by bis brave-hearted daughter, he sets out. Carter and Austin arrive at the Abbey just half an hour after Dunbir had left. Dunbar and his daugh- ter contrive to get as far as the Major’s house, but can proceed no farther. They gain admittance. The Major, after securing a belt enclosing the diamonds which Dunbar had with him, consents to let Dunbar remain in his disguise, while he takes the horse and starts off, having no wish to meet Carter. The detective soon after arrives, but is baflfied by the ingenuity of Margaret, who has assumed the disguise of a servant But all in vain are the noble girl’s efforts ; her father is death-stricken, and falls dead in his daughter’s arms ; but not before he had consoled her with the assurance of his sincere penitence. Carter (with the belt) and Cle- ment enter reverently. The latter exclaims : “ Too late.” “ Not so,” replies Mar- garet ; “his Judge knows— his J udge is merciful !” A CHEERFUL LIAR. Farcical Comedy in Three Acts By JOHN A. FRASER. Antboji of ’‘The Noble Outcast,” “The Merry Cobbler,” “A Ananias,” “Our Starry Banner,” “Santiago,” etc. Cast of Characters. Hastings Hussel, J. P.— The cheerful liar. Randolph Dearborn— An accessory before the fact. ‘Rev.” Ezra Stiggins— A gold cure practitioner. Gen. Boomer— A Chicago real estate millionaire. Guy McGuffin— A county constable. Flora Boomer— A girl who has a good time when she wants to. Birdie Sweetlove — Housekeeper at the gold cure ^tabBshme®^ Lncretia Spriggins— A Hoosier schoolma^am. Act I. Deception Act II. Detection. Act 111. Destruction. ?lay« two hours. ^ Price, 2s cents. o.xiieking farcical comedy was very succeesfuily peiw formed during a long season, under another title, by the brilliant comedian, Mr. John Dillon, who made a great hit in the part of Judge Hussel. Unlike most light pieces, this one has a capital £ lot, full of entanglements. In brief, this is the story of a Gay ►eceiver. During the civil war Hastings Hussel and Bert Boomer fought side by side in the Confederate army. After the declaration ©f peace both of them moved North, where Boomer grew wealthy fei the real estate business and married. Hussel went to Indi-. ana, became a country justice and remained single. Boomer, a widower when the play opens, had a daughter who eloped with 'Randolph Dearborn, the young people being followed on the next fain by the irate father. Flora and her lover go to Huesel to be narried, but find that a license is necessary in Indiana. While hey are gone to procure one Boomer arrives ai^ the old friends recognize each other. When Randolph returns Hussel offers, for a lonsideration, to pacify Boomer and obtain his consent, trusting fo the young man’s aristocratic name and Boomer’s Southern ideas of birth, etc., to work his point. He finds, however, that Randolph is a foundling and so undertakes to provide him with parents.. He works Lncretia Spriggins an old maid, and “Rev.” Ezra Stiggins, a gold cure fraud, into the plot to personate the parents, and just as success crowns his efforts Birdie Sweetlove denounces the con- spiracy. Then Boomer determines that Flora must be married at once and offers her to Hussel . The J udge jumps at the chance and goes to Boomer’s summer villa to pay his court. Flora, to thwart him, disguises herself in her Cousin Tom’s clothes and tells her ancient admirer that Flora has gone to town. Meanwhile Hussel jams that Randolph has arrived for a stolen interview, and notic- ing the striking likeness of the supposed Tom to Flora proposes that Tom shall masquerade as his cousin and take a rise ont of the rivaL^Flora is only too willing, and putting on her own clothes receives her lover. The climax is reached when Hussel, to carry fhejokeon Randolph to its limit, marries the supposed Tom to him. Of course, when the General returns, it is found that the marriaf!9 JeeaL »*^d bo the two old fellows make best of a bad ^ob. UNCLE RUBE HfW UKilOINAL HOMESTEAD PLAY IN FOUR ACTH. By CHARLES TOWNSEND. A^hor of more than seventy successf ul productUmA 'Pinett Rural Drama Ever Published. PRICE, 25 CENTS* CHARACTERS. StTBEN Rodney, (Uncle Rube) Justice of the Peace, School Trustee, aua . Master hand at “swappin bosses’*. Character lead. Simon Smarley, a smooth and cunning old villain Character heavy. Mark, his son, a promising young rascal Straight heavy, Gordon Gray, a popular young artist ^luvenile lead Upson Asterbilt, an up-to-date New York dude Character comedy, Ike, the hired man. “I want ter knowl*’ Eccentric. Bob Green, a comical young rustic Low comedy B'tLL Tappan. a country constable Comedy Milicent Lee, “the pretty school teacher” Juvenile lady Mrs. Maria Bunn, a charming widow... . ...... Character comedy Tagos, a waif from New York Souhrette Timb,— M id Autumn. Plagb«— V ermont. Time of Playing.— Two hours and a quarter synopsis. ACT I. The Old Homestead. Uncle Rube arrives. ACT II. The Constable’s office. The plot to ruin Uncle Rube. ACT III. Evening at the old farm. Uncle Rube is arrested. ACT IV. The Constable’s office again. The old farmer wins! This play was written by one of the most popular of American dramatisia, whose works have sold by the hundreds of thousands. One of the best plays of its class ever written. Splendid characters. 