Leslie. There are worse things in the world than death. There is O . . . Mary, he is your brother!
Mary. What? Dishonour! . . . The Deacon! . . . My God!
Leslie. My wife, my wife!
Mary. No, no! Keep away from me. Don’t touch me. I’m not fit . . . not fit to be near you. What has he done? I am his sister. Tell me the worst. Tell me the worst at once.
Leslie. That, if God wills, dear, that you shall never know. Whatever it be, think that I knew it all, and only loved you better; think that your true husband is with you, and you are not to bear it alone.
Mary. My husband? . . . Never.
Leslie. Mary . . . !
Mary. You forget, you forget what I am. I am his sister. I owe him a lifetime of happiness and love; I owe him even you. And whatever his fault, however ruinous his disgrace, he is my brother—my own brother—and my place is still with him.
Leslie. Your place is with me—is with your husband. With me, with me; and for his sake most of all. What can you do for him alone? how can you help him alone? It wrings my heart to think how little. But together is different. Together . . . I join my strength, my will, my courage to your own, and together we may save him.
Mary. All that is over. Once I was blessed among women. I was my father’s daughter, my brother loved me, I lived to be your wife. Now . . . ! My father is dead, my brother is shamed; and you . . . O how could I face the world, how could I endure myself, if I preferred my happiness to your honour?