Chapter IV: Part 4

D’OR. No, I never had such sport. I didn’t live near the mountains and the forests.

CYRIL. [_Sits on the foot rest at_ D’OR’S _feet_.] How do the boys in your country spend their time?

D’OR. The most sensible spend their time in learning how to make money.

CYRIL. Do they need much money when they grow up?

D’OR. Nearly all of them think they need more than they have.

CYRIL. What do they buy with their money?

D’OR. Whatever they think they want. What would you buy if you had twenty florins?

CYRIL. A pair of hunting boots and a new knife. [_He pulls out his knife._] Not a cheap knife, like this one—but one with six silver bands on the handle.

D’OR. Why six bands?

CYRIL. Because my friend Boris has one with five bands and his knife is the finest in the village.

D’OR. Ah! I see! And what would you buy if you had fifty florins?

CYRIL. Fifty florins! [_After a pause._] I wouldn’t buy anything. I’d save until I had a hundred.

D’OR. [_Interested._] And then—

CYRIL. Then I would buy a handsome rifle such as I saw in a shop window in Buda-Pesth. Were you ever in Buda-Pesth?

D’OR. Yes, Cyril. I’ve seen those fine shops. Now, isn’t it pleasant to think that you can go into such a shop with a pocket full of money and pick out anything you want?

CYRIL. Yes—it’s like a fairy-tale.

D’OR. [_Drily._] Well, that’s why the boys in my country learn how to make money!

CYRIL. [_With enthusiasm._] And when they have it, they go to the shops and buy what they wanted?

D’OR. No; by that time they have usually lost interest in what they wanted—and then they desire something which they cannot buy.

CYRIL. Then it isn’t much fun after all?

D’OR. [_Stroking_ CYRIL’S _hair_.] No, it isn’t much fun. You have something better than money, Cyril. You have youth and health—be careful how you spend them. You wouldn’t sell them at any price, would you?

CYRIL. How can one sell youth, M. D’Or?

D’OR. By doing foolish things and by wasting the precious hours of early manhood—that is how one sells youth. I want you to realize how very rich you are, even if you haven’t enough money to buy that new rifle. [_The noise of carriage wheels is heard._] Do you hear a carriage? Can it be Dr. Mirsky, after all?

CYRIL. [_Opens the window._] Yes, it is the doctor—and another man with him in a long white robe—a strange-looking man!

D’OR. You see very well in the dark, Cyril!

CYRIL. I have good eyes; father calls them forester’s eyes.

D’OR. Is it still raining?

CYRIL. [_Puts out his hand._] A little, but the worst is over. The clouds are breaking.

D’OR. I am glad of it; you may leave the window open. [_Enter_ MIRSKY _at centre_.]

MIRSKY. Good evening, M. D’Or! I’m a bit late to-night on account of this cursed storm—I never experienced such weather before. The road to the palace is a veritable river! At every turn a fresh torrent bursts over it. How do you feel?

D’OR. Fairly well since Cyril has been keeping me company, but I felt miserable before—I feared you would not come.

MIRSKY. Not come for such a patron as M. D’Or! My dear sir, I would have come if it had been necessary to swim to the palace!

CYRIL. [_Laughing._] People don’t swim up hills, Dr. Mirsky.

MIRSKY. No, and well-behaved boys don’t make impertinent remarks to their elders.

D’OR. Cyril tells me you had a companion in your carriage.

MIRSKY. Yes—the queerest fellow I’ve ever come across. I picked him up on the road just beyond the village. He had sought shelter under a tree but I saw he would be drenched if he remained there long enough—to say nothing of the danger from lightning. He’s a sort of oriental sage—calls himself Ramanand. I expect to take him back to the village when I leave and have a chat with him to-night.

D’OR. I am interested in your find! Can’t we have him up here?

MIRSKY. I turned him over to Miss Packard—I believe he is drying out at the kitchen fire. Cyril, run along and fetch up the philosopher.

CYRIL. [_Meekly._] Very well, doctor. I hope you will forgive me for my impertinence just now—

MIRSKY. [_Clapping his shoulder._] Impertinence, my boy? It was the truth. As you say, people do _not_ swim up hill. [CYRIL _laughs and runs off, centre_. MIRSKY _turns to_ D’OR.] Well, how is my patient? [_Feels his pulse._] Still feverish and unsettled—appetite poor—all out of sorts, eh?

D’OR. Doctor, I feel like a man whose life is ebbing away. I had a horrible seizure this evening. It’s all up with me. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends all my life. I have crowded more experience into my forty years than properly belongs there—that’s all!

MIRSKY. My dear M. D’Or, you talk like a man who is preparing for another world, yet you are paying me handsomely to keep you here. One can hardly regard such remarks as complimentary—

D’OR. True enough, doctor, but there’s no power of resistance left in me. I’ve been fighting Death for some time and now I have only one real weapon left—

MIRSKY. [_Surprised._] One weapon?

