Will. Quick enough. I’m off.
John. Then go; and, as you desert me, may you, in turn, be deserted. May all your plans fail you, your enterprises prove unsuccessful, poverty and ruin dog your steps, and life be to you a failure and a burden. Away, and bear with you a father’s bitter, bitter—
Mary. (Running to him, and putting her arms around his neck.) No, father, don’t say that, don’t say that! Poor boy, his will be a bitter life without his father’s curse.
TABLEAU.
Will in door, C., his left arm raised defiantly. Douglas has left hand on Will’s shoulder, his right hand in Will’s right, dragging him out. Jarius bending over Ned, R. John, L., with right hand raised; Mary, with her arms about his neck, looking into his face. Slow curtain.
ACT SECOND.
Scene.—Room in Nutter’s House. Lounge, R., on which Ned is lying asleep. Small table near lounge, at which Mary is seated, sewing. Lamp on table. Arm-chair, L. C. Table with plants, R. corner, back; if scenery is used, window in flat, R. C. Door, C., shut. Moonlight through window. Sally, asleep in arm-chair, L. C.
Mary. Poor fellow, he’s asleep at last. What a terrible year it has been for him! That cruel blow stretched him on a bed of sickness, from which we feared he never would rise. Only a good constitution and careful nursing have saved him from death, and saved Will from worse than death—the stain of murder. O, Will, if you only knew how we have fought to save you from that, how we have prayed for Ned’s recovery, your heart might be touched with remorse. Surely Henry Douglas must have told him of his danger. He says he has. But not a word, not a line comes from him. A whole year has passed. We have watched and waited. Mother’s once bright cheek has grown pale. Father, though he says not a word, starts at every footfall. But yet no sign of his return.
Sally. Now, Jarius, if you don’t stop, I’ll scream. Murder, murder! (Wakes.) Bless my soul! Have I been dreaming?