ACT I.

I TELL you, Markam, 'tis impoſſible! I neither can, nor will believe it. What! Charlotte Melville! The companion of my youth, the confidant of my heart! could ſhe form a connection ſo unworthy of herſelf! I ſay again, it muſt be impoſſible.

To be ſure, Ma'am, if you don't chuſe to believe it, I can't undertake to convince your Ladyſhip; but I think the proofs are ſufficiently ſtrong, on my ſide of the queſtion—and if I had ſuch a huſband—

Learn to ſpeak with more reſpect of Lord Seaton, Markam.

I beg pardon, Ma'am, but I was in a little ſort of flurry, to think of your Ladyſhip's being ſo ungratefully uſed, by—

Stop, I command you.

Why, Ma'am, if your Ladyſhip won't hear what one has to ſay, you can never expect to come at the truth, ſurely.

That, however, I wiſh to learn; therefore, now tell me upon what circumſtances you ground your ſuſpicions?

In the firſt place, Ma'am, did not Miſs Melville elope, as it were, from this houſe, with⯑out ſo much as letting me know where ſhe was going to, juſt a few days before you were married?

I can account for Charlotte's quitting me, at that time, but too well, Markam!

May be, Ma'am, you can account for her clandeſtine correſpondence with my Lord, alſo.

A clandeſtine correſpondence with Lord Seaton! What do you mean, Markam?

Mean! I mean what I ſay, Ma'am. Theſe very eyes ſaw her receive a letter from him.

Not from my Lord—From Lord Seaton, Markam!

Yes, Ma'am, from your Ladyſhip's Lord—Lord Seaton.

Now you indeed amaze me!

She was ſitting in the very next room, juſt there at the harpſichord—and ſweetly ſhe does play, to be ſure—I happened to be ſtanding in this very ſpot, ſettling the toilette, Ma'am—I love a little muſic dearly, and I did ſtop to liſten, I own; but without thinking any ſort of harm, [3] heaven knows;—for I then took her to be as in⯑nocent as the child unborn—when—

So I ſtill wiſh to think her. But proceed.

When, as I was ſaying, Ma'am, in ſteps my Lord; and with the very ſame ſort of bow that he uſed to make to your Ladyſhip—for you know he was courting, at that time—Miſs Melville, ſaid he, I have long languiſhed—yes— languiſhed was the word, Ma'am, for an opportu⯑nity of ſpeaking to you, upon a ſubject of the utmoſt importance to my happineſs.

What ſubject?

Why that, indeed, he did not di⯑rectly ſay, Ma'am;—but really, I don't think it ſo very difficult to gueſs. But you ſhall hear, Ma'am—Whereabouts was I? O, where he lan⯑guiſhed for an opportunity; but deſpairing to find one, continued he, I have taken the liberty of conveying my ſentiments to you in writing. So ſaying he laid a letter down upon the harpſichord, and I made the beſt of my way out of this room, for fear of being ſeen.

Grant all this to be true, it does not prove her guilty.

She had no need to bluſh, then, if ſhe was innocent; and I warrant your Ladyſhip that her face was as red as your Morro ſatin, all the while my Lord was talking to her; though it is naturally pure and pale, you know, at any other time. I never was deceived in looks, in my life; and it was by Dolly Sly, the houſemaid's bluſhing, that I found out the affair between her and George the groom, laſt ſummer.

Drop your abſurd compariſons, and tell me, Markam, why you did not mention this [4] circumſtance to me, before I was married? It might have ſerved me, then!

Why really, Ma'am, it would have been a very indiſcreet thing in me, and contrary to my own intereſt, as well as your Ladyſhip's, to have made miſchief between my Lord and you, be⯑fore you were married. It might have broken off the match, perhaps, and then every ſervant in the houſe would have been a loſer, as well as I, Ma'am. But when once the wedding ſhould be over, and all ſecured, I reſolved to watch her cloſely, and if I ſaw any thing wrong, to acquaint your Ladyſhip with it then, when it could do no harm. But they have been too cunning for us, this trip. For to be ſure and certain, ſhe is now with my Lord, at his houſe in the country.

Impoſſible! I will not liſten to this idle tale, ſpun out of your own imagination, with⯑out a ſingle proof or even probable concluſion to ſupport it. Again I tell you that you are deceiv⯑ed, and that Miſs Melville's tenderneſs for me ad⯑mits of no diſpute.

Her tenderneſs, indeed? A plague on all ſuch tenderneſs, I ſay.

You grow intemperate, Markam. Leave me, and order Thomas to try at every ſtand in London, to find out the chair that carried Miſs Melville from this houſe.

It is above a month ago, ſince ſhe left us, and I mightily doubt whether Thomas will be able to recollect either the chairmen or their num⯑ber, at this diſtance.

Do as I direct, without ſurmiſes.

I'll ſend Thomas, inſtantly, Ma'am. (A pretty ſort of wild gooſe chace, truly.

)

This affair of the letter has tended but too much to convince me of my Lord's at⯑tachment to Charlotte—but how is ſhe to blame? Did ſhe take advantage of his paſſion for her, or ſtrive to ſupplant me in his heart? O! no, I only am in fault.—My ill-timed coldneſs and reſerve ba⯑niſhed my friend, and has deprived me of that more than ſiſterly affection which had ever ſubſiſted be⯑tween us. I will not reſt till I atone my conduct towards her; for in ſpite of all that Markam ſays, my heart by ſympathy aſſures me of her inno⯑cence.

My Lord, Ma'am, is juſt arrived. (I hope ſhe'll be in a better humour, now, ſince he is returned.

)

And how does he look, pray? He has been abſent, I think, theſe ten days.

Look! Ma'am—Why juſt as he uſed to do, to be ſure.—Ten days! Why what is that in a gentleman's life, Ma'am? Though truly your Ladyſhip has moped yourſelf pale again, in that time, with fretting about him, and that plaguy Miſs Melville.

Be ſilent, I command you.

(What the duce makes her ſo croſs, of late? one had as good be dumb, if they are not allowed to ſpeak.

)

And where is my Lord? did he aſk for me?

He was following me up to wait on you, Ma'am, when Colonel Ramſay, juſt arrived from abroad, came into the houſe.

Colonel Ramſay! what ſhall I ſay to him, or how account for Charlotte's abrupt de⯑parture from my houſe?

In truth, Ma'am, if I was you, I'd throw all the blame on Miſs Melville; for I am ſure, that your Ladyſhip never uſed her ill, in the leaſt, but was as civil and diſtant to her, latterly, as if ſhe had been a ducheſs.

That was the worſt of uſage, Mar⯑kam, but retire—

My deareſt Lord.

My dear, your moſt obedient.

So cold and diſtant!

Though my congratulations come late, I hope you will permit me to give you joy, Madam, and accept my beſt wiſhes for your Ladyſhip's happineſs.

I am much obliged to you, Co⯑lonel.

Pray, Madam, how does our fair friend? After ſo long an abſence may I not be permitted the pleaſure of ſeeing Miſs Melville?

I wiſh, Sir, both for your ſake and hers, that this was in my power; but—

You alarm me, Madam. Where is Miſs Melville?

Indeed, Sir, I know not; but much wiſh I did, for my own ſake.

Surely, Madam, if ſhe hath withdrawn herſelf from your protection, ſhe muſt have had ſome very extraordinary reaſons for it.

Female friendſhips, you know, Charles, are not among the perennials of life.

That is a mere common-place reflection, my Lord, adapted only to the very triflers of the ſex. I have been acquainted with Miſs Melville, even from her infancy, and never knew any per⯑ſon more intirely governed by ſenſe, prudence, and proper affections.

Why, Colonel, you are entering in⯑to a ſerious defence of one whom I had not the leaſt deſign of accuſing.—There are two ladies in the queſtion, you know; and if either was to blame, mine might, poſſibly, be the one in fault; for I have not been able to diſcover any ſymptoms of infallibility, in her Ladyſhip, yet.

I pretend not to perfection, my Lord, but hope I am incapable of acting—

Wrong.—Doubtleſs, Madam. But errors in judgment, I ſuppoſe, you'l admit to be the common lot of frail mortality.

I feel it ſeverely, in myſelf, my Lord, but cannot, however, avoid thinking it cruel to add to the diſtreſs I am already ſenſible of on Miſs Melville's account.

Quite barbarous, I confeſs, Madam, —but huſbands are ſavages, it ſeems.

I neither ſaid, nor thought ſo, my Lord; but I have done.

Charles, you'l dine with us, to-day.

I join in the requeſt, Sir.

I ſhall attend your Ladyſhip.

Are there any letters for me, Lady Seaton?

There are ſome, my Lord, ſhall I ſend them to you?

Yes, if you pleaſe.

May I preſume, my Lord, upon the pri⯑vilege of former friendſhip, to ſpeak my ſentiments freely to you, on the preſent occaſion?

Why, I think, Charles, that this ſame former friendſhip you hint at, has rendered us ſo thoroughly acquainted with each other, that I am not to expect any thing very new, in the ſen⯑timental dialect, I ſuppoſe, at preſent. But pro⯑ceed—a ſtory may be good, though 'tis an old one.

Why then, my Lord, I will frankly con⯑feſs to you that I feel myſelf hurt at your beha⯑viour to Lady Seaton, juſt now.

Why that is pretty conciſe, truly, Colonel.

Remember, my Lord, the condition ſti⯑pulated, and then ſuffer me to tell you, that there is ſomething ſo unmanly, in treating a woman ill, eſpecially one within our power, that had I not been a witneſs to the unpoliteneſs, I ſhall only ſay, of your ſpeech and manner toward Lady Seaton, I could never have given credit to it.

Well, well, Charles, I believe I might have behaved a little too harſhly to her La⯑dyſhip, upon this occaſion; but I own I was diſ⯑pleaſed at her ſeeming to caſt the blame of her quitting the houſe, upon the dear girl—

What girl, my Lord? You do not ſpeak of Miſs Melville, ſure.

Miſs Melville! O! no, no—my wife—'twas her I meant—dear fooliſh girl, I ſay, to quarrel with her friend.

So then, my Lord, you think that ſhe did quarrel with her.

Why, you can't ſuppoſe, Colonel, that there could poſſibly have been any other reaſon for Miſs Melville's quitting Lady Seaton's houſe. For my own part—

Nay, my Lord, I know not what to think; but as there appears to be ſome ſort of myſ⯑tery, in this affair, I ſhall write to my ſiſter, Mrs. Freeman, this night, between whom and Lady Seaton her affections were equally divided, and with whom I hope ſhe is, at preſent. Two years abſence have left me ſcarce any other clue to trace her by. But I ſhall never ceaſe from the purſuit, till I have recovered my loſt treaſure, the lovely Charlotte.

Tho' you ſhould find her, Colonel, ſhe may, poſſibly, be loſt to you—Two years con⯑ſtancy to an abſent lover, Charles! How can you be ſo unconſcionable to expect it?

I have not the leaſt doubt of it, my Lord, nor ſhall I ever ſuſpect my miſtreſs of inconſtancy, or my friend of infidelity, 'till I detect a failure in my own heart, that may warrant theirs. I neither love, nor like, lightly, my Lord, and of courſe, do not lightly change.

I am glad to hear it, Charles, as I think I may now venture to introduce you, this evening, to a very fine woman, who may, poſſibly, put your boaſted conſtancy to the trial.

I wiſh, both for Lady Seaton's ſake, and your own, my Lord, that your heart was as much proof againſt the allurements of profligate beauty, as mine is. But I have no leiſure to make the ex⯑periment you mention, at preſent, as every mo⯑ment of my time ſhall be devoted to my ſearch after Miſs Melville.

I rather fancy you doubt your own ſtrength, Colonel, and would not afford me the triumph of diſcovering your weakneſs. But 'tis worth the hazard, believe me, Charles.

Your Lordſhip muſt excuſe me. I have better purpoſes for my love and youth, than to ſacrifice them on Circe's altar.

You muſt certainly have ſtruck out ſome very unmodern tour for yourſelf, Charles, to have brought home ſuch an antique moral as this from your travels.

In this my Lord—

I tell you, 'tis a much finer hand, that ever you wrote, even before you wore ſpectacles.

Not a word more on this ſubject, Charles—Here comes the Governor, my wife's uncle, and for your entertainment I hope his um⯑bra, his ſecretary, his valet de chambre, or what⯑ever elſe he pleaſes to call him, is with him; for I really think he is as great a curioſity as has ever been imported from the coaſt of Cor [...]mandel.

