Dorothy. Ay, John, but I no longer love you. The old Dorothy is dead, God pardon her!
Fenwick. Dorothy, who is the man?
Dorothy. O poor Dorothy! O poor dead Dorothy! John, you found me breaking this: me, your Diana of the Fells, the Diana of your old romance by Edenside. Diana—O what a name for me! Do you see this trinket? It is a chapter in my life. A chapter, do I say? my whole life, for there is none to follow. John, you must bear with me, you must help me. I have that to tell—there is a secret—I have a secret, John—O, for God’s sake, understand. That Diana you revered—O John, John, you must never speak of love to me again.
Fenwick. What do you say? How dare you?
Dorothy. John, it is the truth. Your Diana, even she, she whom you so believed in, she who so believed in herself, came out into the world only to be broken. I met, here at the Wells, a man—why should I tell you his name? I met him, and I loved him. My heart was all his own; yet he was not content with that: he must intrigue to catch me, he must bribe my maid with this. (Throws the necklace on the table.) Did he love me? Well, John, he said he did; and be it so! He loved, he betrayed, and he has left me.
Fenwick. Betrayed?
Dorothy. Ay, even so; I was betrayed. The fault was mine that I forgot our innocent youth, and your honest love.
Fenwick. Dorothy, O Dorothy!
Dorothy. Yours is the pain; but, O John, think it is for your good. Think in England how many true maids may be waiting for your love, haw many that can bring you a whole heart, and be a noble mother to your children, while your poor Diana, at the first touch, has proved all frailty. Go, go and be happy, and let me be patient. I have sinned.
Fenwick. By God, I’ll have his blood.