Leslie. What is my honour but your happiness? In what else does it consist? Is it in denying me my heart? is it in visiting another’s sin upon the innocent? Could I do that, and be my mother’s son? Could I do that, and bear my father’s name? Could I do that, and have ever been found worthy of you?
Mary. It is my duty . . . my duty. Why will you make it so hard for me? So hard, Walter so hard!
Leslie. Do I pursue you only for your good fortune, your beauty, the credit of your friends, your family’s good name? That were not love, and I love you. I love you, dearest, I love you. Friend, father, brother, husband . . . I must be all these to you. I am a man who can love well.
Mary. Silence . . . in pity! I cannot . . . O, I cannot bear it.
Leslie. And say it was I who had fallen. Say I had played my neck and lost it . . . that I were pushed by the law to the last limits of ignominy and despair. Whose love would sanctify my jail to me? whose pity would shine upon me in the dock? whose prayers would accompany me to the gallows? Whose but yours? Yours! . . . And you would entreat me—me!—to do what you shrink from even in thought, what you would die ere you attempted in deed!
Mary. Walter . . . on my knees . . . no more, no more!
Leslie. My wife! my wife! Here on my heart! It is I that must kneel . . . I that must kneel to you.
Mary. Dearest! . . . Husband! You forgive him? O, you forgive him?
Leslie. He is my brother now. Let me take you to our father. Come.