There muſt certainly be ſomething extra⯑ordinary in a perſon who has contrived to unite, in a ſingle individual, ſuch a plurality of characters, a [...] I ſhould be glad to know ſomething more of him.

He was originally a country ſchool-maſter, whom the Governor carried with him to India, and there uſed him as his private ſecretary; but on his return to England, having no further occaſion for him, in that capacity, he has now de⯑graded him to the ſtate of his valet de chambre; [11] while the mortified pride of poor propria quae ma⯑ribus, makes him affect to ſhew his learning, upon all occaſions, to vindicate a ſuperiority over his maſter.

I am glad your Lordſhip is come home again. Here has been as much ſighing and groan⯑ing, as if you had gone an India voyage, to take a tilting-bout with Heyder-Ally—Do you know that fellow, Captain? He's a ſtout buck, I aſſure you.

No, Sir, I have only heard of his fame.

I have ſome letters for you, Nephew—I took them from Mrs. Markam, as ſhe was bring⯑ing them hither, about a quarter of an hour ago, being impatient to know if your Lordſhip had any accounts from Madraſs, or Bombay.—Early Intel⯑ligence is of the laſt conſequence to us poor pid⯑dlers in the Stocks.—A man may make ſome thou⯑ſands by it in a morning, you know, Captain.

I am utterly unacquainted with the buſi⯑neſs of the Alley, Sir.

(Then I would not give a ſingle rupee for your knowledge.

)

But where are my letters, Gover⯑nor?

Safe enough, I'll warrant you.

Look at that hand, Ne⯑phew, I'll be hang'd if any of your correſpondents write ſuch another. Pray obſerve the ll's, and the rr's of it—Curious, indeed!

I am only curious about the matter, and not the manner of writing; therefore pray, Sir, give me my letters.

Well, it may be ſo, but I think, now, that a fine hand—

—by the way, if I gueſs right, this is a female ſcrawl.

Suppoſe it ſhould, Governor, you have no reaſon to be jealous, as you have no wife living.

No, heaven be praiſed,—poor dear Bab's at peace. But as you have one, my Lord, ſhe may perhaps think ſhe has a right to be jealous of your receiving billet-doux's—I uſed to have a ſad time of it, with her aunt, upon that ſcore, I'll aſſure you. We have had twenty ſquabbles a-day, ſometimes.

'Tis from my charming widow, Charles.

Your female correſpondents muſt have been very numerous, I preſume, Sir.

Pretty well, that way, you may ſuppoſe, Sir, for before my laſt trip to India, I was called Handſome Ned Anderſon, d'ye ſee. Am I much altered, think you?

I had not the pleaſure of knowing you then, Sir.

(This fellow knows nothing.

) But even then, Sir, I don't take upon me to ſay that I uſed to receive a ſcore of love-letters, every day— I am no boaſter, Captain, tho' I have been a fa⯑vourite, in my time, let me tell you. But what with her jealouſy, and other ſlight cauſes, my poor dear wife and I uſed to contrive a wrangling-bout, for every hour in the day. You can't imagine how much I miſſed her, for the firſt two or three months, after ſhe died. But time—time, Cap⯑tain, gets the better of every thing.

Doubtleſs, Sir.—I fancy, my Lord, the hour of dreſſing draws nigh, and as the Governor [13] ſeems to have a good deal to do, in that way, I think it but fair to allow him leiſure for it.

We ſhall meet, at four, Colonel.

Certainly.

Dreſs!—What ſilly fops you Europeans are!—Why can't a man ſit down and eat his vic⯑tuals, in a comfortable eaſy habit, inſtead of being caſed up in a ſtrait waiſtcoat, like a mad-man, d'ye ſee? But my Lady, my niece, don't like it, I preſume.

Why really, Governor, tho' your apparel may be perfectly convenient, to yourſelf, I ſhould think it rather too eaſy and familiar a garb, for the company of ladies.

Why there now, what a pragmatical world do we live in! your wife is my niece, and yet I muſt ſuffer myſelf to be bound up to my good behaviour, forſooth, before I can be allowed to ſit down to table with her; more than if I was to dine with the Sultana of Perſia.

We are all too much bound up in forms and faſhions, I confeſs, Governor.

Confound the faſhion, I ſay; but if we muſt adopt the cuſtoms of other countries, why not chuſe the beſt?—Rather than ape your Moun⯑ſeers and Maccaroni's, why not follow the manners of the Eaſt, where a man may ſit at his eaſe, in ſpite of the faſhion?

I think we ſeem rather too much in⯑clined to reliſh the eaſtern luxury and effeminacy, already, Sir.

So much the better, Nephew, d'ye ſee; and as ſoon as ever I get into parliament, I will endeavour to have an act paſſed, that curry and pellow ſhall be the common food, and that there ſhan't be a button worn in all England.

Your Excellency's commercial agent, Mr. Samuel Bull, attends upon your leiſure.

I think that is as much as to ſay, in plain Engliſh, that Bull the broker is below; and now I deſire you to bid him walk up.

I ſhall obſerve your Excellency's beheſt.

Beheſt! now what does that word mean, my Lord? but no matter, the fellow is conſtantly puzzling me, from morning to night, with one outlandiſh phraſe or another. But here comes my little Bull, that I can always underſtand; and a very underſtanding man he is, I can aſſure your Lordſhip.

I don't in the leaſt doubt it, Sir; and ſhall therefore leave you to profit by his con⯑verſation.

It is unlucky that honeſt Bull is not as clever at jobbing in boroughs, as he is at the ſame work at Jonathan's, for then I might ſave my mo⯑ney a little; but a man can't have all perfections; ſo I muſt e'en be content to purchaſe a ſeat, on the beſt terms I can; for what is wealth without honours, to a perſon of my conſequence, d'ye ſee?

Your ſervant, my good friend. How go things in the Alley, to-day? and how does the fair widow, your niece, I pray?

Bad—very bad.

Bad—very bad! What! has ſhe got a fever?

Deviliſh tumble.

Not much hurt, I hope.

Lame, very lame.—All ſellers—no buyers.—Twelve per cent. at leaſt.—Bad news from Bombay.

What! is there an Indiaman arrived from thence?

Private advice.

Pſhaw, pſhaw, I don't mind that a dol⯑lar—private advices are generally contrived for private purpoſes. Tho' I was actually thinking of ſelling out, before you came.

Right, very right.

By your leave, Mr. Bull, I ſhould rather think it wrong, very wrong.—What! to loſe twelve per cent. man?

May repent—twenty lower, to-morrow.

Well then, I'll ſtay till they are got up again.—But come, tell me how does your fair niece? Not very bad, I hope.

Much afflicted—greatly grieved.

Why! what's the matter with the dear girl? Eh!

Vexatious law-ſuit—Comes on, to-mor⯑row.

Well, ſo much the better, I think. Every one would be glad to have a law-ſuit over, I fancy.

Will certainly loſe it. Wants money to fee lawyers.

Why now, man, you ſpeak a little ſenſe, and I begin to underſtand you.—Let's ſee, let's ſee. —Thirty gold rupees make about fifty pounds— [16] that will do the thing handſomely, I ſuppoſe.—The girl ſhan't loſe her cauſe, for that article, friend Bull.

Won't do.

Not do!

Not leſs than five hundred, ſterling.

Zounds and furies, man.—What! give five hundred pounds in a morning to lawyers? I'd ſee the whole Temple in a blaze, firſt, d'ye ſee.

Bid me not aſk—Said, didn't love her well enough to lend it—Tho' able to pay, leſs than a year, out of jointure. Six hundred a-year tells well on the change, Governor.

Not love her! Why that's not the matter in hand, Mr. Bull—but five hundred is a large ſum to ſell out, at loſs, you know as well as any man—If ſ [...]ock was high, now, I'd ſhew my affec⯑tion, d'ye ſee. I wiſh this account from Bombay had not [...]—Won't the lawyers wait a few days, f [...]r their ſees? Stocks ebb and flow, you know.

Lawyers wait! No delay in that branch of their practice, Governor. Muſt have it, this very day.

Twelve per cent.! Didn't you ſay twelve per cent.?

Twelve three eighths.

'Twill be a great loſs—a conſiderable loſs, indeed, Mr. Bull.—But ſhe has ſix hundred a-year, you ſay—

Six hundred, per annum.

Why that is one pretty thing, and ſhe is another; ſo I give you leave to ſell out the five hundred, and carry it to her directly, my honeſt Sam Bull—We'll meet at Garraway's, at eight.

At Garraway's.

This lie, or truth, for 'tis all one, for that, about Bombay, has been extremely unlucky, juſt at this time—This Bull's a deviliſh honeſt fel⯑low, truly—I might have loſt her, but for him— what a misfortune would that have been! but I think the five hundred has ſecured her for the pre⯑ſent, and as ſoon as ever ſtocks get up again, I'll releaſe a few thouſands, purchaſe a ſeat in the houſe, build another on the banks of the Thames, marry the dear girl I doat upon, ſit in my night⯑cap and nightgown, all day, and then a fig for their dreſs and their faſhions, ſay I.

ACT II.

AND ſo, Mr. Squeezem, you are of opinion that the voters of Bartertown—

Of opinion. Nay poſitively certain, Sir, —you ſhall hear

‘Upon the aforeſaid con⯑ditions made, ſtipulated, and agreed upon by and between you the aforeſaid Edward Anderſon, Eſq and myſelf Bartholomew Squeezem, who am the contracting party for the aforeſaid free⯑men and burgeſſes of the aforeſaid potwalloping, true, antient, and loyal corporation of Barter⯑town, that they will return you, the aforeſaid Edward Anderſon, to be their true and legal re⯑preſentative in parliament: provided, that you, the ſaid Edward Anderſon do pay, or cauſe to be paid, into the hands of me, the ſaid Bartho⯑mew Squeezem, on or before the day of election, the full ſum of five hundred pounds, more than their former repreſentative, Sir William Wealthy, is willing to give, for the ſame.’

Softly, ſoftly, good Mr. Squeezem; you have run yourſelf out of breath, and taken mine away too, with that laſt article. What! five hun⯑dred [19] more than Sir William may be willing to give! Why, he may bid three thouſand, for aught I know.

Not unlikely, Sir, though as yet he has offered but two. But Sir William is a man of ſpirit: and honour, honour, Sir, cannot be bought too dear.

Let me tell you, Sir, that honours that are bought, are not very honourable.

They are doubtleſs of more value, when derived from perſonal worth—

Which is exactly the caſe in point, Mr. Nicholas; for if his Excellency was not worth the aforeſaid ſum of three thouſand five hundred pounds, he would not have the honour conferred upon him of repreſenting the antient and loyal corporation of Bartertown—Ergol, it is his worth, or what he is worth, which is the ſame thing, that obtains him that honour.

I deny your major, and will prove your poſtulatum falſe—

Why, hey-day, do you think that I ſhall ſit here to hear you diſputing about worth and ho⯑nour, and ſuch nonſenſe.

Henceforth I am dumb.

So much the better. Now to the purpoſe, Mr. Squeezem. Suppoſe then that this ſame gentle⯑man—Sir William Wealthy, I think you call him—

Why that, Sir, is his real name and title. His father was Sir John Wealthy, his grandfather Sir Robert, and his great grandfather, who was the firſt Baronet of the family—

Why, what the plague, man, have I to do with his father or grandfather.

Nay, Sir, if you are in a paſſion about the matter, there is no harm done. I don't want [20] to perſuade you to be a member of parliament, againſt your inclination; though I muſt needs own that I know no perſon who would make a bet⯑ter figure in the houſe than your Excellency. Such a preſence, ſuch a ſweet toned voice. I think I hear the people aſk, who is that honourable gentle⯑man who ſpoke laſt? Governor Anderſon, ſays one. O he's a charming man, and a true patriot, ſays another.

Why, ay, Mr. Squeezem, if I do come into the houſe, I ſhall be a true patriot, you may rely on it—I'll get their ſtreets paved, and their lamps lighted for them, I warrant me.

Why ſo I have already told them, Sir. Governor Anderſon, ſays I, is as rich as forty Jews, and no more values money than dirt; he'd ſcorn to do a mean thing, for filthy lucre, but will let his caſh fly amongſt ye, like duſt, my boys. For you know, Sir▪ they always think him the beſt patriot that ſpends moſt money; and let little Squeezem alone for diſpoſing of it.

That is the very thing I would be at, the laying out my money to the beſt advantage, and therefore, d'ye hear, I would be glad to know, ſuppoſing the worſt ſhould happen, and that Sir William ſhould out-bid me, how much I may be likely to loſe by the diſappointment?