D’OR. Yes, my money! Youth and health are gone, and I have long since turned my back upon my few friends—but my money is still my faithful slave. It has provided me this airy retreat in the Balkans, it has brought me such a devoted nurse as Miss Packard, such a skilful physician as yourself—

MIRSKY. Come, come—I’m not so sordid! A true physician thinks first of the professional obligation.

D’OR. But a successful doctor does not give up a lucrative practice in Buda-Pesth to bury himself in the mountains with a solitary patient unless the latter pays handsomely, eh?

MIRSKY. It is true that you are giving me many times what I could earn by my practice, but why do you constantly remind me of it?

D’OR. I don’t want to offend you, doctor—but I like to feel that my money is still helping me to keep Death at bay. I have gone through life believing that wealth is power and I want to think so yet. Don’t you share that belief?

MIRSKY. Frankly, I do. I have even coined a new beatitude—blessed is the rich man, since he can have what he wants!

D’OR. [_Gravely._] Not always—I have found that out. I want health, vigor, an interest in life.

MIRSKY. Your money would obtain any of these if you gave it a fair chance. You are sated, that is all—

D’OR. It is worse than that. I’m worn out—done for!

MIRSKY. M. D’Or, you are absolutely wrong. I cannot comprehend your passive yielding to this chronic invalidism. You harm not only yourself, but me likewise—professionally, I mean. I shall be quite frank with you. My reputation is at stake. All Buda-Pesth knows that I am treating the rich M. D’Or. If I restore you to health, my fortune is assured! I shall no longer be the promising Dr. Mirsky in his shabby carriage—I shall become the famous Dr. Mirsky in his automobile. Do you realize what it means to me?

D’OR. So you wish me to get well for _your_ sake?

MIRSKY. Certainly, if you have no reasons of your own. I pretend to no philanthropy in the matter. You are paying me lavishly, M. D’Or—give me a chance to earn the money.

D’OR. [_Shaking his head._] You’ve taken a bad case, doctor—I’m sorry for you. You’ll have your money and the automobile in any event. Of course, you expect to find greater happiness in becoming more prominent in your profession?

MIRSKY. Yes, both happiness and reputation. I look upon it as a recompense for my early years of struggle.

D’OR. You had to make your own way?

MIRSKY. My father was a poor village shoemaker; my mother eked out his income by what she could earn at washing and sewing. I was the youngest of five children.

D’OR. And the others?

MIRSKY. They were all sacrificed for my sake. They are hard-working men and women to-day. My parents died before I achieved independence in my profession. I should like to help my brothers and sisters, but they refuse my aid.

D’OR. Perhaps you don’t offer them enough.

MIRSKY. M. D’Or, they have pride! They feel that an unfair advantage was given to me—and they are right!

D’OR. I fail to see it. This was clearly a case of one rising from the depths, or none at all. If they have pride, they should take pride in you.

MIRSKY. It has made a permanent breach between us, I fear.

D’OR. And they will feel even more bitter when you return to Buda-Pesth and ride about in your new automobile?

MIRSKY. [_Gloomily._] Yes, I have been thinking of that. If I could only drive them from my mind!

D’OR. Yet you look forward to happiness! Is there no way of making wealth obedient to our desires?

CYRIL. [_Putting in his head at central door as before._] May I bring in Mr. Ramanand?

D’OR. Certainly—I shall be glad to see him. [CYRIL _throws the door open and_ RAMANAND _enters in stately fashion, garbed in an oriental robe_.]

MIRSKY. Ah! Ramanand, quite dry now? I want to present you to M. D’Or, the tenant of this palace and my worthy patron. He has heard of our meeting on the road.

RAMANAND. [_With a profound bow, speaks in a deep, rich voice._] My salutations and greetings, monsieur. I am indebted to you for your hospitality.

D’OR. Won’t you be seated? [RAMANAND _takes a seat, right_, CYRIL _sits on the foot rest_.] I trust they made you comfortable downstairs. Didn’t you suffer in the storm?

RAMANAND. A slight wetting—no more. I am accustomed to rough weather. I travel constantly on foot. It is no hardship for such as I.

MIRSKY. Are you familiar with this country?

RAMANAND. No. I am on my way to the West, to study the civilization of other lands. I have read of them and their manners; I now seek to know them by actual experience.

D’OR. You have doubtless traveled far enough to find things different?

RAMANAND. Yes, I already feel the mark of the West in your customs. In the East, all things are deliberate and, whether right or wrong, rest upon traditions handed down from the remotest ages. Here you strive for things that are new and you are ever ready to forget the old.

D’OR. But why do you follow such a roving life? Is there any profit in it? Will you be better off when you have completed your travels?

RAMANAND. There is much profit in it—I shall enrich my mind with golden thought—

D’OR. But does it enrich your purse with golden coin—that’s more to the point!

