March. Unfortunate! well, you are a queer one. Don’t I wish it was me? wouldn’t I make the money fly?
John Gale (outside, C.). March, March, must I wait all day for you, hay?
March. Hallo! I forgot I had a job on hand. Good-by Sept.,—poor unfortunate son of a millionnaire. (Exit, C.)
Sept. Sister! can I ever call her by that name; must I forever relinquish the hope of claiming her by a dearer title. No, no: I bear to her something warmer than a brother’s love. This cannot be: this man Raymond treated with scorn my overtures for the hand of his daughter. He can have no proof that I am his son,—nothing but the fact that his infant child was a passenger in the vessel that left me on the sands. He cannot claim me upon such a mere thread as this. Perhaps it is a plot to keep me quiet until his daughter is married to some wealthy suitor; and then how easy to discover his mistake, and cast me adrift in the world. Ah! here is Kate. (Kate, R.) Good-morning, sister.
Kate. Sister?
Sept. It sounds strange from my lips, does it not?
Kate. Indeed, it does, Sept.: you know I have never been called so before; and—and—
Sept. You expected once that I should use a dearer title.
Kate. Once—O Sept., Sept.! this is so strange. We were so happy yesterday, it seems like awakening from a glorious dream. That you should be fated to call me by the name of sister—it is cruel. I awoke last night, and saw the moonbeams stream in at my window. I arose, and looked out upon the night! the waters were calm and peaceful; the moon glistened upon the rocks, lighting the very spot where you and I sat last night, telling our future hopes. I know it was wicked; but I was so wretched, so miserable, I wished I was sleeping calm and still beneath the waves from which you rescued me, ere I had awakened to such misery as this.
Sept. Be calm, dear Kate: all will yet be well; I am not your brother.