That is a calculation intirely out of my way, Sir. But to cut the matter ſhort, Sir, if you will pleaſe to ſign this article, and give me a bill on your ba [...]i [...]er, for fifteen hundred, or a couple of thouſands, I'll promiſe you to make it go as far as any man in England, Sir.

Why, truly, ſtocks are ſo confounded low, at preſent, that I can't bear the thoughts of ſelling [21] out, to a diſadvantage. But you may paſs your word to them, Mr. Squeezem.

Paſs my word, Governor! Such coin will not paſs current, in that quarter, I aſſure you. Sterling caſh, and nothing elſe will do. But if it is ſo very inconvenient to you to raiſe the money, there are gentlemen enough ready to leap at the offer. There has not been ſo cheap a borough to be ſold, theſe ſeven years, nor won't be, during this ſeſſion, I'll warrant you. Why, Sir, every man of property in the kingdom wants to get into parlia⯑ment, now; and you gentlemen Nabobs have raiſed the price of boroughs, as well as of every other commodity, throughout the nation.

Well, well, ſince it muſt be ſo, we'll ſee what's to be done. I ſhall meet Bull, preſently, and he ſhall carry you a thouſand. That will be two, and I won't go a ſhilling farther, remember, Mr. Squeezem.

I ſhall do my beſt, Sir, but two will never do the thing handſomely, I fear.

So it be done at all, I care not a farthing for the handſomneſs of the matter, d'ye ſee.

I can venture to ſay, that neither Sir William, his father, or grandfather—

What the plague, are you going to draw down the Wealthy's upon us again—Come along, Nicholas, get me my hat, and my gold-headed bamboo, I mean the beſt of them.

I obey your Excellency.

I muſt ſet out with the ſun, to-morrow morning, to fix our friends: for I hear that Sir William went down, this day, with his coach full of money; but no matter, leave it to me to out-promiſe all that he can perform; ſo that if your Excellency will be pleaſed but to ſign this bond, [22] you ſhall have a good account of the borough, by the very next poſt.

We have no bonds in India, and a man is unworthy to live in any quarter of the globe, whoſe word requires a counter-ſecurity—Bull ſhall carry you the money to-night.

It would be a bad thing for us prac⯑titioners in the law, if ſuch cuſtoms were to obtain in Europe. But 'tis our certain maxim that any man's money is as good as his bond, whatever his word may be.

Lord, Madam, how charmingly you look to-day. Never, ſure, was any thing ſo becoming, as your dreſs; and if we could but get your jewels now, out of Mr. Cheatall's hands, I think you might really paſs for a queen, Madam.

As to the jewels, Lucy, I fear I ſhall never ſee them more. However, give me the paſte ear-rings, for the preſent; they'll paſs on the Governor for his own brilliants.

I hope they may, Madam, for as they were a love-token from his Excellency, you ſhould not have parted with them, at leaſt till after you were married.

Love-token! nonſenſe, Lucy, for ſuch a creature to think of love.

And yet, Madam, if it was not for that ſame nonſenſe, you would not have had the ear⯑rings; [23] and I wiſh Mr. Bull, and his nonſenſe had been far enough before he wheedled you out of them: for I tell you, again, Madam, that if the Governor ſhould miſs them, we are all blown up at once.

I know it, Lucy; but there was no reſiſting Mr. Bull's importunities, unleſs one had a heart as hard—

As his own, Madam. But I hope, when you are married, you'll caſt him off intirely, for I am ſure if you don't, his neceſſities will always keep you poor, and then no body elſe will ever be a farthing the better for you.

Ay, Lucy, there's the rub, with you.—And ſo you would have me ſeriouſly think of becoming a kind and faithful ſpouſe, and devoting my whole affections to the love of my great grand⯑father, for your advantage, truly.

No, really, Madam, I am not quite ſo unreaſonable, for I know it is as good to be out of the world, as out of the faſhion, and ſince you muſt have a lover, why there's my Lord Seaton, that admires you ſo much, and a fine gentleman he is, and rich too, into the bargain, I'll warrant me.

There you have touched the maſter ſtring of all my miſery. I love him, Lucy, and know myſelf unworthy of his paſſion.

O, for goodneſs ſake, dear Madam, don't ſigh, and look ſo melancholy—you frighten me out of my wits. I ſhall dream of the Magdalen, as ſure as a gun, to-night. You ought not to let ſuch thoughts come into your head.

A ſincere paſſion makes us humble, Lucy. It is impoſſible that Lord Seaton ſhould return my affection.

Now I can't ſee that, for my life; and if you would but look in the glaſs there, I fancy you would ſoon be of another opinion yourſelf too. If I was but half as handſome, I know what I ſhould think. Why there's that Miſs Melville, now, that our John ſays is ſuch a beauty—

Why, indeed, I muſt confeſs that I have ſome perſonal advantages over her. But then, how many others has ſhe above me! I almoſt hate her, at the thought.

Run, Lucy, ſee who it is. My ſpirits take alarm, at every motion.

And reaſon enough, indeed, Madam. So many duns, and nothing to ſatisfy them! My pa⯑tience is almoſt as much worn out, as theirs; and if it were not for my hopes of being well rewarded, when ſhe's married to the Governor, I'd e'en leave her to anſwer them herſelf.

Into what ſcenes of miſery has my thoughtleſs vanity plunged me! Could I have been but contented with the ſafe, though humble ſtate of life, in which my fortune had placed me, I ſhould not now have been the wretch I am.

Don't be frightened, Madam, it was no body but the poſtman, with a letter to Miſs Mel⯑ville. I left her reading it, in the parlour. She aſked me if you were dreſſed, and I fancy ſhe is juſt coming up. I wiſh Miſs would not be ſo prying as to ſit ſo much below ſtairs, for there can't be a hand's turn done in the houſe, without her knowing it.

I wiſh ſhe was fairly out of it, with all my heart. I beg, Lucy, that you will contrive [25] to keep every thing quiet, here, for a few days, leſt any untoward circumſtance ſhould marr all our projects.

Never fear, we'll manage matters, I war⯑rant you, till you are the Governor's Lady, Ma⯑dam, and then you know—

Yes, I know that I ſhall be com⯑pletely wretched—To have nothing further to hope for, without enjoyment in our preſent poſſeſſions, is a miſerable ſtate, ſurely!

So, my dear, you have juſt received a billet-doux, I preſume.

No, really, Madam, the contents of this letter have nothing either ſweet or ſoft, in them.— 'Tis from my aunt, Lady Walton, who declines receiving me under her protection, from a ridi⯑culous apprehenſion that her ſon, Sir William, now juſt coming of age, might poſſibly take it into his head to fall in love with his couſen.

Why, I think that to be no un⯑likely ſurmiſe, Miſs Melville; and I muſt ſuppoſe it to be with ſuch an idea, at leaſt, that the bury⯑ing yourſelf alive in Northamptonſhire, could ever have come into your head.

Indeed, Mrs. Frankly, you are much miſtaken—I could never have thought of ſoliciting a favour, with an intention of repaying it with in⯑gratitude.

Well, then, if that was not the caſe, I think I have reaſon to congratulate you on being, as it were, compelled to follow your own inclina⯑tions, by remaining ſtill in this dear delightful city.

London, I confeſs to be a charming place, Maria, to thoſe who may innocently indulge themſelves in its gaieties; but a young woman without fortune or friends—

Friends! what an antique expreſ⯑ſion! But you were ever romantic, my dear, and began, even at ſchool, I remember, to ſpeculate upon morals, ſentiment, and ſuch notions; but be⯑lieve me, there is no ſuch thing, on earth, as a friend, except money, child. Youth and beauty are bills of exchange, and therefore you may be a friend to yourſelf, if you pleaſe, my dear.

This is a ſtrange wild way of talking, Mrs. Frankly.

Nothing but the way of the world, and plain common ſenſe, child. But, by-the-by, Charlotte, I think the ſtory you told me, about your quitting your friend, as you affect to call her, has ſomething in it bordering nearly upon abſur⯑dity. And then your concealing the names of the parties, even from me, my dear, has ſomewhat in it ſo very childiſh, myſterious, and pretty—

I have ſaid too much of their reſpective ſituations ever to reveal their names. We may make confidants in our own ſecrets, but have no right over thoſe of others; nor can I be ſaid to be ab⯑ſurd, in ſacrificing my own intereſt and convenience to the peace and happineſs of a perſon, whom, not⯑withſtanding your ſad opinion of the world, I truly believe to have been my friend.

Your conduct, I grant it, was he⯑roic, Charlotte, and might have made a notable figure in a romance, ſome centuries ago; but epic virtue, my dear, is by no means the ton of modern times. The preſent world is not near ſo difficult as [27] it was formerly; and the utmoſt that is required of feeble nature, now-a-days, is barely to conceal the vices we have, under the affectation of thoſe virtues we are deficient in.

Hypocriſy, they ſay, is the homage that vice pays to virtue; but I conſider it rather as an aggravation of iniquity.

Nay, prithee, Miſs Melville, do not preach againſt prudence. It is certainly a very neceſſary quality, at leaſt, and one that I would, as a friend, moſt ſeriouſly recommend to your own practice. But as I am really not yet old enough to ſet up for a Duenna, we'll change the ſubject, if you pleaſe—What think you of Ranelagh, to-night?

I muſt beg to be excuſed from appear⯑ing in public, Mrs. Frankly, 'till my ſituation and circumſtances in life, ſhall be in ſome degree more aſcertained.

Why, abſolutely, child, you amaze me! your fortune is ſmall, your relations ſeem to have cut you off; then what meaſure is left you, now, but to aſcertain your ſituation and circumſtances, as you ſay, by the means of your perſonal advan⯑tages? Had I ſtaid moping and moralizing in a corner, I ſhould never have made the figure in life I do, at preſent.

Our ſpirit and talents are of quite dif⯑ferent natures, Maria.

I muſt confeſs, indeed, that there is ſomething rather more ſtriking, in my form and features, than in yours; but taſtes differ, you know, my dear; and as in pictures, ſome like the buſy, others the ſtill life, ſo there may, perhaps, be certain virtuoſos, who might poſſibly give you the preference.

Upon my word, Mrs. Frankly, I ſhall never pretend to rival you. There is but one man in the world I ever wiſhed to pleaſe, and he is, to my misfortune, far diſtant, at preſent.

Bravo, Miſs Charlotte. And who is this dear man, I pray you?

There again you muſt excuſe my ſilence, Maria. Two years of abſence may have changed his ſentiments; and tho' mine for him can never vary, the world is apt to think our being the firſt to receive and the laſt to retain a paſſion, to be a I reach of that kind of prudence, you have juſt now recommended to me. You ſee I can profit by ad⯑vice, Maria.

Mr. Bull, Madam, is below, and is come to wait on you.

Deſire my uncle to walk up.

Believe me, Miſs Melville, I have not the leaſt cu⯑rioſity about your ſwain, unleſs it might be to aſſiſt you. But I have rather more buſineſs of this ſort, of my own, on my hands, already, than I know well how to manage. But ſoftly, here comes my uncle—not a word more on this ſubject, for the preſent.

I hope I am welcome. Now, my dear Maria.

Servant, niece.

(How unguarded!

) Miſs Melville, my uncle and I have a little buſineſs, [29] about money matters, to tranſact together, and I hope, therefore, that you'll excuſe my requeſting you to retire, a while.

I was juſt going to beg the favour of one of your ſervants to attend me, a few doors off, to inquire whether a friend of mine, Mrs. Freeman, be come to town.

O, by all means, go and inquire after your friend. (I wiſh ſhe had been gone an hour ago.

) You'll come back to dinner, I ſuppoſe.

I ſhall attend you.

Who is that charm⯑ing girl, Maria, and how came you acquainted with her?

We were bred at the ſame board⯑ing-ſchool together, but had not ſeen one another, theſe eight years, till about a month ago I met her, by chance, at my milleners, who happened to be her's alſo. She was inquiring for lodgings, for a ſhort time that ſhe purpoſed ſtaying in London, and I fooliſhly invited her to my houſe, in hopes of an agreeable companion at home; but I find her ſuch a canting Methodiſt, that I ſhall lay hold on the firſt fair pretence that offers, of ridding my⯑ſelf of ſo ſtupid an incumbrance.

She looks far from being ſtupid, Maria; and if I might adviſe, I would not have you let the Governor ſee her. I think I never ſaw more lively eyes, in my life.

And they have ſet your heart of tinder in a blaze, I ſuppoſe.

No, Maria—tho' if you had not been by, I know not what might have been the caſe.

