Fenwick. Betrayed?
Dorothy. Ay, even so; I was betrayed. The fault was mine that I forgot our innocent youth, and your honest love.
Fenwick. Dorothy, O Dorothy!
Dorothy. Yours is the pain; but, O John, think it is for your good. Think in England how many true maids may be waiting for your love, how many that can bring you a whole heart, and be a noble mother to your children, while your poor Diana, at the first touch, has proved all frailty. Go, go and be happy, and let me be patient. I have sinned.
Fenwick. By God, I’ll have his blood.
Dorothy. Stop! I love him. (Between Fenwick and door, C.)
Fenwick. What do I care? I loved you too. Little he thought of that, little either of you thought of that. His blood—I’ll have his blood!
Dorothy. You shall never know his name.
Fenwick. Know it? Do you think I cannot guess? Do you think I had not heard he followed you? Do you think I had not suffered—O, suffered! George Austin is the man. Dear shall he pay it!
Dorothy (at his feet). Pity me; spare me; spare your Dorothy! I love him—love him—love him!