ACT III.
Scene.—Interior of Druce’s cottage. Time, evening. Dorothy is discovered pale and weak, sitting by the fire, reading an old and tattered letter, her head resting in her hand. Dan’l discovered at back—he has a bundle and stick in his hand as if prepared for a journey. He is pale and anxious.
Dan. Eventide, and he’s not yet come to claim her. It’s weary waitin’ for a blow that is to fall, and we’ll wait no longer. It’s hard to have to creep away from the old forge, like a thief in the night, and begin the weary struggle anew, God knows where! But that it should ha’ come through him whom I loved like a son, and whom I’d ha’ taken to my heart as a son—it’s doubly hard it should ha’ come through him! (Looking at Dorothy.) Poor maiden! She thinks him false to her. Well, it’s better so. I’ll keep that thought alive; ’twill account for much that I may not explain. One word would lift that sorrow from her gentle heart; but it must not be spoke—not yet—not yet! (Aloud.) What art thou readin’, lass?
Dor. It is the letter he wrote to me from Morocco, two years since. I am bidding farewell to it ere I destroy it—for he is betrothed to another, and I may not keep it now. He spake to me in jest! Oh, father, it’s hard to bear.
Dan. Ay, ay—hard to bear, Dolly—hard to bear.
Dor. And to vaunt his unfaithfulness in the ears of a very stranger! It was a cruel boast—for I loved him with all my heart!
Dan. Better learn the truth now than later—as I did—as I did. Early fall, light fall, Dolly. When my sorrow come it had like to ha’ crushed the life out o’ me—but thou’rt young, my child, and time will heal thy wound.
Dor. If he had but known how I loved him,—but in truth I knew it not myself. It is hard to bear, for he had truth in his face, and I doubted nothing!
Dan. Trust no faces, Dolly—they lie—they lie.