Stuff! this is nothing to the pur⯑poſe, at preſent. But where is the money you ſhewed me, juſt now?

Here it is, a round five hundred, in caſh and paper. There never was any thing ſo lucky as my getting it from the Governor, to ſee your law⯑yers, Maria. Ha, ha, ha—But I hope it will keep me out of their talons, at leaſt, for a little while longer, till ſomething better happens.

You aſtoniſh me, Mr. Bull! Why, you do not mean to convert it to your own uſe, ſurely.

I muſt confeſs I really do, thou moſt aſto⯑niſhed fair.

What! while my jewels lie pledged for your neceſſities?

And who was the cauſe of your getting thoſe jewels, Mrs. Frankly? Whoſe credit has hi⯑therto ſupported you in affluence and grandeur, Mrs. Frankly? And what has involved Samuel Bull in difficulties and ruin, but the neceſſities of Mrs. Frankly?

Upbraiding cancels every obliga⯑tion—I ſhall let the Governor know how you have behaved both to him and me.

Then you'll let him know that you are a fool, Maria, and chooſe to put back to ſea in a ſtorm, when you were got within ſight of the port. Won't underwrite the veſſel for a ſhilling.

No, 'tis you that mean to deſtroy my hopes of fortune, and your own too, by robbing me thus.

Have a care—injure the credit of a man of buſineſs—heavy action will lie, muſt aſſure you—

What! are you puting on your canting face, and ſet phraſes to me? I will expoſe you to the world, tho' I ſhould be ruined with you.

Weather hot,—paſſion dangerous,—may bring on a fever.

Inſulting monſter!

No monſter, Maria. Well-built, tight little man, as you'd ſee upon 'Change on a ſum⯑mer's day—Will bring the Governor, in the evening—muſt acknowledge the receipt of the five hundred.

Then let me have it, to releaſe my ear-rings—you know if he miſſes them, we are un⯑done; and you can have them again, in a day or two, if your occaſions ſhould require it.

Some ſenſe and reaſon in that, muſt confeſs.

Do you think i [...] is for the mere va⯑nity of ſuch toys, that I [...] diſtreſs you?

Here take the money then, and releaſe your jewels—But remember, Maria, that if we ſtill continue to act on the family compact, we may both of us thrive. But if you attempt to play me falſe, your own ruin muſt be the conſequence.

Fear me not, Mr. Bull; but I cannot ſtay to make profeſſions now; I am all impatience till I releaſe the dear little ſparklers.

Get me a chair, di⯑rectly. How mean and dull theſe paſte baubles appear, at the very idea of brilliants.

You don't ſeem to think them ſuch vain toys, as you did, juſt now, Maria.

Don't you know, that it is the very perfection of philoſophy to ſeem to deſpiſe [32] what we doat on, when it is out of our reach. But to ſhew you that I can be indifferent, even to finery, I poſitively aſſure you that I will not wear them this whole day—there's reſolution for you.

A whole day! amazing effort of philoſo⯑phy, truly.

The chair is ready, Madam.

I'll hand you into it, and direct the men.

How fortunate have I been, in meeting with Mrs. Freeman, even in the very moment when I began ſo ſeverely to be ſenſible of my in⯑diſcretion, in having too lightly accepted of Mrs. Frankly's invitation. The freedom of thoſe ſen⯑timents ſhe expreſſed, juſt now, has both ſhocked and ſurprized me. My happy inexperience did not ſuffer me to ſuſpect that a few years commerce with the world, could have produced ſo abſolute a change, in a heart that formerly appeared as inno⯑cent and artleſs as my own. Nor could I have be⯑lieved that the widow Frankly, launched into the world at large, might become a very different ſort of character, from what ſhe firſt appeared in, as my ſchool-fellow and friend.

Don't tell me, Mrs. Lucy, I will have my money.

For goodneſs ſake, my dear, ſweet Mr. Varniſh, have patience, but for a few days longer. [33] I give you my honour that my lady is to be mar⯑ried, directly, and then all her debts will be duly paid. (Miſs Melville here! then we are blown, indeed.

)

I tell you, my dear, ſweet Mrs. Lucy, that I will not have patience, for an hour longer, and that I would not give a caſt coach-wheel for yours, and your Lady's honour into the bargain. Married, quotha, why that may be, Mrs. Lucy; but matrimony, now-a-days, is more apt to create new debts, than to diſcharge old ones; and there⯑fore, I am reſolved not to ſtir out of this houſe, Mrs. Lucy, 'till I get ſatisfaction for my demand.

Sure never was any thing ſo unlucky.

Pray, what is the matter, Mrs. Lucy?

Why, Madam, this honeſt gentleman (a cheating rogue,

) is come to demand a trifling ſum—

A trifle, do you call it! Well then, pay me my good hundred and thirty pounds, and I ſhall thank you for the trifle, I aſſure you.

Dear Mr. Varniſh, what is a paltry hun⯑dred and thirty pounds, to a man of your ſub⯑ſtance, when you conſider how many more hundreds you may get by my Lady? Why ſhe muſt have three new carriages, at leaſt, for herſelf, when ſhe is married, beſides a moſt ſuperb palanquin, for his Excellency, ſuch as your Nabobs uſe; and ſhe has promiſed to buy me a tim-whiſkey, for myſelf; and I have ever found her as good as her word— ſhe is not one of your court promiſers, I aſſure you.

I wiſh I could ſay ſo, with all my heart; but ſhe has promiſed to pay me my paltry ſum, as [34] you call it, any time theſe ſix months, and her me⯑mory has failed her plaguily, Mrs. Lucy.

Lord, man, how can a woman think of any thing when ſhe is going to be married, but of Almack's, Cornely's, the Pantheon, or the Co⯑terie?

I think, Mrs. Lucy, that you had bet⯑ter acquaint your Lady with this gentleman's im⯑patience, at preſent, as I left her uncle with her, juſt now, and he would moſt probably ſatisfy him.

Dear Madam, he is gone, and my Miſtreſs out too; but if he were with her, a thouſand times, I dare not do ſo. Mr. Bull, to be ſure, is a very rich man, but a very penurious one, and might perhaps diſinherit his niece, if he knew that ſhe ventured to run a ſhilling in debt.

Why it is not to him ſhe is going to be married? Eh, Lucy. He has debts enough of his own to pay, I can tell you.

O dear, no, Mr. Varniſh, ſhe is to be married to a great rich Nabob, worth ſix millions, the leaſt farthing.

(Why that's a good round ſum, truly, if one could be certain of the matter—'Tis worth trying, however.

) Eh, Mrs. Lucy, and may I depend on her dealing with me, afterwards? for I have been fobbed off, in that way, before now. When the quality get ſo far in our debt, that they don't chooſe to pay, they often quit us, and then do as much for ſome other of the trade.

But my Lady has too much honour, to ſerve any one ſo, believe me.

(Not overſtocked with that commodity, I dare ſay.

) Well, Mrs. Lucy, to ſhew you, now, what a reaſonable man I am, I will take your [35] word for my debt, 'till your Lady is married. (And then either the Nabob's purſe or perſon ſhall be my ſecurity.

) But you are certain ſhe will want three carriages.

Ay, as ſure as there is truth in my words, Mr. Varniſh.

Well then, good Mrs. Lucy, we will not diſturb this gentlewoman, any further. Your ſervant, Madam.

Let me wait on you down ſtairs, good Mr. Varniſh.

You'd have the whiſky green, I ſuppoſe.

A bright pea-green, certainly.

I am alarmed, even to terror, at my ſituation here. Every thing I ſee or hear, confirms my apprehenſions and ſuſpicions, with regard to Mrs. Frankly's conduct. It ſeems an age till I quit her houſe.—Under the protection of my dear Mrs. Freeman, how ſafe and happy ſhall I feel myſelf! The conſciouſneſs of one's own virtue becomes doubly pleaſing, from the concurring teſtimony of an amiable and worthy friend.

Lord, Madam, I beg your pardon, but that vile blundering coach-maker man has put it quite out of my head to tell you, that juſt as you came into the door, a ſervant in livery followed you, and aſked our John if you lived here; and the fool only anſwered ſimply, yes, without inquiring his buſineſs, or calling me to ſift him. But if he ſhould come again, I ſhall be able to give a good account of his errand, I warrant me.

I am obliged to you, Mrs. Lucy, but would not have you give yourſelf the leaſt trouble in the matter, as I ſhall quit this houſe in the even⯑ing, and know no perſon who can have any manner of buſineſs to enquire after me.

Dear, Madam, why my Lady will be ſo loneſome without you.

I fancy not, Mrs. Lucy. But pray is ſhe viſible at preſent? for I am impatient to ac⯑quaint her with my good fortune in meeting with the friend I went in queſt of.

I am ſure ſhe will rejoice at it. But pray, Madam, where does your friend live? I ſhould be glad to know, in caſe the ſervant ſhould call again with a letter to you. I'll lay my life on't you have made ſome new conqueſt, Madam, tho' the fellow was cunning enough to pretend that he belonged to ſome Lady, when he aſked the queſtion.

'Tis never worth a woman's while, Lucy, to trouble herſelf about any chance admirer—if he be really one, he will ſoon find out ſome method or other of declaring himſelf ſo. Too much anxiety about ſuch matters always renders us contemptible.

I find, Madam, that you don't chuſe to truſt me with your ſecrets.

Indeed, Lucy, I have none. Innocence diſdains myſtery. Nor is there a ſingle action of my life, that I need wiſh to be concealed.

That's an extraordinary declaration, truly, in theſe days, for a young Lady turned of eighteen. And now, if you pleaſe, Madam, I'll ſee if my Lady be come in, and let her know that you deſire to ſpeak with her.

I ſhall be obliged to you.

Unhappy Maria! how ſincerely do I pity her [37] ſituation! yet let me hope that indiſcretions rather than vice, have miſled her ſteps from the ſole paths of happineſs and peace. But do they not, alas! in our ſex, almoſt equally involve their wretched victims in miſery, and lead them on to ruin! Were it poſſible for me to awaken her to a ſenſe of her danger, I ſhould then have moſt amply repaid her civilities to me, by an act of the moſt real kindneſs and friendſhip.

ACT III.

YOU muſt excuſe me, my Lord. I don't chooſe to drink any more.

Why thou art ſuch a ſober fellow, Charles, that if I did not know you well, I ſhould imagine you had a deſign upon ſome rich Dowager, and were to paſs your evening at picquet with her.

Why even that, my Lord, though by no means my choice, I ſhould prefer to the unmanly practice of ſtupefying my ſenſes and inflaming my blood with wine.

You'll certainly be a vaſt favourite with the Ladies, Colonel.

Then I ſhall as certainly think myſelf a very happy man, my Lord; for I look upon the company of agreeable women to be the moſt charming ſociety in the world.

'Ware poaching, Charles, keep out of my purlieus, and the reſt of the field lies open before you.

From my Lady, Sir.

I think I ſpoke juſt in time, Colonel. What anſwer from Mrs. Frankly, Waters?

Her compliments, and ſhe will be glad to ſee your Lordſhip this evening.

Order the coach in half an hour.

My reſpects to her Ladyſhip, and I ſhall obey her commands.

And pray, Colonel, if it be no my⯑ſtery, what are her Ladyſhip's commands?

As ſhe has not reſtrained me from com⯑municating them, you ſhall be informed, my Lord.

‘Lady Seaton's compliments to Co⯑lonel Ramſay, and deſires the honour of his company to ſupper, this evening, on a very par⯑ticular occaſion.’ What can this particular in⯑vitation mean? There ſeems to be ſomething odd in this buſineſs, Colonel. Perhaps her Ladyſhip deſigns to raiſe my jealouſy. I have heard of ſuch arts put in practice upon lukewarm huſbands, here⯑tofore.

She has gone one ſtep towards it, my Lord, at leaſt, by raiſing your curioſity. But where our affections are not much intereſted, I ſhould think it unnatural for any ſuch paſſion to be moved.

You'll pardon me, Colonel, for though I am not romantically in love with my wife, I could perhaps be as outrageouſly jealous of her honour, on the leaſt alarm, as the moſt amorous coxcomb breathing. But to do her juſtice, her conduct through life has been ſo irreproachable, that I dare ſay her ſenſe and virtue will never ſuffer her to render me uneaſy; that way, at leaſt.

I ſhould be better pleaſed at hearing you make your wife's encomium, if it did not ſo ſtrongly [40] reflect upon yourſelf, my Lord. How is it poſſible that you can allow her thoſe merits which are to be the baſis of your ſecurity and peace, and yet withhold from her the juſt reward of them, your tenderneſs and eſteem?