RAMANAND. Money! It is a delusion!

MIRSKY. A delusion?

RAMANAND. [_Placidly._] Yes. Has it ever proved otherwise?

D’OR. Why, it brings power, the thing best worth having in life.

RAMANAND. It brings mostly care and sorrow.

MIRSKY. Did you ever hear such a philosophy?

D’OR. [_To_ CYRIL.] Cyril, you recall speaking to me this evening of a new rifle?

CYRIL. Yes, M. D’Or.

D’OR. We shall send to Buda-Pesth to-morrow for that rifle and when it arrives it is yours.

CYRIL. [_Leaping up in pleasure and kissing_ D’OR’S _hand_.] Oh! dear M. D’Or, you are like a good magician in the story-books!

D’OR. [_To_ RAMANAND.] And the agency of such happiness as this you call a delusion! Where’s your care and sorrow?

RAMANAND. [_Smiling._] You are a ready man with your proof. No one can deny the momentary exaltation that follows a gift or a favor, nor do I believe that gratitude is a forgotten virtue. But look about you, and note what a curse wealth has brought upon humanity.

MIRSKY. I should not care to entertain the philosophy of the East.

RAMANAND. Mine is not the philosophy of the East. We also have the worship of gold among us and its devotees lead the same blind lives in its pursuit as your own people. The views I express are my own.

D’OR. Then you really believe that the poor man is the happiest man?

RAMANAND. Yes, if he is not possessed by the lust for gold.

MIRSKY. And the rich man is the unhappiest man?

RAMANAND. Yes, if he is the slave of his own wealth.

D’OR. Rail against wealth if you will—I maintain that poverty has nothing to recommend it.

RAMANAND. [_Reflectively._] I too sought material wealth as a young man and I gained nothing but care; for many years I have cherished poverty and my days are crowned with peace. I ask no better test of my philosophy.

MIRSKY. If you are satisfied, you have reached a state of mind that neither M. D’Or nor I shall ever experience. [EDITH _enters, centre_; MIRSKY _and_ RAMANAND _rise_.]

EDITH. Pardon me—I have come to tell Cyril that his father is ready to take him back to the lodge.

CYRIL. [_Leaping up and running to the window._] Oh! it is clearing up beautifully—the moon will rise soon. I suppose I’ll have to go. [_He shakes hands._] Good night, Dr. Mirsky. [_He stands abashed before_ RAMANAND.] Good night, Mr. Ramanand.

RAMANAND. [_Stroking_ CYRIL’S _hair as if invoking a blessing on the boy_.] Good night, Cyril.

CYRIL. Good night, M. D’Or. Shall I pray that you should get better?

D’OR. [_Surprised._] Should you pray—why—yes, if you care to.

CYRIL. You won’t forget about the new rifle?

D’OR. What has the rifle to do with your prayer?

CYRIL. I think I could pray better if I knew I was sure to get it. [RAMANAND _shakes his head_.]

D’OR. Very well, Cyril, just pray your very best for me. Good night.

CYRIL. Good night, Miss Packard. Why don’t you make M. D’Or get better? That’s what nurses are for.

MIRSKY. The young rascal will be censuring me next for not having M. D’Or in perfect physical condition. Run along.

CYRIL. [_Laughing._] Good night, everybody. [_He goes off hastily._]

EDITH. [_To_ D’OR.] It is time for your medicine.

MIRSKY. One moment, Miss Packard. We shall discontinue that medicine; I am not satisfied with our patient’s response. We shall adopt a new course—no drugs at all for the next few days.

D’OR. I am heartily glad of it. I get far more benefit from your talk, doctor, than from your medicines. Our little discussion to-night has made me forget myself for the time. By the way, let us see how Miss Packard feels about the matter. She will be an unprejudiced judge.

MIRSKY. One whose opinion will be worth having. [RAMANAND _bows politely_.]

D’OR. We were trying to decide among ourselves whether wealth is a blessing or a curse. Do you believe it brings power?

EDITH. Yes, unquestionably.

MIRSKY. Does it bring happiness?

EDITH. Certainly. Why shouldn’t it bring happiness?

RAMANAND. Does it bring sorrow and misery?

EDITH. Far too often, I fear.

D’OR. Are all three of us right in our contentions? Wealth seems to be rather fickle, Miss Packard, according to your view.

EDITH. It appears a very simple matter to me. The unattainable always seems attractive; what we possess is apt to pall after a time. Wealth does not usually bring power, nor happiness, nor sorrow until its possessor has taken some initiative in the matter. The owner of the wealth must in a large measure determine its influence on his career.

D’OR. If you possessed great wealth, would you test its power to secure for you the things that you might deem most desirable—social position, for instance?

