Jas. I am sorry for you—but you have brought this grief upon yourself; you have been guilty of gross injustice both to myself and to the girl.
Dan. (furious). What!
Jas. Knowing as you did that enquiries would certainly be made for the child, you nevertheless stole away from the town, and left no clue whatever as to your destination.
Dan. Knowin’ as I did! How did I know—what was there for to tell me? Was it the love that her father showed for her when he left her to perish on that stormy Norfolk coast? Did that reckless profligate set such value on his treasure as to make it so sure he would ever come for it agen? Why, he set his life afore hers! That he might live he left her to die! Why, she was well quit of such a father! Take her from me, Jasper Combe, if thou’st the heart to do it—but do it wi’ a shut mouth; for God knows, with all my sins—and they’re many—I done my duty by her!
Jas. Dan’l, I spake harshly—I am sorry for it. You are right. That she was not my own child, but a step-child, matters nothing. I loved her mother dearly. It was my duty to protect the child, and I basely forsook my trust. But for this misdeed I have suffered bitterly. It killed her poor mother, who loved her beyond measure, and on her deathbed I swore to search out the child that I might make amends—and now that after many years of weary searching I have found her, shall I yield her up, even to you? Come, Dan’l, be just, and ask yourself this.
Dan. I have nowt to say agin it, sir. It’s right—but it’s ower hard—it’s ower hard! (Calls.) Dorothy, my child, come hither.
Enter Dorothy.
(To Sir Jasper.) I ask your pardon, sir, if I call her my child still, for she’s bin more than that to me! (To Dorothy.) Dolly, my lass, there’s a change in store for thee—a grand change; thou’rt a lady, ay, a great lady, too. I allers knowed thou wast a lady. (To Sir Jasper.) She doan’t talk like us common folk, sir! This gentleman, Sir Jasper Combe—he’s come to claim thee—he’s thy father, Dolly—think o’ that! And he’s—he’s goin’ to take thee from me—only to Combe-Raven, Dolly, where I’ll come and see thee often. (To Sir Jasper.) Thou’lt let me come and see her odd times? (To Dorothy.) And thou’lt come and see me, and there’ll be grand doins then, eh, Dolly? There, there, go to thy father—he’ll be a kind father to thee, and he’ll love thee well, never doubt it—and—and I shall love thee too, and thou’lt have two fathers ’stead o’ one, Dolly, that’s all! (She is about to speak.) Doan’t speak! doan’t speak; for God’s sake, doan’t speak! (He rushes out. Dorothy stands dumb with surprise.)
Jas. Dorothy, my child, I am indeed he who should stand to thee in the place of a father. I know that I seem to thee to be doing a hard thing—for thou hast learnt to love him, and he hath earned thy love. But, Dorothy, I am childless and alone, wealthy, honoured, and of good repute, yet alone in my old age. Dorothy, come to me—come to me!
Dor. (who has been sobbing through this speech). Oh, sir, forgive me if I seem to speak thoughtlessly, for I am but a poor untaught girl, and I know not how to reply. He has been so good to me, and I love him with all the love of my heart. Oh, sir, it cannot be that after these long years of tender love I am to be taken from him now. Oh, it will kill him! Have pity on him, sir, for it will kill him! I cannot leave him now. I am the very light of his eyes—the very heart of his life (sobbing)—I cannot leave him now! Oh, sir, if thou hast no care for him, yet for the love of my mother have pity upon me!