Laura. (Aside.) It's too dangerous. She certainly would reveal me sooner or later. I must send her back.
Peach. Besides, I've got something to tell you. Dreadful! dread ful! about old Judas and Byke—a secret.
Laura. A secret! what in the world are you saying?
Peach. Is it wicked to listen at doors when people talk?
Laura. It is very wicked.
Peach. Well, I suppose that's why I did it, I used to listen to Byke and Judas when they used to talk about a rich lady whom they called Mrs. Courtland.
Laura. Ah!
Peach. Judas used to be a nurse at Mrs. Courtland's, and was turned off for stealing. And wasn't she and Byke going to make money off her! and Byke was to pretend to be some beautiful lady's father. Then, when they took you, Judas says to me: "Did you ever hear of children being changed in their cradles?"—and that you wasn't her child, but she was going to make money off the real one at the proper time.
Laura. What do you tell me?
Peach. Oh! I m not crazy. I know a heap, don't I? And I want you to think I m somebody, and not send me away.
Laura. (To herself.) She must speak the truth. And yet if I were to repeat her strange words here, I should be suspected of forging some tale to abuse the ear of society. No! better let it rest as it is. She must go—and I must go too.
Peach. You ain't mad with me?
Laura. No, no; but you must go away from here. Go back to the hotel to your friend—anywhere, and wait for me; I will come to you.
Peach. Is it a promise?
Laura. (Nervously.) Yes, go.
Peach. Then I'll go; for I know you always keep your word—you ain't angry, cause I came after you? I did it because I loved you because I wanted to see you put in the right place. Honor bright, you ain't sending me away now? Well, I'll go; good bye!
Laura. (Animated.) I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk there. It is dangerous enough to to concealed here, with a hundred Argus-eyed women about me every day, but with this girl, detection would be certain. I must go—secretly if I can—openly if I must.
Ray. (Outside.) No, I shall not ride again. Put him up. (Entering.) Laura, I knew I should find you here.
Laura. (Sitting and pretending composure.) I thought you had gone with Pearl?
Ray. I did go part of the way, but I left the party a mile down the road?
Laura. You and Pearl had no disagreement?
Ray. No—yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers always stand at "cloudy" and "overcast."
Laura. (Rising.) And whose fault is that?
Ray. (Pettishly.) Not mine. I know I do all I can—I say all I can—but she— (Crossing.)
Laura. But she is to be your wife. Ray—my friend—courtship is the text from which the whole solemn sermon of married life takes its theme. Do not let yours be discontented and unhappy.