EDITH. I think not. I should prefer to expend it in a quest of happiness, but it would be a happiness that came from service—from using the wealth to bring sunshine and peace into other lives. Perhaps as a nurse I have come to think differently than many other women—

MIRSKY. More self-sacrificing, I am sure.

RAMANAND. Does Miss Packard believe in the philosophy of service—that our lives can be counted most successful when we make ourselves most useful to our fellow men?

EDITH. Assuredly. Service seems to me the ideal of a well-ordered life. I can imagine no finer life than that of my honored country-woman, Miss Eleanor Richmond—

D’OR. [_Springing up._] Eleanor Richmond!

RAMANAND. A noble woman, indeed, a goddess of charity. I met her in Bombay last year.

MIRSKY. I have heard of her—she organized a relief committee for the India famine—

EDITH. Yes, and is devoted heart and soul to the great cause.

D’OR. Eleanor Richmond—in India! [_To_ EDITH.] You know her?

EDITH. Very well. I have been with her at different times for several years. I was a member of her party that went into the fever district.

D’OR. She—has not married?

RAMANAND. Such a woman needs no family of her own. All mankind is her family!

D’OR. How strange that you should know her. I always passed over the accounts of India famines in the papers—such unpleasant reading, such harrowing details.

MIRSKY. Think of the heroism of a woman who will plunge into the midst of such misery and desolation!

RAMANAND. There are parts of India where Miss Richmond is worshiped as a saint!

EDITH. She deserves it. I know of no one who has made such a splendid use of wealth as she has done. She has been an inspiration to me at times when I felt weak and discouraged. [_Moonlight shines in at the window._]

MIRSKY. The moon has risen; what a glorious light it sheds into this room. We must be going, M. D’Or, if we are to reach the village before midnight. We shall have a well-lighted road, at all events. [_He goes to the window._ D’OR _is staring into space_.]

EDITH. I shall have the carriage sent around to the door. [_She goes off, centre._]

RAMANAND. Monsieur, I am deeply indebted to you and to the good doctor for the shelter you have afforded me, and for your tokens of good will.

D’OR. [_Recovering himself._] And to-morrow you continue your westward march—in search of truth?

RAMANAND. In search of truth, M. D’Or. There is the most precious wealth that the earth affords. It will be a long and difficult quest.

D’OR. I have been searching for truth for many years and in many lands; to-night I believe I have stumbled upon it by chance. A few hours ago I was wondering what new bribe I might offer Death to postpone for a time the final settling of my account. Now I yearn for a chance to redeem my past follies, to add a new and more creditable chapter to my career. You have done me much good to-night, doctor! I feel better and happier at this moment than I have been for many years!

MIRSKY. Not too fast! Don’t be in too much of a hurry to deprive me of so profitable a patient.

D’OR. Have no fear, doctor—you shall have no occasion to regret the cure that you wrought here to-night.

MIRSKY. You are indeed a changed man—I am glad to see it. Good night, M. D’Or.

RAMANAND. [_To_ D’OR.] Good night, monsieur. [_He bows._]

D’OR. Good night! A pleasant ride back to the village! [_They go out, centre._ D’OR _examines the wilted flowers and laughs softly. He then goes over to the window and stands in the moonlight. He calls to the others below._] Good night! Good night! [_The sound of carriage wheels is heard._ EDITH _comes in, centre, and looks at_ D’OR _a few moments before speaking_.]

EDITH. You may catch cold at the window—

D’OR. [_Turning._] Miss Packard! I did not hear you enter.

EDITH. You are feeling much better?

D’OR. I am a new man to-night. Pray tell me, do you know if Eleanor Richmond is in India now?

EDITH. She is on her way to India. She wrote me from London that she would be at Port Said in a fortnight.

D’OR. Port Said! You have a letter from her?

EDITH. Yes. Do you know her?

D’OR. We were very good friends—many years ago, over in America. It seems so long ago—almost like another existence.

EDITH. Would you like to see her letter? It tells of her plans for the coming year.

D’OR. You are very kind—

EDITH. I shall fetch the letter; I am sure it will interest you. [_She goes off, right._]

D’OR. [_In meditation._] Fifteen years! It seems like a lifetime! A lifetime of hideous nightmare and delusion. Fifteen years! [_He paces the room._ EDITH _returns_.]

EDITH. Here is Miss Richmond’s letter.

D’OR. [_Takes the letter to the light and tries to read. His hand trembles. He speaks in an uncertain voice._] Won’t you read it for me?

EDITH. [_Reading._] ‘I am now in London with my secretary, Mr. Hanson, making final preparations for another year’s work in the Orient. Mr. Hanson’s wife and I have been buying great quantities of supplies to be shipped to the East. She is a most helpful woman—just another like’—[_A pause._]

D’OR. [_Softly._] ‘Like yourself.’