Do not preſs me upon this ſubject, Ramſay, for even to you I cannot unfold the ſecret of my heart; but will ſo far confeſs to you that I have acted, and ſtill continue to do ſo, againſt the fulleſt conviction both of my honour and reaſon. But perhaps if I could happen to diſcover a few failings in my wife's character, her preſence would be leſs uneaſy to me; for, in ſhort, Charles, we cannot love any one cordially, who conſtantly re⯑proaches us, though ever ſo ſilently.

What a perverſe fate is Lady Seaton doomed to, whoſe very merits are imputed to her as faults! but I hope, for your own ſake, as well as hers, that this delirium will ſoon have an end; for no rational perſon can ever taſte of happineſs, who is conſcious of purſuing it by improper means.

Though I feel the full force of your argument, Charles, you muſt permit me to tell you—

What I know already, my Lord, that paſſion is often too ſtrong for reaſon; and while Mrs. Frankly's charms retain their dominion over your heart, you will continue ſtill blind and in⯑ſenſible to thoſe of Lady Seaton.

You are miſtaken, Colonel, my heart is no way concerned, in my attachment to Mrs. Frankly—for though ſhe is handſome, lively, and, as far as I can judge, has nothing of the prude about her, ſhe can only amuſe, but not infatuate; and 'tis merely in hopes of triumphing over a more ſerious paſſion, that I ſometimes trifle away an hour or two with her.

This is an extraordinary declaration, in⯑deed, my Lord, and leaves me ſtill more at a loſs for the clue to your labyrinth.

The coach is ready, my Lord.

Get me my hat and ſword.

Will you accompany me, Colonel, or ſhall I ſet you down any where elſe?

No, my Lord. I ſhall return to my ſearch after Miſs Melville, and ſhall then do myſelf the honour to obey Lady Seaton's ſummons to ſupper. I hope we ſhall meet then.

I know not whether I ſhould obtrude on your tête à tête, or ſhall have reſolution enough to quit mine, with my little widow, ſo ſoon. But ſucceſs attend your purſuit.

Au revoir.

I moſt ſincerely wiſh that he may be able to diſcover Miſs Melville's retreat, which I have ſo much in vain attempted. But then ſhould ſhe reveal the cauſe of her quitting this houſe, will not Ramſay think I have acted unworthily? But of what conſequence are his thoughts, to the ſecret upbraidings of my own! Could I but recal a few ſhort weeks, I ſhould be happy, becauſe I ſhould be blameleſs. But that indiſſoluble knot, which has rendered an amiable woman as wretched as myſelf, can never be untied. Then hang reflection, ſucceſs to diſſipation, and now for a little flirt with my lively widow, for the reſt of the evening.

You are upon the wing, I find, Miſs Melville; I ſhall be vaſtly dull without you. But before you ſet out, pray let me a little, into your preſent ſcheme; and firſt tell me about what age may your friend Mrs. Freeman be? Immenſely rich, ex⯑tremely old, I ſuppoſe, and you mean kindly to aſſiſt in making her will.

How wildly you talk, Maria. Mrs. Free⯑man is in the prime of life, and likely, I hope, to live long. She has been a widow about five years, and though univerſally admired, has choſen to paſs the greateſt part of that time, at her ſeat in Somer⯑ſetſhire, amidſt her own and her late huſband's friends and neighbours. There I firſt had the hap⯑pineſs of her acquaintance, and there is ſhe idolized for her goodneſs.

And ſo your hopeful ſcheme is to be as good as ſhe, till you both fall into a lethargy together. Do you know, Charlotte, that there is nothing on earth ſo tireſome, as your good ſort of people. They conſtantly ſet me a yawning, and will at any time ſerve to procure me as ſound a ſlumber, as a doſe of opium.

They have a very different effect on me, Mrs. Frankly; they rather rouſe my ſlumbering virtue. Emulation is the ſtrongeſt incentive to—

O pray, Miſs Melville, keep all this canting ſtuff for your good Mrs. Freeman, and do not ſtupify my ſenſes with any more of your homilies—I am in an agony till ſhe is out of the houſe.

I ſhall not treſpaſs on your patience much longer, Madam — Mrs. Freeman ſaid ſhe would ſend her chariot for me at ſix o'clock, and I believe it is now near that hour.

Six! yes, really, Madam, 'tis extremely ſix.

I think I hear the chariot ſtop; and now give me leave to aſſure you, Madam, that I ſhall ever think myſelf much obliged to you for your kindneſs and hoſpitality.

Nay, prithee, my dear, ſpare your acknowledgments; I moſt heartily wiſh you a good evening, and a world of happineſs, with your good Mrs. Freeman.

My dear Mrs. Frankly!—

Miſs Melville here! O, Madam, what an happineſs is mine to have met with you.

Why this is vaſtly pretty, ſure! What can it mean?

Nay, do not turn from me, Miſs Melville; for be aſſured that I have ſuffered more, on your account, than words can expreſs, and that my utmoſt purpoſe will be accompliſhed, in re⯑ſtoring you to the ſociety of your friends again.

It is impoſſible, my Lord.

This is rather too much, Miſs Melville; you ſhould have made your appointments at your good Mrs. Freeman's, and not under my roof, Madam.

Let me implore you on my knees to hear me—for Lady Seaton's, for Ramſay's ſake.

Pray riſe, my Lord—Colonel Ramſay did you ſay? Is he in England then?

Where is my friend, my deareſt Char⯑lotte?

Can I believe my ſight!

It is, it is too true!

My deareſt Lady Seaton, hear me.

No, Miſs Melville—No, you can⯑not clear yourſelf, nor ſhould I wiſh to hear you criminate my Lord.

I am aſtoniſhed—What can have brought her hither!

I ſhall not bend to your tribunal, Madam—You are my wife, but not my judge; and I muſt tell you, Madam, that I ſhall not eaſily pardon your acting in a manner ſo unbecoming, either of your own character, or my rank in life.

Let me turn ſuppliant now to you, my Lord—Do not diſtreſs my beſt, my deareſt friend. Indeed, Lady Seaton, I am perfectly innocent, not⯑withſtanding theſe unlucky appearances.

O yes, a mighty innocent creature, truly, to make your aſſignations here with a married man, and bring a ſcandal on my houſe. Little did I think I had harboured ſuch a ſerpent in my bo⯑ſom. I am ſure her Ladyſhip is much to be pitied, between ye; and to let her ſee that I have no im⯑proper connections with ſuch perſons, I deſire, my pretty innocent Miſs, that you will leave my houſe, directly.

You need not fear any further intruſion from me, Madam. Suffer me but to ſpeak a few words to Lady Seaton.

Theſe are your doings, Madam.

Would I had died before I became the unhappy cauſe of this diſſenſion. But be aſſured, my deareſt Lady Seaton, however this incident may have raiſed your ſuſpicions, a time will ſhortly come, when you ſhall be convinced that I, as well as you, have been groſsly injured.

O yes, vaſtly injured, I dare ſay— in being interrupted—I think you had better go after your friend, my Lord, and ſee her ſafe to her new lodgings, that you may not be at a loſs to find her again. Baſe, inconſtant man!

I ſhall not incumber your apartment longer, Madam, than juſt to ſee that Lady out of it; for as ſhe bears my name, I do not chuſe to have it joined with yours.

Inſolent, to a degree beyond bear⯑ing.

I am extremely ſorry, Madam, for the confuſion I have occaſioned in your houſe; but be aſſured, that I did not expect to have met with ſuch a ſcene, when I entered it. I have been much deceived.

Yes, indeed, Madam, Miſs Mel⯑ville has deceived you moſt extremely.

I fear ſhe has unhappily deceived herſelf, even more than me—But I ſhall not treſ⯑paſs longer on your time and patience, Madam, and again beg your excuſe for my intruſion—I am ready, my Lord, to attend you.

I follow you, Madam.

Pray, my Lord, let me ſpeak a word to you.

You muſt pardon me, Madam, if after what has happened juſt now, I ſhould wiſh to ſhorten our converſation as much as poſſible.

Nay, then, I am convinced that what I ſaid, in order to remove Lady Seaton's ſuſ⯑picions of myſelf, and turn them on Miſs Melville, was but too true. Cruel, ungrateful man! But yet you ſhall not go.

By your leave, Madam, this is no time for trifling.

Hey dey! What have we here! Lord Seaton running away from a fair lady, and ſhe lay⯑ing violent hands on his garments.

O Sir, I am glad you are come to my aſſiſtance, that you may help me to detain this infatuated man, for his wife's ſake, from flying after a vile creature that he followed here juſt now. I am ſure I would not, for a thouſand guineas, that it happened in my houſe; and I pity his poor Lady, of all things.

This is a maſter ſtroke, indeed, Mrs. Frankly.

Why really, if this be the caſe, I do think his poor Lady is to be pitied—Why, man, the honey-moon is hardly over yet, and I declare that I was conſtant to my wife, for near a year after we were married—But then I was in love, mightily in love, d'ye ſee—However, I don't think that either you or I have any right to interfere in his Lordſhip's amours, Mrs. Frankly, and a forcible detainer is contrary to law—Beſides, I have a ſmall matter of buſineſs to confer with you upon myſelf, at preſent.

Which I will by no means interrupt, Governor, and heartily wiſh you may ſettle it to your mutual ſatisfaction.

I ſhall be home to ſupper, my Lord. I [47] have beſpoke a couple of little plates to be dreſſed after our India faſhion. My Lady has ordered the reſt, I ſuppoſe. I make bold to hope, my dear little widow, that you underſtand ſomething of cookery—for they abſolutely know nothing of ſeaſoning their meat, in England. I have ſome ex⯑cellent receipts of poor Bab's by me.

How could I be ſo weak a wretch, as to imagine I could retain Lord Seaton's affections. He is, alas! gone from me for ever.

You ſeem mightily diſturbed, I think— I wonder ſhe does not ſay any thing of the five hun⯑dred pounds.

No bad news, I hope, from your lawyers.

Here comes another of my plagues.

Your ſervant, Mr. Bull. Now, my little widow, ſpeak to Sammy, there—he'll make your mind eaſy, I believe. He is certain of your ſuc⯑ceſs, and tells me that the ſuit will be determined, to-morrow.

Trial put off, till next term.

Never the worſe for that, Maſter Bull. Stocks may riſe, by that time, perhaps. You did not ſell out—

Before dinner.

How unlucky! But, however, it don't much ſignify, as it happens, as I ſhall want that, and another five hundred, for Squeezem, this very night.

Money diſpoſed of to lawyers. Did not know of the delay, till it was expended. Won't refund. Muſt be refreſhed again, firſt day of term.

Refreſhed! I actually believe you invent words only to put me in a paſſion. This refreſh⯑ment has almoſt thrown me into a fever.

Don't be obſtinate—ſpeak to him, or we ſhall be undone, Maria.

No matter—I care not what be⯑comes of you, myſelf, or all the world.

Nay, prithee, don't take on ſo, neither— Though delays are dangerous, to be ſure, as well as mortifying.

Wants comfort, mightily.

And ſhe ſhall have it, Sammy, eh! But, let's ſee—Why the term don't ſit till November next—That's a plaguy long day, to be ſure—I thought to have been married directly—and if one was certain that this ſame law ſuit, d'ye ſee, was quite a hollow thing—

Quite hollow.

Say you ſo? Why then, if my pretty widow pleaſes, we'll be married to-morrow, and dine at the London Tavern, or the Crown and Anchor, or wherever elſe ſhe pleaſes—You ſhall have your choice, d'ye ſee—

All places upon earth are equal now to me—for none can quiet my diſtracted mind.

Why I don't rightly underſtand that, now—Didn't ſhe whiſper ſomething about diſtractions? eh! There's no madneſs in the family, I hope.

Madneſs! No, no, no—Diſtracted with joy, on her wedding-day, that's all—Pretty com⯑pliment, if rightly taken—Has wit at her fingers end—Recover yourſelf, or we are ruined.

Why that is witty, to be ſure, but it did [49] not ſtrike me, I own, at firſt.

Well, but compoſe yourſelf, d'ye ſee, for too much joy may ſometimes be hurtful.

Mine will not be immoderate, Sir, I promiſe you.

That's very diſcreetly ſaid, now. I am impatient for to-morrow. I'll go directly to beſpeak the dinner, and get the licence ready. Come, Mr. Bull, you ſhall go with me. But won't your niece give me one kiſs?—

May command it.

D'ye tell me ſo; by your leave then.

