Mary. Ah, Sally, ’twill be a happy day for you when Jarius Jordan musters up courage enough to ask you to be his wife. There’ll be a prompt answer on your part, I’ll warrant. (Enter Douglas, C.) And a happy life, which you so richly deserve, will be the sequel to this queer wooing. Heigho!
Douglas. (Who has crept up behind her chair.) That sigh was touching, Mary. Was it meant for me?
Mary. (Starting up.) Mr. Douglas! You here?
Douglas. Does that surprise you? Where should I be but in the presence of her I love—of the angelic being who has promised to be my wife? (Ned wakes, and, leaning on his elbow, listens.)
Mary. That was a great while ago.
Douglas. A year only. Surely you have not repented of your promise.
Mary. I have.
Douglas. Ho, ho! So this is the meaning of the coldness which I have felt creeping into our intercourse of late—you repent your promise!
Mary. Mr. Douglas, listen to me. A year ago I was a giddy girl, proud to be noticed by one so high in the social sphere as you. Your attentions to me, while other girls in vain sought to attract you, dazzled me, caused a fluttering in my silly bosom, which I then thought was love, and I gave you encouragement; nay, I will confess it, promised to be your wife. We were very happy here in our family circle then—very. But, alas! trouble came. You know how. My brother fled; our dear Ned was struck down; I became his nurse; by night and by day I watched by his couch; and in those long hours what could I do but think, think, think? I thought of the wide difference in our social position, how unsuited we were for each other—you, with your fine talents and rich connections, I, a poor girl, reared to hard work, with no knowledge of the world outside our little village; and then I looked into my heart, and somehow, I can’t explain it, I felt there was no love there; that I never could be happy as your wife; and so to-night I ask you to release me.