EDITH. [_Embarrassed, continues._] ‘From all reports the distress is even greater than before and we shall have to labor harder than ever to relieve the miseries of those unfortunate people. How my heart bleeds for them! I have found many good friends who have contributed generously to our fund, but the need is so great that we can never bring adequate relief. We can assist a little here and there, and instil new courage in those who are partly able to help themselves, but there is much that we can never hope to undertake. I wonder that I ever had the hardihood to attempt this work. Now it has become my mission in life and it means everything to me. We shall be at Port Said on the 25th, and shall spend two or three days there. I wish you could arrange to rejoin me this year. I recall our days of labor among the poor in New York and in Chicago. You were so very’—Oh! M. D’Or, won’t you read the rest?

D’OR. [_Taking the letter._] Too modest to sound your own praises? _[He reads in silence._] Very true, Miss Packard, what she says of you is indeed true. No wonder she wants you with her again. [_He reads._] ‘The work is a consecration—it has made life very sweet to me’—[_As he goes on_, EDITH _silently steals from the room by the centre door_.] ‘What a pleasure it is to bring the light of joy and gratitude into the eyes of others. In my devotion to their welfare I have tried to forget an early sorrow of my own’— [_He pauses, overcome with emotion. He looks up and sees that he is alone. His hand trembles as he holds the letter near the lamp._] ‘I hope we may soon meet again—time alone can tell.’ Time alone can tell! How that phrase brings back that last evening together in the garden—the legend on the sun-dial—‘Time will reveal all things.’—[_He rises and stands by the window, glancing over the letter in the moonlight._] ‘I have tried to forget an early sorrow of my own’—_Tried_ to forget! Eleanor! [_He gazes at the letter as the curtain slowly falls._]

EPILOG

[_A parlor in the Hotel Orient, Port Said, furnished as a writing-room for the guests. There is at the right a table with pens, ink, magazines, railway guides and folders. At the left a table with writing materials, blotters, etc. Each table is flanked by two chairs. There are also several comfortable armchairs and a revolving case with time-tables and other hotel literature. From the room a wide central entrance leads through glass doors to a porch with posted placards. There are exits right and left and a window on the left beside the door. The sun shines brightly through this window and also illumines the prospect from the porch. As the curtain rises_, MR. MATHEWS _enters at the centre and casts a critical eye over the room. He puts the papers, etc., into order at both tables and throws several soiled sheets into a wastebasket under the table on the right._ MR. HANSON _enters with a large bundle of letters and goes to the opposite table_.]

MATHEWS. Good morning, Mr. Hanson. I hope you slept well.

HANSON. Thank you, Mr. Mathews. My first night in Africa was one of undisturbed repose. What a lovely morning! Is such weather common in Egypt?

MATHEWS. It is during the season. We often have fine weather at this time of the year.

HANSON. Your hotel seems quite crowded.

MATHEWS. It filled up yesterday after the arrival of your steamer. Most of our guests are tourists who are on their way to Cairo and the Pyramids.

HANSON. Have you seen Miss Richmond this morning?

MATHEWS. Yes, she is now at breakfast. What a charming lady she is!

HANSON. One of Heaven’s good angels, I should say. My wife and I have been associated with her for two years in her American charities and in this India relief work. Her soul is wrapped up in it. You should see how people respond to her appeal for aid. [_He reads the mail as he talks.]_ One contribution after another. Our fellow-passengers on the ship raised a fund of one hundred pounds.

MATHEWS. That reminds me to give you this check on behalf of the management. [_He takes a check from his wallet._] We desire to show our interest in the cause.

HANSON. Thank you very much. I am certain your kindness will gratify Miss Richmond. [_He reads a letter with an enclosure._] Here’s a curious one! From the English missionary at Kermeh—‘ten pounds from our mission for the India relief fund.’ Where is Kermeh?

MATHEWS. It is far up the Nile—at the Third Cataract. That’s the sort of coöperation that counts; it shows that Miss Richmond’s noble work is known in the remotest regions. [_He takes out his check book and writes._] Mr. Hanson, I wish you would add this personal contribution to that of the management. I want to help a little.

HANSON. You are indeed generous. I wish the world could realize the nature of the task that Miss Richmond has undertaken—the feeding of impoverished thousands is but a small part of it. There are schools and hospitals to be provided—an effort is being made to raise the whole country to a better standard of living. The fever must be stamped out—[_Reads._] Twenty pounds—fifty pounds—Heaven bless them all. [_He takes up a telegram._] A dispatch from Paris. [_As he reads it, the paper trembles in his hand. He starts up with a cry._]

MATHEWS. What is the matter?

HANSON. [_Excitedly._] The matter! It’s too wonderful to be true. I doubt whether I’m awake! It can’t be possible—yet here it is, black on white. It’s like a voice from Heaven answering Miss Richmond’s prayer. [_Hands over the telegram._] Read it, Mr. Mathews.