Her breath ſmells like Otto of roſes. By the way you ſhall have a bottle of the beſt that ever was made in Perſia, to-morrow morning. The Great Mogul has not as good. But, come along, Maſter Bull, I have many matters, and money matters, to talk to you about; but thoſe little twinklers put every thing out of my head. I ſhall want a thouſand pounds for the good of the nation, this very night, d'ye ſee. I have promiſed to ſend it to Squeezem, and Ned Anderſon never yet broke his word; and that's a bold expreſſion for one of my age, let me tell you. I am not a man of words, but of deeds, my little widow, and I hope you'll like me the better, therefore—eh! and ſo adieu, My pretty, pretty Poll.

I am glad they are gone—I could not conquer my confuſion! Deteſted be the hour I tried the art to wear a ſmile upon my cheek, while rage and grief tear my diſtracted ſoul.

Lord, Madam! what a ſad buſtle has been here this afternoon; I am afraid we are all blown up with the Governor, as I hear he was by at ſome part of it!

Lucy, I am undone for ever! I have loſt Lord Seaton's heart, and all other miſery is equal to me.

I wiſh you had no other misfortune to complain of, Madam. Hearts are ſoon won, and ſoon loſt. It is not love, but money, that ſhould take up your thoughts at preſent. In ſhort, all your creditors are alarmed, and you had much better think of the only way you have to quiet them, by becoming the Governor's lawful wife imme⯑diately.

I do not want your advice, but your pity, Lucy.

Pity! Charity begins at home, Madam; and for that matter, I think myſelf as much to be pitied as other people.

Get me a pen and ink; I'll write to Lord Seaton directly.

If you have loſt his heart, a pen and ink will hardly bring it back again; but they are on your table in the dreſſing room; and if I might adviſe, it would be, for the preſent, at leaſt, to drop a connection, which, by ruining you, may injure my own intereſts.

And pray, Mrs. Lucy, how came your intereſts to be any way connected in this matter?

Why really, Madam, to tell you the truth, I apprehend, that if any unlucky circum⯑ſtance [51] ſhould break off your match with the Go⯑vernor, it would then be out of your power to reward my many long and faithful ſervices.

Inſolent wretch! needed there this addition to my misfortunes!

People who bring on their own misfor⯑tunes, Madam—

Are to be inſulted by their ſer⯑vants, it ſeems—But I will no longer bear your inſolence.

Nor I your diſtreſſes, Madam.

My affability has been miſtaken, I find, or you had not dared to inſult me thus— But as for the extraordinary merits you boaſt of, I ſhall think it not the leaſt injuſtice to leave ſuch virtues to their own reward. Prepare your accounts inſtantly, nor dare appear before me again, but to give them in. Ungrateful woman!

Prepare your accounts. Yes, that's eaſily done. I have them pretty well by heart already. I'll give them in, to-morrow morning, to the Gover⯑nor, and leave you two to caſt them up together, at your next meeting. Ungrateful woman, too, I am called. 'Tis fine talking, truly, about gratitude, and ſuch ſtuff, becauſe one won't ſpend their whole life in poverty with her—and that I foreſee will be her fate, at laſt. In love with my Lord, forſooth! and every thing muſt be ſacrificed to that girliſh paſſion. Why, if the Governor ſhould marry her to-morrow, 'tis ten to one but ſhe'd be in the heighth of the mode in a week; in Doctor's Com⯑mons in a fortnight; and a beggar before the honey-moon was over. But I'll prevent that miſ⯑chief, at leaſt, by expoſing her to his Excellency; and if he is bent upon matrimony, right or wrong, [52] there are people who think me handſomer than my miſtreſs; and if he has but half as much ſenſe, as money, he may poſſibly be of the ſame opinion too.

ACT IV.

MY ſearch has hitherto been vain; but I have juſt now heard that my ſiſter Freeman is expected ſoon in town; and if female friendſhips are not, as Lord Seaton ſays, an empty name, ſhe will probably know ſomething of my dear Char⯑lotte's ſituation or abode. My engagement here, for this evening, puts it out of my power to enquire about her, to-night; but to morrow early I ſhall call at her houſe—Mrs. Markam!

You are welcome to England, Sir, but am ſorry to acquaint you that my Lady happens to be ſo much indiſpoſed, at preſent, that ſhe muſt deny herſelf the pleaſure of ſeeing you, for this evening.

I am extremely ſorry for your Lady's illneſs, Mrs. Markam. This ſudden attack alarms me for her.

O, by no means ſudden, Sir. My Lady has been ill of the ſame diſorder, ever ſince ſhe has been married. I wonder, for my part, how ſhe has been able to bear it ſo patiently; but ſhe is convinced, at laſt, and I hope ſhe'll pluck up a [54] ſpirit now, and not ſuffer herſelf to be impoſed upon, any longer.

I do not underſtand you. She ſeemed to be in perfect health, at dinner.

Well, Sir, and if ſhe was, ſhe has had enough in conſcience to have made her ſick, ſince then. She'll believe me, another time, I fancy. I am not apt to be miſtaken, whatever ſhe may be. I am ſure it is a ſcandalous thing for him that has ſuch a charming Lady of his own, and has not been married quite two months yet—And that pretty demure Miſs too, that my Lady was ſo fond of—But I never liked her, for my part, and al⯑ways ſaid that ſmooth water—

Prithee, Mrs. Markam, explain yourſelf— You alarm me, extremely.

I beg your honour's pardon—I forgot that you were in love with Miſs Melville formerly, or to be ſure I would not have ſaid a word againſt her before you; but then I was ſo enraged with my Lord for ſlighting his good Lady, that I could not command myſelf—Though for certain it is no affair of mine, after all; and I muſt beg, Sir, that you would not mention any thing I have ſaid, for the world; for my Lady would never forgive me, if ſhe knew that I ſpoke of it to any one.

I am on the rack.

The only way then to inſure my ſecrecy, Mrs. Markam, is by making me a thorough confidant; for as yet I do not comprehend what Miſs Melville has to do with either your Lady's illneſs, or your Lord's unkindneſs. She quitted this houſe, I have been informed, before they were married; and they have both aſſured me they have neither of them ſeen her, ſince.

Does my Lord ſay ſo?

He moſt certainly did.

Why then great folks have a patent— I ſuppoſe; for as ſure as I ſtand here, my Lady detected his Lordſhip and Miſs Melville together, this very afternoon—And was that their firſt tête à tête, think you?

By heaven, I cannot give credit to this ſtory—I ſhould ſtill think it impoſſible, though Lord Seaton and Miſs Melville themſelves were both to confeſs it.

O Lord, Sir, I am frightened out of my wits—It mayn't be true, as you ſay, after all. I could bite my tongue off for being ſo nimble. I wiſh heartily I had been dumb.

If you have idly ſlandered Miſs Melville, you deſerve to be ſo for life. But I will have this matter explained immediately—Where is Lord Seaton?

O dear, good Colonel, for heaven's ſake don't be in a paſſion—there might be no harm done, to be ſure—he was only kneeling at her feet, when my Lady happened to come into the room.

Inſidious, baſe diſſembler!

Why to be ſure he has a diſſembling tongue, and every one thought that he was in love with my Lady, before he married her, except her⯑ſelf—But ſhe, it ſeems, had her ſuſpicions that he liked Miſs better, and that made my Lady ſo cold to her, that ſhe hardly opened her lips to her for a great while before ſhe left the houſe.

Here's my Lord a coming, I fear.

I hope ſo.

O dear, merciful Colonel, have com⯑paſſion, and don't betray me now. Conſider I am but a poor ſervant, Sir, and indeed Miſs Melville was always very kind to me; and if your honour [56] will but forgive me, this once, I promiſe never to ſpeak another word againſt her, while I have breath —But I muſt run, Sir.

And well you have rewarded her kindneſs. But when perſons of rank and education ſet an example of meanneſs and ingratitude, we are not to expect to meet with their oppoſite virtues, in an inferior claſs.

O Charles, I am glad to meet you. I have a perfect novel of extraordinary incidents to communicate to you.

And I am glad, my Lord, that we are met, and that you are in ſuch a communicative diſpoſition, as I have a queſtion to aſk you, that muſt be anſwered.

Muſt, Colonel!

Yes, my Lord, it muſt be reſolved—Where is Miſs Melville?

That queſtion, Colonel, neither muſt, nor can, be reſolved, by me—I know not where ſhe is.

Can it be poſſible you ſhould be mean enough to attempt to ſcreen an act of perfidy and baſeneſs, beneath the flimſy ſubterfuge of falſe⯑hood! But 'twill not do, my Lord; we muſt not part, till you inform me where Miſs Melville is; and from her lips, which uſed to be the oracles of truth, I will learn all the reſt.

You really aſtoniſh me, Sir, with a language as little becoming you to uſe, as for me to bear.

The man who has deſerved ſuch language ought to bear it. Courage and falſehood never [57] dwelt together; and when the mind is ſo far de⯑baſed, as to forge a tale to impoſe upon a friend, all pretence to bravery is but a jeſt—a madman's phrenzy, or a coward's rage.

I can endure this inſolence, no longer. This roof is your protection, for the preſent, Sir; but quit it inſtantly, and let us quickly meet where the vile term you have now uſed, may light on him who moſt deſerves it.

Unworthy as I think your Lordſhip's con⯑duct, I cannot yet refuſe your appointment—To-morrow morning I ſhall call upon you—till then, farewel, my Lord.

You ſhall find me ready, Sir. How was it poſſible for him to know that I had ſeen Miſs Melville? When I came in the ſervant told me my wife was ill, and had not ſeen the Colonel— She could not, therefore, nay, ſhe would not, tell him—But it matters not, at preſent, who informed him. I never meant to injure him. I did not know of his paſſion for Charlotte, till after I was married; and had I, on his return, acknowledged each circumſtance that ever paſſed between us, he could not have condemned me. How weak and culpable is want of frankneſs? This alone has in⯑volved me in all my difficulties.

From Mrs. Frankly, my Lord.

[58] Deſpicable, yet unhappy woman! The artful mean⯑neſs of her conduct, this evening, has ſunk her below my pity. This marriage that ſhe hints at, is thrown out merely to draw me to her lure—But 'tis in vain, for I ſhall never ſee, or think of her, again. Indeed I have ſomething more material to take up my thoughts, at preſent—This haſty con⯑duct of Ramſay's diſtreſſes me extremely—But 'tis firſt neceſſary that I ſhould clear Miſs Melville's conduct to my wife—They muſt be mutual ſufferers by the continuance of Lady Seaton's miſtake; and ſhe, at leaſt, deſerves all my endeavours to reſtore her peace. Though I cannot account for her follow⯑ing me to Mrs. Frankly's this evening. But grant it were a fault, 'tis her firſt to me, and mine I con⯑feſs to have been manifold againſt her—Who's there?

Aſk Markam if her Lady be in her dreſſing-room, and let her know that I deſire to ſpeak with her.

In what different points of view do the ſame objects preſent themſelves, at different times, before us! The ſeriouſneſs of my preſent ſituation has removed the veil which the falſe no⯑tions and looſe manners of the preſent world had ſpread over my thoughts and actions. I ſee now the impropriety, nay, the inhumanity, of my whole conduct to Lady Seaton, and wiſh, though perhaps too late, that it may yet be in my power to make her every atonement.

You ſeem alarmed, Madam; but lay aſide your fears—You have nothing to apprehend.

The conſciouſneſs, my Lord, of having offended you, though moſt inadvertently, muſt certainly render me unhappy.

The extraordinary ſtep you took this evening, Madam, appears to be but little conſiſtent with the delicacy of the ſentiment you now expreſs.

If you will condeſcend to hear my motives for it, my Lord, you will not judge ſo hardly of me. I then thought Miſs Melville in⯑nocent—

And ſo, by heaven, ſhe is.

My Lord!

Yes, Madam, I repeat it; and though to ſupport my aſſertion, I ſhall be obliged to accuſe myſelf, yet will I do her merit the juſtice it deſerves. On my return from Italy, at the ſame moment I beheld ye both—

Stop there, my Lord—too well, alas! I know who then won the preference in your af⯑fections.

Paſſion is involuntary, Madam; but I had hopes that reaſon, which directed my addreſſes to you, would have conquered that partiality.

Impoſſible, my Lord, I fear; and bluſhing own, that though I perceived your attach⯑ment to my rival, I yet nouriſhed in my breaſt the ſame to you—By vain ſelf-love miſled, I fondly thought I might perhaps inſpire the tenderneſs I felt—My weakneſs has been puniſhed as it ought!

You judge yourſelf too ſeverely, Madam—'Tis I alone am culpable.

