To her, Fenwick, C.
Fenwick (after a pause). Is this how you receive me, Dorothy? Am I not welcome?—Shall I go then?
Dorothy (running to him, with hands outstretched). O no, John, not for me. (Turning and pointing to the necklace.) But you find me changed.
Fenwick (with a movement towards the necklace). This?
Dorothy. No, no, let it lie. That is a trinket—broken. But the old Dorothy is dead.
Fenwick. Dead, dear? Not to me.
Dorothy. Dead to you—dead to all men.
Fenwick. Dorothy, I loved you as a boy. There is not a meadow on Edenside but is dear to me for your sake, not a cottage but recalls your goodness, not a rock nor a tree but brings back something of the best and brightest youth man ever had. You were my teacher and my queen; I walked with you, I talked with you, I rode with you; I lived in your shadow; I saw with your eyes. You will never know, dear Dorothy, what you were to the dull boy you bore with; you will never know with what romance you filled my life, with what devotion, with what tenderness and honour. At night I lay awake and worshipped you; in my dreams I saw you, and you loved me; and you remember, when we told each other stories—you have not forgotten, dearest—that Princess Hawthorn that was still the heroine of mine: who was she? I was not bold enough to tell, but she was you! You, my virgin huntress, my Diana, my queen.
Dorothy. O silence, silence—pity!
Fenwick. No, dear; neither for your sake nor mine will I be silenced. I have begun; I must go on and finish, and put fortune to the touch. It was from you I learned honour, duty, piety, and love. I am as you made me, and I exist but to reverence and serve you. Why else have I come here, the length of England, my heart burning higher every mile, my very horse a clog to me?—why, but to ask you for my wife? Dorothy, you will not deny me?