MATHEWS. [_Reads._] ‘The Messrs. Blaustein have the honor to inform Miss Richmond that securities amounting to ten million pounds’—

HANSON. [_Wildly._] It does say ten million? I’m not dreaming?

MATHEWS. You’re wide awake—it’s ten million. I’m not familiar with the sum, but I know what the figures look like. [_He resumes reading._] ‘Securities amounting to ten million pounds have been deposited with them to form a permanent fund known as the Eleanor Richmond Fund, the income thereof to be expended in the interests of Miss Richmond’s great charities throughout the world. Provision is made that one hundred thousand pounds shall be immediately available for Miss Richmond’s relief work in India. The Messrs. Blaustein regret that they are not at liberty to mention the name of the donor, who prefers to remain anonymous because he wishes only one name to be associated with the fund—that of Miss Richmond herself.’ Did you ever hear anything like that before in your life, Mr. Hanson?

HANSON. [_Almost delirious._] Has there ever been anything like it before? It is stupendous! How can such a gift be kept secret! How can any human being give away ten million pounds without public recognition? Can you realize what burdens it will lift from Miss Richmond’s mind? She can now proceed safely with many noble enterprises which she has long hoped to carry out when funds were available. How she will rejoice at this wonderful answer to her prayers!

MATHEWS. [_Gravely._] By the way, Mr. Hanson, be careful in giving her the information. Good news may cause as severe a shock as bad news. Tell her gradually—

HANSON. You’re right. It’s a wonder it didn’t knock me over—I haven’t had my breakfast yet. I don’t believe a doctor would recommend hearing such news on an empty stomach. [_Enter_ ROBERT DORR _at the centre. He wears a plain sack suit and no jewelry of any sort. He seems alert and vigorous._ HANSON _continues to read the mail_.]

DORR. Good morning, Mr. Mathews.

MATHEWS. Good morning, Mr. Dorr. You are an early riser—the porter told me you went out at five o’clock for a stroll about the harbor.

DORR. I am enjoying the best of health. You must have observed the improvement in the four days that I have been here. The climate of Egypt is wonderful—bracing, invigorating!

MATHEWS. [_Drily._] Yes, just now—but wait till next summer!

DORR. I haven’t time to wait. I’ll take your word for it.

MATHEWS. By the way, Mr. Dorr, you ought to know Mr. Hanson, secretary to Miss Richmond. Mr. Hanson, Mr. Dorr. You are both Americans—

DORR. The best of reasons for our knowing each other, Mr. Hanson. I have heard of Miss Richmond’s splendid services for India. You have doubtless taken part in that work?

HANSON. Yes. Mrs. Hanson and I have been associated with Miss Richmond for several years. It has been a pleasure to help even a little in the great cause, but I’ve never been so happy as this morning. What do you think has happened?

DORR. I’m sure I never could guess.

HANSON. A noble hearted soul has established a fund of ten million pounds to carry on Miss Richmond’s work.

DORR. Ten millions! Who is your Crœsus?

HANSON. That’s the most remarkable part of it. He is as modest as he is magnanimous—he prefers to remain unknown.

DORR. What does Miss Richmond say?

MATHEWS. She doesn’t know it yet. The dispatch arrived from Paris this morning.

HANSON. It will be the happiest day of her life, I am sure.

DORR. How long do you remain at Port Said?

HANSON. Our steamer leaves day after to-morrow at ten. That reminds me, I must send off a note at once to the steamship office. You will pardon me? [_He goes to the table, left, and writes._]

MATHEWS. [_Beside the table._] Just look at that mail, Mr. Dorr—contributions coming in from all quarters. There are many hundred pounds in all, and yet how small that seems beside those ten millions! How would you like to be able to give such a donation?

DORR. [_Uncomfortably._] I—I think it would be very pleasant—I think I’d rather like it!

MATHEWS. I should say so! A man with such generous impulses should not hide his light—

DORR. [_Interrupting._] Pardon me, Mr. Mathews, have you a Bradshaw handy?

MATHEWS. [_Indicating to the table, right._] You will find one on that table. [_He crosses._] Here it is. [DORR _follows and takes a seat with his back to the others_. MATHEWS _turns to the back as if to go out and meets_ ELEANOR RICHMOND. _He comes front with her._ DORR _pretends to be reading his Bradshaw_.]

ELEANOR. Good morning, Mr. Mathews. It’s a full year since I was here. How have you been?

MATHEWS. Very well. I need not ask—

ELEANOR. [_Smiling._] Always well and busy. Perhaps I should say always well because I’m busy. What a lovely sunny morning. You seem to furnish such beautiful weather whenever I come to your hotel.

MATHEWS. I hope you will enjoy your stay here, Miss Richmond.

ELEANOR. I always do. I’m sorry it must be such a short stay, but you know—India is calling and I’m needed there. [_To_ HANSON.] Good morning, Hanson—have you breakfasted?

