plays [36]
vanquished in a drawing-room, fought for a word; what else? As
if these were the meaning of life! Do not make me think so
poorly of all of us women. Sure, we can rise to admire a better
kind of man than Mr. Austin. We are not all to be snared with
the eye, dear aunt; and those that are - O! I know not whether I
more hate or pity them.
MISS FOSTER. You will give me leave, my niece: such talk is
neither becoming in a young lady nor creditable to your
understanding. The world was made a great while before Miss
Dorothy Musgrave; and you will do much better to ripen your
opinions, and in the meantime read your letter, which I perceive
you have not opened. (DOROTHY OPENS AND READS LETTER.) Barbara,
child, you should not listen at table.
BARBARA. Sure, madam, I hope I know my place.
MISS FOSTER. Then do not do it again.
DOROTHY. Poor John Fenwick! he coming here!
MISS FOSTER. Well, and why not? Dorothy, my darling child, you
give me pain. You never had but one chance, let me tell you
pointedly: and that was John Fenwick. If I were you, I would
not let my vanity so blind me. This is not the way to marry.
DOROTHY. Dear aunt, I shall never marry.
MISS FOSTER. A fiddlestick's end! every one must marry.
(RISING.) Are you for the Pantiles?
DOROTHY. Not to-day, dear,
MISS FOSTER. Well, well! have your wish, Dolorosa. Barbara,
attend and dress me.
SCENE III
DOROTHY
DOROTHY. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my poor blind aunt; and
I - I could break her heart with a word. That she should see
nothing, know nothing - there's where it kills. O, it is more
than I can bear . . . and yet, how much less than I deserve! Mad
girl, of what do I complain? that this dear innocent woman still
believes me good, still pierces me to the soul with trustfulness.
Alas, and were it otherwise, were her dear eyes opened to the
truth, what were left me but death? - He, too - she must still be
praising him, and every word is a lash upon my conscience. If I
could die of my secret: if I could cease - but one moment cease
- this living lie; if I could sleep and forget and be at rest! -
Poor John! (READING THE LETTER) he at least is guiltless; and yet
for my fault he too must suffer, he too must bear part in my
shame. Poor John Fenwick! Has he come back with the old story:
with what might have been, perhaps, had we stayed by Edenside?
Eden? yes, my Eden, from which I fell. O my old north country,
my old river - the river of my innocence, the old country of my
hopes - how could I endure to look on you now? And how to meet
John? - John, with the old love on his lips, the old, honest,
innocent, faithful heart! There was a Dorothy once who was not
unfit to ride with him, her heart as light as his, her life as
clear as the bright rivers we forded; he called her his Diana, he
crowned her so with rowan. Where is that Dorothy now? that
Diana? she that was everything to John? For O, I did him good;
I know I did him good; I will still believe I did him good: I
made him honest and kind and a true man; alas, and could not
guide myself! And now, how will he despise me! For he shall
know; if I die, he shall know all; I could not live, and not be
true with him. (SHE TAKES OUT THE NECKLACE AND LOOKS AT IT.)
That he should have bought me from my maid! George, George, that
you should have stooped to this! Basely as you have used me,
this is the basest. Perish the witness! (SHE TREADS THE TRINKET
UNDER FOOT.) Break, break like my heart, break like my hopes,
perish like my good name!
SCENE IV
To her, FENWICK, C.
FENWICK (AFTER A PAUSE). Is this how you receive me, Dorothy?
Am I not welcome? - Shall I go then?
DOROTHY (RUNNING TO HIM, WITH HANDS OUTSTRETCHED). O no, John,
not for me. (TURNING, AND POINTING TO THE NECKLACE.) But you
find me changed.
FENWICK (WITH A MOVEMENT TOWARDS THE NECKLACE). This?
DOROTHY. No, no, let it lie. That is a trinket - broken. But
the old Dorothy is dead.
FENWICK. Dead,