DOROTHY DOROTHY. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my poor blind aunt; and I—I could break her heart with a word. That she should see nothing, know nothing—there’s where it kills. O, it is more than I can bear . . . and yet, how much less than I deserve! Mad girl, of what do I complain? that this dear innocent woman still believes me good, still pierces me to the soul with trustfulness. Alas, and were it otherwise, were her dear eyes opened to the truth, what were left me but death?—He, too—she must still be praising him, and every word is a lash upon my conscience. If I could die of my secret: if I could cease—but one moment cease—this living lie; if I could sleep and forget and be at rest!—Poor John! (_reading the letter_) he at least is guiltless; and yet for my fault he too must suffer, he too must bear part in my shame. Poor John Fenwick! Has he come back with the old story: with what might have been, perhaps, had we stayed by Edenside? Eden? yes, my Eden, from which I fell. O my old north country, my old river—the river of my innocence, the old country of my hopes—how could I endure to look on you now? And how to meet John?—John, with the old love on his lips, the old, honest, innocent, faithful heart! There was a Dorothy once who was not unfit to ride with him, her heart as light as his, her life as clear as the bright rivers we forded; he called her his Diana, he crowned her so with rowan. Where is that Dorothy now? that Diana? she that was everything to John? For O, I did him good; I know I did him good; I will still believe I did him good: I made him honest and kind and a true man; alas, and could not guide myself! And now, how will he despise me! For he shall know; if I die, he shall know all; I could not live, and not be true with him. (_She takes out the necklace and looks at it_.) That he should have bought me from my maid! George, George, that you should have stooped to this! Basely as you have used me, this is the basest. Perish the witness! (_She treads the trinket under foot_.) Break, break like my heart, break like my hopes, perish like my good name! SCENE IV _To her_, FENWICK, _C._ FENWICK (_after a pause_). Is this how you receive me, Dorothy? Am I not welcome?—Shall I go then? DOROTHY (_running to him_, _with hands outstretched_). O no, John, not for me. (_Turning_, _and pointing to the necklace_.) But you find me changed. FENWICK (_with a movement towards the necklace_). This? DOROTHY. No, no, let it lie. That is a trinket—broken. But the old Dorothy is dead. FENWICK. Dead, dear? Not to me. DOROTHY. Dead to you—dead to all men.