Will. ’Tis a lie! an infamous lie!
Mary. He said you denied it.
Will. We have never spoken concerning a check. I have had nothing to do with his money matters.
Mary. But you have parted?
Will. Because he wished me to testify falsely in a case in which he was concerned—to perjure myself. I refused; and for that reason, and that alone, we parted. Mary, I may be wild and reckless, but, believe me, I have never committed a crime—never.
Mary. I do believe you, Will. ’Tis but another proof of his perfidy.
Will. Never mind him, Mary. He’s not worthy of a thought. Tell me of father and mother. Are they well?
Mary. Ah, Will, your conduct has made them ten years older. Father will not allow your name to be mentioned, and mother, at his bidding, is silent; but her face is careworn, her step feeble, and the nervous start she gives when the door opens tells how anxiously she awaits your return. You will see her, Will?
Will. Not to-night, Mary. In an hour I must be on my way back to the city. Mary, I wish I had not come here. There’s a power in the old house that makes my heart ache, it awakens such memories! And mother, dear soul, how sadly her bright hopes of her boy have been shattered! Though I have dashed into the city, and been swept along by its hurry and whirl, I have often thought of this quiet house, and ached, fairly ached, to feel mother’s arms around my neck, and her goodnight kiss upon my brow. O, Mary, be tender, very tender with her. Don’t let her hear a word against me. Sometimes I think that fierce temptation will overwhelm me, ruin me, body and soul; and that would break her heart.
Mary. O, Will, stay with us. Here you are safe from all temptations.