1 owerful climaxes. Bright wit. Merry humor. Very easy to produce. Uequlres only th^ee scenes. Nc shifts of scenery during any act. Costumes all modern No difficult proper^ lies required. THE AUTHOR’5 OPINJON. Mb. Townsend says of this drama, “I consider that ‘Uncle Rube* is far sm* parior to any play depicting country life that I have yet written.” This is the play for everybody— amateurs as well as professionals. It can be produced on any stage, and pleases all classes, from the most critical city audiences to those of the smallest country towns. Printed directly from th€ author’s acting copy, with all the original stage directiona Address Orders to THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPAND^- CHICAaO Santiago OR THE RED, WHITE AND BLUa A WAR DRAHA IN POUR ACTS. By JOHN A. FRASER. AoUkv readin’ L?^y lub lettahs in public,” Act 3. SIttingsroom in Lester’s house. “ What has happened? la ■IT husband safe?” “ Break away, give your little brother a chance.” “ To tell the truth, my heart is breaking.” “ Debt of duty I and I was foe ' enough to think she loved me.*’ Act 4* “ The illness of the General has an ugly - 00 k.” “ The gos- sips have it she would rejoice to be rid of her husband.” “ The Gilbert Hall I loved is dead.” “ Standing on the brink of the grave my vision is islearer.” “Forgive, and X win devote my life to making you happy in A'der to repay the debt I owe you— a debt of honor.’’ Copies will be sent postpaid to any address on receipt of the pricib HAQEIVIAN’S MAKE-UP BOOK. By MAURICB HAOBMAIt JkotlKW of “Wbat Became of Parker,*** ‘Prof. Robinson,* •‘HedOTy** •*3ira Muloahy,** “The First Kiss,** “By Telephone,” “To Rent,** etc. Prtoe* 28 cents. The importance of an effective make-up is becoming more apparent tt the professional actor evei-y year, but hitherto there has been no book on the subject describing the modern methods and at the same time covering all branches of the art. This want has now been filled. Mr. Hageman has had an experience of twenty years as actor and stage-manager,and his well-known literaryabilityhas enabled him to put the knowledge so gained into shape to be of use to others. The book is an encyclopsedia of the art of making up Every branch of the subject is exhaustively treated, and few questions can be asked by professional or amateur that cannot be answered by this admira ble hand-book. Pi is not only the ever published, but it Is not likely to be superseded by any other. It is absolutely indispensable to every ambitious actor. CONTENTS. Chapter L General Kemark j. Chapter II. Grease-Paints, their origin, components and use. Chapter III. The Make«ur Box. Grease-Paints, Mirrors, Face Powder and Puff, Exora Cream. Rouge, Liquid Color, Grenadine, Blue for the Eyelids, Brilliantine for the Hair, Nose Putty, Wig Paste, Mascaro, Crape Hair Spirit Gum, Scissors, Artists’ Stomps, Cold Cream, Cocoa Butter, Recipes for Cold Cream. Chapter lY, Preliminaries before Making up; the Straight Make-up and how to remove it. Chapter V. Remarks to Ladies. Liquid Creams, Rouge, Lips, Eyebrows, Eyelashes, Character Roles, Jewelry, Removing Make-up. Chapter YL Juveniles. Straight Juvenile Make-up, Society Men, Young Men in HI Health, with Bed Wigs, Rococo Make-up, Hands. Wrists. Cb60k8 0tc Chapter YIL Adults, Middle Aged, and Old Men. Ordinary Type or Manhood, Lining Colors, Wrinkles, Rouge, Sickly and Healthy Old Age^ Ruddy Complexions. Chapter YlII. Comedy and Character Make-ups. Comedy Effects Wigs, Beards, Eyebrows, Noses, Lips, Pallor of Death. Chapter IX. The Human Features. The Mouth and Lips, the Eyes and Eyelids, the Nose, the Chin, the Ear, the Teeth. Chapter X. Other Exposed Parts of the Human Anatomy. Chapter XL Wigs, Beards, Moustaches, and Eyebrows. Choosing a Wig, Powdering the Hair, Dimensions for Wigs, Wig Bands, Bald Wigs, Ladles* Wigs, Beards on Wire, on Gauze, Crape Hair, Wool, Beards for Tramps, Moustaches, Eyebrows. Chapter XII. Distinctive and Traditional Characteristics. North American Indians, New Eugland Farmers, Hoosiers, Southerners, Politicians. Cowboys, Miners, Quakers, Tramps, Creoles, Mulatoes, Quadroons. Octo* roons, Negroes, Soldiers during War, Soldiers during Peace, Scouts, Path' finders, Puritans, Early Dutch Settlers, Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen, Frenchmen, Italians, Spaniards, Portuguese, South Americans, Scandina- vians, Germans, HoUanaers, Hungarians, Gipsies, Russians, Turks, Arabs. Moors, Caffirs, Abysslnlans, Hindoos, Malays, Cbineso; Japanese, Clowua anc Statuary, Hebrews, Drunkards, Lunatics, Idiots, Misers. Rogues. Address Orders to THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHINO COMPANY, CniCAQO, ILLINOIS. PLAYS. B eing the largest theatrical booksellers in the United States, we keep in stock the most complete and best assorted lines of plays and entertainment books to be found in this country. We can supply any play or book pub- lished. We have issued a 144-page catalogue of the best 1500 plays and entertainment books published in the U. S. and England. It con- tains a full description of each play, giving number of characters, time of playing, scenery, costumes, etc. This catalogue will be sent free on application. The plays described are suitable for am- ateurs and professionals, and nearly all of them may be performed free of royalty. Persons in- terested in dramatic books should examine our catalogue before ordering elsewhere. The Dramatic Publishing Company. CHICAGO-