March. Well, you jest wait until I get my wood, and I’ll fix ’em for you. Come along. (Exit Kitty and March, L.)
John. It strikes me, that March has a mighty fancy for our Kitty. Who knows but what there’ll be a wedding here some of these days? I say, Mr. Raymond, you’ll excuse me, but I must look arter my boat. (Exit, C.)
Ray. Oh, never mind me! Twenty-three years ago! What revelation can fate have in store for me? Twenty-three years ago, I was the possessor of a young and beautiful wife. Travelling in France, I was hastily summoned to America, and obliged to leave my wife, with her infant child, to follow me: she took passage in the ship Diana, in the summer of ’31: the vessel was never more heard of. Every inquiry was made, but no intelligence could be obtained. What was also remarkable, the ship Gladiator, which sailed from Havre on the same day, met a like mysterious fate. These boys found on the sands,—can they be connected with this history? Strange, strange, I never heard of this circumstance! But twenty years ago communication was more difficult than now; and that dreadful winter the fearful losses by storm were never known. New ties,—another wife,—she, too, gone,—a daughter loving and beloved,—have stilled the longings to gain tidings of the fate of the lost one: but this strange history awakens a desire to learn more. I have watched them attentively, but can see no resemblance to my lost wife in either of their faces. Yet something tells me that this strange meeting—this desolate place—the wrecks—the children—cannot be accidental. I will be calm, and watch and wait: for I believe that in one of these boys I shall find my lost son. (Exit, R.) (Enter March, C., with an armful of wood, in time to hear the last words. He drops the wood.)
March. It’s coming, it’s coming! Hold me, somebody! Hold me, especially my head, for I hear strange sounds! I hear the roll of carriage-wheels, and oh, there’s a piebald horse gave me a thundering kick in the head! What did he say? “one of these boys must be his lost son.” So, so! he’s got a lost son; and I’ve got a lost father, somewhere. I shouldn’t wonder if we found out we were related. I’ve seen quite a resemblance between Mr. Raymond and myself,—the same aristocratic air. Suppose it should be—oh! it must be,—I never could have been left out in that cold sand, hungry and wet, for nothing. Won’t it be gay? I long for the time when he will disclose himself. I knew he never could have come to this desolate spot for nothing. And now it’s all out. (Enter Mrs. G., L.)
Mrs. Gale. Yes, it is all out, you lazy scamp! Didn’t I tell you to put the wood on the fire?
March. (Picking up wood he dropped.) Now, don’t scold, Mother Gale. There’s a fire here (hand on heart).
Mrs. Gale (at fireplace). I tell you, there’s no fire here. What are you thinking of?
March (placing wood on fire). “I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls.”
Mrs. Gale. Marble fiddlesticks! O March, March! you’ll never set the river afire!
March. Won’t I, Mother Gale? You may be sure of one thing: I shan’t try in a hurry. Shall I tell her? no; I will keep silence, least I interfere with his plans. (Enter Kitty, L.)