HANSON. Not yet, Miss Richmond—I’ve been looking over the mail. The fact is, I’m not at all hungry—

ELEANOR. You’re not getting ill, I hope? You seem strangely excited about something. Is the fever prevalent now, Mr. Mathews?

MATHEWS. No, indeed. I don’t think anything serious is the matter with Mr. Hanson. He is simply suffering from a slight shock.

ELEANOR. A shock! Why, what has happened?

HANSON. You see I was reading the mail—it’s a goodly batch of letters. Nearly all of them contain donations, both large and small—I was simply overcome by their generosity. Here is one from the English mission at Kermeh in the upper Nile valley. Mr. Mathews has given me a check on behalf of the management of the hotel and a personal contribution as well.

ELEANOR. [_Gratefully._] Thank you for your aid. It is an inspiration to find people everywhere so anxious to help! [_She has taken a seat at the table, left, her back to_ DORR. HANSON _is seated at her side and_ MATHEWS _is standing_.]

HANSON. [_Slowly and seriously._] Miss Richmond, you know that now and then there is an unusually large donation announced in the mail. [_She nods expectantly as she looks over the letters._] That happened this morning. [_A pause._] It is the most splendid gift that your cause has ever received. [_She drops the letters and looks eagerly at_ HANSON.] This is a trust fund, the interest of which is to be applied to your work. Do not be startled at the sum—it is very great. You remember last year the Earl of Shropshire gave—

ELEANOR. Ten thousand pounds—a munificent sum! And you say this is even more?

HANSON. [_Deliberately._] Conceive the Earl of Shropshire’s gift multiplied ten fold—a hundred fold—a thousand fold!

ELEANOR. [_Rising from her seat._] Hanson, what do you mean?

HANSON. [_Rising._] Miss Richmond, the amount is ten million pounds. [_A pause. She looks from_ HANSON _to_ MATHEWS. HANSON _gives her the dispatch. Tense silence as_ ELEANOR _reads it_. DORR _trembles, but does not look around. The paper shakes in_ ELEANOR’S _hand_.]

ELEANOR. [_Faintly._] Ten million pounds—a permanent fund—one hundred thousand pounds immediately available! [_She sinks into her chair._] Can this be true? It is like the realization of a fairy-dream. Hanson, I _must_ know the donor of this enormous fund—

HANSON. The dispatch says he prefers to remain anonymous.

ELEANOR. I must know. His name may be kept secret if he so desires, but I must see that man and thank him from the bottom of my heart for the good that he is doing. His bounty will reap a perpetual harvest—he must see for himself what his unparalleled generosity will accomplish.

HANSON. Shall I write to the Blausteins at Paris, asking that the donor’s name be communicated to you?

ELEANOR. No—I shall let you have a telegram for them. I want to know before I leave Port Said. What a wonderful day this is! You knew of it, Mr. Mathews?

MATHEWS. Mr. Hanson told me just before you came in. Let me say in all sincerity, it is the kind of support that your noble work has merited all along.

ELEANOR. It makes me happy past all understanding. We can achieve real results now—not temporary relief, but permanent progress. Won’t you get your breakfast, Hanson? I am forgetting all about you. No wonder you seemed so excited. I shall telegraph to the Blausteins at once. [_She reaches for a telegram pad and writes._]

HANSON. Very well. [_He gathers up the mail, leaving the dispatch from the Blausteins in_ ELEANOR’S _possession_.] Mr. Mathews, won’t you deposit these remittances in your safe for the present? [DORR _at his table writes out a check_.]

MATHEWS. Certainly. Can I be of further service, Miss Richmond?

ELEANOR. Not now, but I shall call upon you later. Let me thank you once more for your kindness! I must get off this dispatch at once.

MATHEWS. Let me know when I can serve you in any way. [_He goes off, centre, with_ HANSON. ELEANOR, _when alone at the table, reads the dispatch again, clasps it to her breast and looks upward in thankfulness. Trying to compose her own telegram, she once more reads the other and weeps softly as she does._ DORR _rises and turns towards her. She is trying to compose herself to write, but cannot._]

DORR. [_Advancing._] Pardon me, Miss Richmond—I should like to contribute a trifle to your fund. [_He hands her the check._]

ELEANOR. How good of—[_Looks intently at him._] why—I—[_In a whisper._] Bobbie Dorr!

DORR. Yes.

ELEANOR. Bobbie Dorr—in Egypt! Oh! what a surprise! Were you sitting over there reading that Bradshaw? I took you for an ill-mannered tourist!

DORR. And you recognized me at once—after fifteen years.

ELEANOR. Is it as long as that? Then you must not mention the fact again. You’ve grown broader and heavier, Bobbie—you look more sensible, too!

DORR. And you’re just the same charming Eleanor that you were in the old Lenox days.

ELEANOR. The idea of your saying such a thing! I just remarked that you seemed more sensible—now I am inclined to doubt it. What have you been doing all these years?