We both deceived ourſelves, my Lord, and both have been to blame.

I would not wiſh, Madam, to involve you in my errors, and am ſincerely ſorry you ſhould have ſuffered by them—Let me now proceed— [60] After ſome unſucceſsful ſtruggles with myſelf, I at length determined to confeſs my prepoſſeſſion for Miſs Melville, and break off the treaty with you— I wrote to her, accordingly, on the ſubject—Her anſwer was conſiſtent with that worth which dig⯑nifies her whole conduct. She owned ingenuouſly that her heart had been preingaged, but alſo gene⯑rouſly aſſured me, that were it perfectly free, ſhe could never have availed herſelf of my preference in her favour, to your prejudice.

Generous, charming girl! how have I injured her!

I have reaſon to believe that ſhe left this houſe, in hopes her abſence might efface my paſſion, and ſuffer your beauty and merits, Madam, to produce the effect they muſt naturally have had upon a diſengaged heart. From that moment, till this evening, and that by accident merely, I declare I never ſaw or heard from her; and was, at that inſtant, only intreating her return to you again. If therefore you have conceived one doubt to her diſhonour, baniſh it for ever from your mind.

I never had a doubt, my Lord, of Charlotte's worth, nor was it jealouſy, but friend⯑ſhip, that brought me to be a witneſs of that ſcene which firſt diſturbed my confidence in her—But you have now reſtored it, and if I knew where to direct my courſe, I would this moment fly to intreat her pardon, as I do yours; for I have injured you beyond the hope of an atonement—'Twas ſelfiſh vanity inſpired the cruel wiſh of being yours, with⯑out the power of paying back the happineſs I re⯑ceived.

Nay, Madam, do not ſpeak ſo hum⯑bly—The polite attentions which I paid you, joined to your own perſonal charms and merits, might, [61] without vanity, have made you think that you poſ⯑ſeſſed my love; whilſt I, falſe to your happineſs, as well as to my own, knew but too well I had not then a heart to give.

In vain, my Lord, you kindly ſtrive to ſet my mind at peace, and reconcile me to an error that has been fatal to us both, I fear.

I am too ſenſible how far I have wronged you, to bear this generous conteſt; but may I hope the frankneſs I have ſhewn, in thus diſcovering to you the weakneſs of my conduct, will at leaſt aſſure you of my confidence and eſteem.

I aſk no more, my Lord, and ſhall ever ſtudy to deſerve them.

The kindneſs and condeſcenſion of that ſpeech, Lady Seaton, merits much more, and has awaked my tenderneſs—But is that worthy your acceptance, now?

The world were well exchanged for ſuch a treaſure!

Accept then, thou moſt deſerving of thy ſex, a heart more ſurely thine, than if it had firſt been led to you by paſſion only, for that is liable to change; but kindneſs and worth, like yours, muſt naturally inſpire unfading love.

My tears alone can ſpeak my joy! my gratitude!

Thus let me wipe away the precious drops, and with them all remembrance of my paſt follies.

Why, hey dey, what wind blows now! but no matter, this at leaſt is as it ſhould be, and [62] juſt ſo I hope little ſpouſey and I will ſpend our time together. I have a buſineſs of conſequence to communicate to your Lordſhip—I do all above board, d'ye ſee, and as I thought you were dull and alone, I came up to diſcourſe you a little—I am glad to ſee you recovered, niece, they told me you were ſick, and kept your chamber.

I am much better, Sir, and now may truly ſay that I am well and happy.

And I am truly glad of both, my dear niece.

Can it be poſſible, my dear, that, generous as your nature is, a woman can ſincerely pardon a preference once ſhewn to another?

The doubt's unkind—but aſk your⯑ſelf, my Lord, Can there be any thing in nature more pleaſing to a generous mind, than to have ſomething to forgive?

Why this is downright making love, my Lord, and renders me the more impatient to talk of my own affairs, d'ye ſee.

Retire, my dear, and reſt aſſured that all my future life ſhall be devoted to the con⯑tinuance of our preſent happineſs.

Your kind intentions have ſecured its permanence, and made my bliſs complete.

How little do we foreſee the evils that await us! the apprehenſions of what that amiable woman may have yet to ſuffer, on my account, diſturb me much.

Why for that matter, my Lord, I am a little diſturbed myſelf, d'ye ſee, or elſe I would not have troubled you—You muſt know then, that I am going to be married out of hand, directly, and [63] my friend Bull, who was to have given away the bride, writes me word that he can't attend my wedding—but if your Lordſhip will be ſo good to ſupply his place, d'ye ſee—

I heartily wiſh you joy, Governor, and will readily accept the office; but pray who is our aunt to be?

One that you have ſeen, very lately, my Lord, but you don't know half her good qualities, perhaps; ſhe is the modeſteſt, moſt reſerved little rogue—and a man, at my time of life, you know, and in theſe times too, has no buſineſs with a fine gay flaunting Lady, d'ye ſee.

Not much, truly, Sir.

No, no, Ned Anderſon is no ſuch ſimple⯑ton! I have choſen a ſober, diſcreet, young crea⯑ture, very handſome withal—that will mind family matters, and be proud of her huſband's company, d'ye ſee—Can't you gueſs, now, my Lord? there are but few, in theſe days, that can anſwer ſuch a deſcription, I fancy —

Very few, I believe, Governor, and I happen to be wholly unacquainted with any of that ſmall number.

Why then not to puzzle you farther, my Lord, the firſt letter of her name is Frankly—

Frankly!

Why yes, my Lord, the pretty widow, at whoſe houſe we happened to meet, this evening —ſhe was mightily concerned for my niece, I aſſure you; for ſhe is very ſtrict, and was greatly out of ſorts at your behaviour. And by the way you ought to be a little more cautious in your conduct, and not expoſe yourſelf, by purſuing a girl into a ſtrange houſe, d'ye ſee—

I am much obliged to you for your advice, Sir. But pray will you give me leave to aſk you by what means you became acquainted with this ſame paragon of virtue?

Why my good friend, honeſt Sam. Bull, the broker, having in the courſe of our buſineſs together, conceived a particular regard for me, introduced me to his niece, ſome time ago—ſhe has a jointure of ſix hundred per annum, and he was plaguily afraid that ſome young fop might run away with her, and uſe her ill; he therefore recommended me as one that would be a kind of a father to her, d'ye ſee—

Yes, that I do ſee, very plainly, in⯑deed—But pray is your good friend Mr. Bull a broker for marriages, as well as ſtocks, Sir?

No, no, my Lord, he made no matter of buſineſs of it, in the leaſt; for tho' he under⯑ſtands making a bargain as well as any man in the Alley, he never once talked of a ſettlement—all, all is left to my own honour—but he knows his man, that's pretty plain, I think—

Very apparent, truly.

Do you think your Lordſhip can be ready to attend upon us to church by nine, to-morrow morning?

To-morrow, Governor!

Yes, to-morrow is to be the happy day, nephew.

As circumſtances are drawing ſo near a concluſion, Sir, I will be free enough to tell you, that you muſt not think of Mrs. Frankly, for a wife.

Why that is frank and free enough, to be ſure, my Lord; but I muſt have ſome better rea⯑ſon than a mere ipſe dixit, as Nicholas calls it. I [65] have always been a man of honour, to the ladies, my Lord.

I approve your chivalry, Governor, but with this reſerve, that you are ſure your Ladies be alſo Ladies of honour, on their part; leſt your knight-errantry ſhould be diſhonoured by your ga⯑lantry; and as it is happily not yet too late, I may venture to tell you that your preſent Dulcinea is totally devoid of ſuch a character.

Not too late! Ay, truly, but it is, tho', for I have not even ſo much as an acknowledg⯑ment under her hand, for five hundred pounds I lent her, this very morning, to fee her lawyers; and I gave her a pair of ear-rings, not a month ago, that coſt me five hundred pounds more. But if ſhe has no honour, 'tis well ſhe has ſome land, at leaſt. Bull aſſures me that her jointure is a good ſix hundred, per annum.

What! upon his eſtate, Governor?

I never heard he had one.

Nor I either, I promiſe you; and I rather doubt his having a foot of ground to ſtand upon, in the Alley, much longer.

Don't ſay ſo, my Lord; you'll break my heart. If Bull has waddled out a lame duck, I may be an undone man, for aught I ſee.

Matters may not be ſo bad as you apprehend; but at any rate I think you have reaſon to rejoice at having eſcaped being Mrs. Frankly's dupe, at leaſt.

Rejoice! at what? that I have been de⯑ceived and diſappointed in the woman I had ſet my heart upon, when it is too late in life to think of mending myſelf elſewhere. But I'll have my money and my jewels from her, if they are to be had, d'ye ſee, before we part.

You'll find it rather a difficult mat⯑ter, I fancy, to recover your property out of ſuch hands; but I wiſh you ſucceſs, and a good night, with all my heart, Governor.

A good night! fine talking, truly, after you have broke my reſt. I don't believe I ſhall be able to get a wink of ſleep, this month to come. I think I am even more diſturbed, now, than when my poor Bab died, and I remember that I lay awake, that night, almoſt three hours, tho' I had not loſt a farthing, neither.

A young Lady deſires to ſee you, Sir.

What! a young Lady, did you ſay?

Here ſhe is herſelf, Sir.

So, Mrs. Lucy, what! does your miſtreſs want another five hundred, to refreſh her lawyers, to-morrow, and has ſent you to wheedle me out of it? Eh!

No really, Sir, I am not the perſon you take me for. I would ſcorn to join in impoſing on ſo worthy a gentleman, as your Excellency.

Worthy me no worthies, Mrs. Abigail, it won't do, I can tell you—ſhe has miſtaken her man, d'ye ſee—I am not ſo eaſily impoſed upon as ſhe may imagine.

I am ſure, Sir, it has broke my heart, to ſee how you have been cheated and deceived, both by Mr. Bull and Mrs. Frankly.

You acknowledge it, then. But I'll ſhew them the difference immediately, and Bull may look [67] out for ſome fitter dupe to repair the honour and fortune of his family, by marrying his niece.

His niece! why that, indeed, ſounds well, Sir—

Why, is not Bull her uncle, girl?

No more related to her, Sir, than you are. The very jewels you gave her, Sir, are gone, paſt redemption. Sold, Sir, to ſupply her uncle's neceſſities, and will never more be heard of, be⯑lieve me.

I am ſtruck dumb with amazement! But, if Bull be not her uncle, why ſhould ſhe beſtow him her jewels, d'ye ſee?

Lord, Sir, there may be cloſer connec⯑tions, than relations, I ſuppoſe, in the world.

I ſhall be petrified! Why he is not her galant, ſure, is he?

I ſcorn to ſpeak ſcandal, Sir; but if he be, he is not her only one, I can aſſure you; for Lord Seaton is another—Tho' the paſſion happens unluckily to be all on the wrong ſide there, I can anſwer for it—

My hair ſtands an end at her wickedneſs! As for you, girl, there take my purſe, as a reward for your honeſty, d'ye ſee—but never let me ſee you, or any thing that belongs to your miſtreſs, more.

So then, the beſt part of my ſcheme is diſappointed, I find—I don't believe that he has even looked at me.

I thank your Excel⯑lency, and wiſh you a good night, Sir.

Good-bye to ye. Good-bye to ye. Get you out. Get you out.

In love with Lord Seaton! O the devil, the devil! what now in nature can make people ſuch rogues! one [68] hears, every day, here, of ſuch pranks as would taint the very air of India, and breed a peſtilence there. I'll go back, I'll go back again, in the firſt ſhip that ſails, and ſpend the remainder of my life among men whoſe words are bonds, and where the ties of honour require no laws to bind them—But firſt I'll go maul my happy—I'll break her night's reſt, for her, and her heart too, if I can. The in⯑triguing gipſey!

ACT V.

I HAVE had a deviliſh bad night of it. If I had vented my rage, I might have got ſome ſleep, perhaps—but ſhe was in bed, and would not ſee me, forſooth.—Plaguy modeſt, to be ſure. But I'll make bold to break her morning ſlumbers. I'll rouſe her, that I will. Get me my breakfaſt, quickly—There's no good in faſting, d'ye ſee— Diſpatch, I ſay, or I ſhall go without it—My rage will burſt me—

I grieve to ſee your Excellency ſo much inflated with choler—but I obey.

Why, how now, Mr. Squeezem!

O, Sir, you have made a fine hand of your affairs, with your boaſted punctuality—We have no bonds, in India, forſooth. Commend me to the perſons who are not aſhamed to ſet their names to a piece of ſtamped paper. They are the men to do buſineſs with.

