Mary. She’s very sick, Mr. Jordan. She keeps her room most of the time. My brother’s conduct, my father’s wild speculations, and the persistent wooing of Henry Douglas,—whom she detests,—have made her very miserable.
Jarius. Jes’ so. Wal, we’ll see if we can’t doctor her up. Now, Mary, the next time Douglas comes here don’t you be mealy-mouthed. Let him have it right and left. Tell him jest what you think of him, and defy him to do his worst.
Mary. I dare not. He is wicked enough to crush father with the mortgage he holds, and mean enough to kill mother by disclosing Will’s connection with the forged check.
Jarius. Let him do his worst, Mary. He’s a crafty chap, a-schemin to snare the old man and get your hand; but there’s a weak p’int somewhere in his net, and if I can find it I’ll holler.
Mary. I’ll obey you, Mr. Jordan. Only put an end to this terrible persecution, and you will make me happy.
Jarius. Jes’ so. Hullo! there’s Sally. Now I’ve got something particular to say to her, and if you don’t mind taking a hasty leave, I’ll be obliged to ye.
Mary. O, certainly. Ahem! Mr. Jordan, you’re sure you have the courage to speak now?
Jarius. Neow yeou git eout! Want to make a feller feel cheap—don’t yeou?
Mary. Ha, ha! Mr. Jordan, you’ve a brave heart, but you dare not ask her. See if I am not right. Good by. (Exit, R.)
Jarius. Darsn’t ask Sally to be my wife? Don’t think I’m such a blarsted fool neow. Arter staying away a year, guess I’ve about screwed my courage up to do it, or bust.