DORR. Wandering over the face of Europe and learning many things. I fear you have never forgiven me for the unceremonious way I cleared out after that dance of Aunt Martha’s. I sailed from New York a few hours after that—that last evening we spent together.

ELEANOR. I have never forgotten that evening, Bobbie. You seemed like a man possessed of some evil spirit. You remember how you raved about the power of wealth—

DORR. I meant it then. My money is practically all gone now.

ELEANOR. You have run through that great fortune of your grandfather’s? You have spent it all?

DORR. All but a very little—I couldn’t give you much of a contribution—

ELEANOR. [_Looking at the check._] How thoughtless of me! Here I have been holding your check all this time without even glancing at it. One thousand pounds! Generous as ever, Bobbie!

DORR. I’m sorry it isn’t more—

ELEANOR. [_Examining the signature._] What’s this? What a strange way of spelling your name!

DORR. I’ve been known as M. D’Or ever since I left America—it was simply a fancy of mine. Now that I’m through with my money, I shall be plain Bobbie Dorr hereafter.

ELEANOR. It certainly sounds better, Bobbie—more like old times. Do you know, I always felt that we should meet again and that you would tell me truly whether or not wealth can buy power—

DORR. It cannot, Eleanor, I admit that. I spent my money foolishly for the most part—that is, until recently, when I acquired more common sense—but I’m glad I’m done with it. Now I’m going to ask you a favor.

ELEANOR. What is it, Bobbie?

DORR. Won’t you take me along to India?

ELEANOR. Take you along to India! Why, this is no pleasure excursion. It means work—the hardest kind of work.

DORR. [_Dejectedly._] I know I don’t amount to much, but I thought I might serve as a second or third assistant secretary. [_Brightening._] I was watching your secretary this morning. When the mail comes in I might open the envelopes and hand them over to Mr. Hanson.

ELEANOR. And what then?

DORR. Well, I suppose I’d have to look out of the window until the next mail arrived. But, Eleanor, I’m serious about this—I’m no longer the frivolous youngster I was at Lenox.

ELEANOR. We’ve both seen a good bit of life since then, Bobbie. I became interested in charitable work, and my labors at home and in India have been crowned with great success. Did you hear us speak before of the wonderful good fortune that has just befallen us—the income of ten million pounds to be annually devoted to our cause? Isn’t it marvelous! I was just about to write in order to learn the name of the donor.

DORR. I shouldn’t ask the Blausteins about him—they won’t tell you anyway.

ELEANOR. How did you know it was the Blausteins? I didn’t mention their name.

DORR. Why, I—that is, Mr. Hanson happened to mention it to Mr. Mathews before you came in.

ELEANOR. And knowing that, you were willing to sit there in that cold-blooded manner reading your Bradshaw?

DORR. I didn’t want to take you by surprise. I wanted to give you a chance to hear what Mr. Hanson had to say before I forced my unworthy self on your attention.

ELEANOR. What Mr. Hanson had to say? It seems to me that you show very little enthusiasm over this wonderful endowment. I must discover the donor; won’t you help me?

DORR. I don’t see why you bother about him. He’s probably some eccentric old fellow—he must be a queer chap to turn over such a sum to a Board of Trustees—

ELEANOR. Board of Trustees—[_Reading the dispatch._] The dispatch says nothing about a Board of Trustees!

DORR. Doesn’t it? Well, you see, they usually do such things in that way. I inferred from what Mr. Hanson said to Mr. Mathews—

ELEANOR. [_Alert._] Bother Mr. Hanson and Mr. Mathews. [_Coming closer._] Bobbie Dorr, tell me the truth. You left us fifteen years ago to prove that wealth was power.

DORR. I know I made myself ridiculous. I believed then that humanity could be bought and sold like merchandise over a counter. For a time I succeeded after a fashion. I know better now. I confess my defeat.

ELEANOR. [_Watching him._] What did you do with that large fortune, Bobbie?

DORR. [_Evasively._] It’s all gone—no use crying over spilled milk. I’m rather poor now, and glad of it. There’s just enough left to provide for my wants. All the rest is gone. Why do you look at me so strangely? It’s all spent—that is, I got rid of it—I had no further use for it—I—gave it away—I—

ELEANOR. Bobbie! It was you!!

DORR. Eleanor, a few moments ago you remarked to Mr. Hanson that you wanted the donor of that fund to see what good it would accomplish. Now I—I’m willing to confess—provided you take me along to India.

ELEANOR. You have triumphed, after all! Wealth is power!

DORR. Only when such a noble soul as yours dispenses it. [_He takes her hand._] Give me a chance, Eleanor! May I go along to India?

ELEANOR. Yes. [_She picks up her half-finished dispatch to the Blausteins and smilingly they look at it as the curtain falls._]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Early Reviews of English Poets

EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION

BY

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