Dan. Poor child, poor child! My heart smites me for deceivin’ her—for harmful as he’s been to me, he never had thought for aught but her. I’m a’most sorry I was so rough wi’ him—he did not know—but the harm’s done, and there’s no undoin’ it! So, old forge, the time has come when thou and I must part for ever! May he who comes arter me have as good cause to love thee as I have, for I have been ower happy here! (Weeping.)
Reuben has entered and overheard the last few lines.
Reu. What, Dan’l Druce on the eve of a journey? Nay, thou’lt take no journey to-night, I promise thee. Unstrap thy pack and burn thy staff; for thou’lt eat here, drink here, sleep here, make money here, lose money here, laugh with joy, frown with anger, groan with pain—mope here, sicken here, dwindle here, and die here; take an old warrior’s word for it!
Dan. Reuben Haines, art thou here to take her from me?
Reu. No, Master Dan’l, I am not here to take her from thee—and yet, in a sense, yes, Master Dan’l, I am here to take her from thee. Weigh these words well, and store them away in the museum of thy mind, for they are rare words—containing, as they do, truth commingled with wisdom, which is an observable union, as these qualities consort but rarely together—for he hath no wisdom who tells the plain truth, and he hath no need to tell the plain truth who hath wisdom enough to do without it. It is a paradox.
Dan. (impatiently). To the devil wi’ thy chop-logic, I canna wait for it. Speak out, and let me know the best and the worst. Does—does thy master know?
Reu. He does not know, as yet. And why does he not know? Because the mighty should be merciful—and I have refrained.
Dan. If thou art not mocking at my sorrow, speak plainly.
Reu. Then observe. I am a Potent Magician, or, if thou preferrest it, a Benevolent Fairy, who hath certain gifts to dispose of. On the one hand, I have Family Union, Domestic Happiness, and Snug Old Age—on the other, Blank Misery, Abject Despair, and Desolation, utter and complete. Which shall I give to Sir Jasper, and which to thee? Now, I am a pleasant old gentleman—well to do—not so very old neither, yet old enough to marry. Dorothy and I are good friends; she listens to me when I talk, which many won’t; it is a good sign and augurs well, for I love a good listener. How say you? Come, give me thy daughter, and I will give thee Sir Jasper’s daughter. (Aside.) Ha! ha! It is neatly put. It is a quip.