ETHEL [in a ringing voice]. His ancestors have fought with glory on every field of battle from Crecy and Agincourt to the Crimea.

PIKE. But you won't _see_ much of his _ancestors_.

ETHEL. He bears their name.

PIKE [with authority and dignity]. Yes--and it's the _name_ you want.

n.o.body could look at you and not know it wasn't _him_. It's the _name_!

And I'd let you buy it if it would make you happy--if you didn't have to take the people with it.

[A deepening of color in the light shows that it has grown to be late afternoon, near sunset.]

ETHEL [angrily]. The "people"?

PIKE. Yes; the whole gang. Can't you see how they're counting on it?

It's in their faces, in their ways! This Earl--don't you see he's counting on living on you? Do you think the son would get that settlement? Why, a Terre Hut pickpocket could get it away from _him_--let alone his old man! What do _you_ think would become of the "settlement"?

ETHEL. Part of it would go to the restoration of Hawcastle Hall and part to Glenwood Priory.

PIKE. Glenwood Priory?

ETHEL. That is part of the estate where Almeric and I will live until Lord Hawcastle's death.

PIKE. Then mighty little settlement would come around "Glenwood Priory"!

[Speaks the name as though grimly amused, and continues.]

And this old lady--this Mrs. Creech you been travelling with--

ETHEL [sharply]. Lady Creech!

PIKE. All right! Don't you think _she's_ counting on it? And this French lady that's with them; isn't she trying to land your brother? The whole crowd is on the track of John Simpson's money.

ETHEL. Silence! You have no right to traduce them. Do you place no value upon heredity, upon high birth?

PIKE. Why, I think so much of it that I know John Simpson's daughter doesn't need anybody else's to help her out.

[He comes toward her, looking at her with honest admiration.]

She's fine enough and I think she's sweet enough--and I know from the way she goes for me that she's _brave_ enough--to stand on her own feet!

ETHEL. This is beside the point; I know exactly what I want in life--[she has been somewhat moved by his last speech, is agitated, and a little breathless]--and I could not change now if it were otherwise. I gave Almeric my promise, it was forever, and I shall keep it.

PIKE. But you can't; I'm not going to let you.

ETHEL. I throw your interference to the winds. I shall absolutely disregard it. I shall marry without your consent.

PIKE [looking at her steadily]. Do you think _they'd_ let you?

ETHEL [in same tone]. I think _you'll_ let me [laughing], especially after this terrible letter.

PIKE. By-the-way, did you finish it?

[ETHEL looks at the letter, which she has continued to hold in her hand.]

ETHEL. I think so. [Turns the page.] No--it says "over."

[She turns the sheet--looks at it attentively for a moment--looks up, casts a quick glance of astonishment at PIKE.]

PIKE. Well, read it, please!

ETHEL. It appears to concern a matter quite personal to yourself.

[Embarra.s.sed, a.s.suming carelessness. Turns toward left as if to leave, replacing the letter in the envelope.]

PIKE [advancing to her, smiling]. I don't think I've got any secrets.

ETHEL [coldly]. Please remember, I have not read anything on the last page.

PIKE. Well, neither have I.

[Reaching his hand for the letter.]

ETHEL [more embarra.s.sed]. Oh!

[She drops the letter on the bench.]

[PIKE picks it up and walks slowly toward right, taking it from envelope. She stands looking after him with breathless amazement, far from hostile, yet half turned as if to go at once. PIKE, taking the letter out of the envelope, suddenly looks back at her. At this she is fl.u.s.tered and starts, but halts at sound of the "Fishermen's Song" in the distance. The sunset is deepening to golden red; the "Fishermen's Song" begins with mandolins and guitars, and then a number of voices are heard together.]

ETHEL. Listen: those are the fishermen coming home.

[PIKE stands in arrested att.i.tude, not having looked at the letter. The song, beginning faintly, grows louder, then slowly dies away in the distance. The two stand listening in deepening twilight.]

PIKE [as the voices cease to be heard]. It's mighty pretty, but it's kind of foreign and lonesome, too. [With a sad half-chuckle.] I'd rather hear something that sounded more like home. [A growing tremulousness in his voice.] I expect you've about forgot everything like that, haven't you?

ETHEL [gently]. Yes.

PIKE. Seems funny, now; but out on the ocean, coming here, I kept kind of looking forward to hearing you sing. I knew how high your pa had you educated in music, and, like the old fool I was, I kept thinking you'd sing for me some evening--"Sweet Genevieve" mebbe. You know it--don't you?

ETHEL [slowly]. "Sweet Genevieve?" I used to--but it's rather old-fashioned and common, isn't it?

PIKE. I expect so; I reckon mebbe that's the reason I like it so much.

[With an apologetic and pathetic laugh.]

Yes'm, it's my favorite. I couldn't--I couldn't get you to sing it for me before I go back home--could I?

ETHEL. I--I think not.