Why, what can be the meaning of all this! Did not Bull carry you the money, laſt night? [70] And were you not to ſet out with the ſun, this morning?

No, really, Sir, Mr. Bull did not bring me a farthing; but I believe he has carried that, and himſelf off together, by the light of the moon; for he was not to be found at his own houſe, at day-break, when I called there; and I fancy that neither ſun or moon will ever ſee him in England again.

So then 'tis pretty plain that I have been completely gulled, jilted, bulled and beared, by a profeſſing ſcoundrel and a pretty face—

What ſignifies all this, to your ſeat in the houſe? Honours, Sir, don't ſpring up like muſhrooms, in a night—They are not to be had when, where, and how you pleaſe.

No, Sir, nothing is to be had as I pleaſe. —All's loſt—all's gone—I ſee it—I know it—I'm an object of pity, Mr. Squeezem. So if you'l pleaſe to refund me the thouſand I advanced to you—

Why ſurely, Sir, you are not in earneſt. Refund, quotha! Why, Sir, it was all gone, ſwal⯑lowed, eaten and drank up, in one day. Elec⯑tioneering is your only true ſinking fund, Gover⯑nor. Potwallopers refund!

Sir, your Excellency's meal is pre⯑pared within.

Go eat it then—I have no appetite left.— Potwalloppers! a thouſand pounds potwalloped, in a day! impoſſible! I'll cram them with turtle, 'till they burſt, d'ye ſee, and defy them to do it.

It is reported that Anthony and Cleo⯑patra expended, at one ſupper—

Choke them with their ſupper, imperti⯑nent—I ſhall run mad, with vexation. What! a thouſand pounds in a day, and not to have either my money, or myſelf returned, after all!

Lord, Sir, how impatiently you talk! Why many, and many an honeſt gentleman has ſpent ten thouſand, in the ſame way, and had no more for his money, than you have.

Get out of my ſight, I adviſe you, while I can yet command my temper. A thouſand pounds at a meal!

As you ſeem a little indiſpoſed, at pre⯑ſent, Sir, I ſhall take your advice, and retire; but if any other ſnug, convenient ſeat ſhould offer, in futuro, Sir, you may freely command the ſervices of your moſt obedient, Bartholomew Squeezem.

You and your diſſervices may go to the vengeance together. I have got enough of elec⯑tioning, and of courting too, for life, I think. I'll ſee Mrs. Frankly, this inſtant, and have juſ⯑tice on that villain Bull, if 'tis to be had in the land. Was there ever ſo unfortunate a man as I am! diſappointed in every thing—plundered by every body! What a pack of troubles have I brought upon myſelf, without deſigning the leaſt manner of miſchief to any one alive!

Bull's abſconding, and Lucy's deſerting me, in ſo critical a ſituation, have happened moſt unluc⯑kily. [72] What excuſe can I make, for Bull's abſence, to the Governor? He was here late, laſt night, and raving at being refuſed admittance▪ Fear of detection, what a curſe art thou! O could the young and artleſs mind but know the agonies that dwell with guilt, it would prefer the humbleſt lot with peace, to all that ſplendid vice can e'er be⯑ſtow.—But what have I to do with ſuch reflec⯑tions, now! No reply yet from Seaton—his cold unkindneſs ſtabs me to the heart—My dear Go⯑vernor—

Thou worſe than a vulture, or a kite— thou cruelleſt, and moſt ungrateful of women! I know not where to begin, nor in what language to ſpeak of you.

(What can this mean! Lucy has betrayed me, I fear.

)

I am thoroughly acquainted with your arts, I know all your hiſtory at full length, d'ye ſee.

I hope it has entertained you, Sir, for you ſeem to be much engaged with it.

Don't offer to interrupt me—Let me ſpeak, I ſay. That villain Bull, that fellow that paſſed for your uncle, is no more related to you than the Great Mogul. He is your galant, it ſeems, and you meant to marry me, merely to make his fortune.

Mr. Bull of all creatures, my galant! This is too ridiculous, Sir.

'Tis true, for all that, as honeſt Lucy has aſſured me—and the very jewels I gave you, [73] nay, perhaps, the money I advanced to ſee your lawyers, ungenerous woman, have been all ſacri⯑ficed to him.

Lucy! and ſo honeſt Mrs. Lucy is your informer, Sir! I give you joy of your au⯑thority.

Don't anſwer me, I ſay, thou harpy—I have not brought half my charges againſt you, yet.

I ſhall not attempt to anſwer you, indeed, Sir, as you really appear to be quite out of your reaſon, at preſent, and there is no arguing with a madman.

If I am mad, 'tis you that have made me ſo—but your inſolence ſhall not defend you. I will expoſe you and your good uncle Bull, to the whole world. I won't confine myſelf to one quar⯑ter of it—all India ſhall know how you have uſed me. Where are the ear-rings I gave you? Where are my jewels, I ſay? ſhew them to me, this in⯑ſtant. I inſiſt upon ſeeing them, at leaſt.

How is that poſſible, pray, if I have already given them to Mr. Bull?—Deli⯑rious!

Her aſſurance amazes me—I thought ſhe would have fallen at my feet and implored my pardon.

No, really, Sir—injured inno⯑cence has a right to reſent—

Injured innocence!—that word has almoſt choked me—This is too much—Then, Madam Injured Innocence, I have accuſed you wrongfully, it ſeems—

So you may poſſibly find, Sir, when perhaps it may be too late to repent of it.

And why the plague don't you juſtify yourſelf then?

So I would, Sir, if you were in a condition to hear reaſon.

Well, well—ſpeak—ſpeak freely.—I am perfectly cool—quite calm, Madam.

Hear me, then. All this rage of yours proceeds from Lucy's having trumped up a falſe ſtory—

A falſe ſtory! Hell and the furies! then prove it ſo, Madam.

Don't ſwear, Sir—remember you are perfectly cool—quite calm, you know.

Well, well, I am ſo, I had forgot—Go on, Madam, now, without interruption.

Then firſt, Sir, give me leave to aſk you if you are acquainted with the reaſon of Lucy's quitting my ſervice?

Yes, Madam, becauſe ſhe could not bear to be a witneſs of your impoſing on me.

Juſt the reverſe, Sir—I turned her out of my houſe, laſt night, for abuſing you, ungenerous as you are.

Abuſing me! Why, what could the minx find to ſay againſt me?

How can you think, ſaid ſhe, of burying your youth, beauty, and fortune, in the arms of your grandfather! when there are ſo many—

Grandfather! confound the jade.—Let me hear no more of her impertinence, but come to the point, Madam; Where is your uncle, and where are my diamonds, d'ye ſee?

Mr. Bull, Sir, is gone into Wilt⯑ſhire, to bring up a witneſs to prove my dear Mr. Frankly's laſt will—and as to the diamonds, Sir, [75] Lucy, you ſay, has given you a full account of them.

Yes, yes, and a receipt in full, too, Madam—your pretended uncle has carried them into Wiltſhire to bribe your evidence, I ſuppoſe.

Mr. Bull has them, then! mighty well, Sir. And if I was to produce them now, what would you ſay, then, Sir?

Say! why really in ſuch a caſe, Madam, I ſhould ſay—hang me, if I know what I ſhould ſay—but 'tis abſolutely impoſſible—

Then not to ſatisfy, but to ſhock you, look there—

— Now take them back again, Sir, for as I prized them more as a token, than a gift, they have loſt their value with your unkindneſs.

I am confounded! I am dead! the very jewels I gave her, that's certain! That vile jade Lucy! I ſee you are innocent, Madam, and muſt implore your pardon for having doubted it.

You ought not to have doubted it, Sir, nor have ventured to inſult a woman of honour upon the teſtimony of a wretch, whom common ſenſe might have informed you I ſhould not have diſcarded, had it been in her power to have hurt me.

Why to be ſure I might have thought of that, Madam, but you can't conceive what a pack of plauſible lies ſhe told me.—She ſaid you were in love too with Lord Seaton, who deſpiſed you— nay his Lordſhip ſpoke to your diſadvantage him⯑ſelf, alſo, and firſt cautioned me againſt marrying you.

But ſurely now any perſon of common ſenſe, Sir, would have conſidered his en⯑deavour to prevent it, as a proof rather of love, [76] than of hate—I ſoon perceived he had gained Lucy over to his intereſt, which was the chief reaſon of my diſcharging her; in revenge for which ſhe in⯑vented all thoſe abominable ſtories, and you were weak enough to believe them.

I have been weak enough, to be ſure; but you ſhall find now that I am perfectly ſatiſ⯑fied.

You allow then, that you have been in the wrong, Sir—

Exceedingly.

And that you have been duped by a woman—

Shamefully—I ſee it, now—I feel it— Yes, yes, I have been duped, indeed, with a ven⯑geance.

And you really do repent of your credulity.

Repent! ſhall hang myſelf if you do not forgive me.

Well, well, then, I do forgive you, Sir.

And I aſk your pardon, again and again —So now let us kiſs and friends—kiſs and friends, for life, d'ye ſee. I ſhall think every minute an age 'till we are one—we'll be married, this very day. Let's loſe no time, d'ye ſee. I'll ſtep home and bring Nicholas, directly, to give you away, and do you run in and prepare, ſo that there may be no waiting when we call on you.

You treſpaſs on my fondneſs, which pleads your cauſe ſo ſtrongly; for had you leſs love, you would have had leſs jealouſy; and the exceſs of one ſhould ever atone for the vio⯑ [...]ce of the other. And ſo I ſhall be ready to at⯑tend you, Sir.

Why that's very good-natured, and very true, too. Yes, indeed, I do love her monſtrouſ⯑ly, or I ſhould not have been ſo jealous. But for all this I ſhall diſcourſe my Lord Seaton a little, be⯑fore I am married; for I neither can, nor will be ſatisfied, till I have made him recant his ca⯑lumny.

The hurry and agitation I paſſed thro', yeſterday evening, have diſcompoſed my ſpirits ſo much that I find it impoſſible to reſt. Mrs. Free⯑man is not yet up, ſo that I have ſufficient leiſure to reflect on the extraordinary adventures of yeſter⯑day, which I confeſs appear to me, now, more like a viſion than a fact. I am impatient till all this miſtery is explained, that I may have an op⯑portunity of clearing my conduct to my amiable friend. If the weight only of an imputed crime be ſo hard to bear, what a burden muſt real guilt be! Lord Seaton ſaid ſomething, I think, of Co⯑lonel Ramſay. I dare not flatter my hopes about his arrival, as Mrs. Freeman knows nothing of it yet. But ſee, beyond a doubt my wiſhes are ac⯑compliſhed—

You are welcome to England, Sir.

I have been ſo long abſent, Madam, that I own myſelf rather ſurprized at your recollection of a perſon whom I hoped, for your own ſake, [78] you had totally forgotten; and you muſt pardon me if I alſo add that my wonder is a good deal in⯑creaſed, by ſeeing you at preſent in Mrs. Freeman's houſe.

What can this mean! Surely 'tis you, Sir, who have forgotten both yourſelf and me, or after two tedious years of abſence it were not poſ⯑ſible we ſhould meet thus.

I fancy, Madam, that the abſence of an injured lover does not appear tedious to thoſe who enjoy the preſence of a favoured one. Lord Sea⯑ton, Madam, has ſufficiently conſoled you for my loſs.

Lord Seaton!

You ſeem ſurprized; but I am too well informed of your connection. However, Madam, I did not mean to upbraid, or intrude upon you, now. I came here only to ſee my ſiſter, and have but a ſhort time to ſpare to her, from a very par⯑ticular and preſſing engagement.

Be your engagements what they may, Sir, I have a right to expect you ſhould explain the meaning of your preſent conduct towards me, as far at leaſt as it reſpects my character.

You ſpeak, Madam, as if you thought you ſtill retained the power you once had over me; but you have forfeited it, and I am no longer now the dupe of my own weakneſs, or of your deceit.

O Ramſay, how have I deſerved this treatment?

(I cannot bear her tears.

) I wiſh not, Madam, to offend or wound you—you are miſtreſs of your own actions, and all I ſhall further ſay, upon this ſubject, is, that had your new en⯑gagement [79] been more for your own honour, your perfidy might have been more pardonable to one who reſpected your character, as much as he ad⯑mired your perſon.

I do not comprehend you, Sir. What engagements have I entered into, inconſiſtent with that preference I had too haſtily, I fear, confeſſed for you?

The ties of hearts like mine are formed by honour only, Madam, nor could I ever take advantage of a woman's fondneſs to hurt her inno⯑cence, or wound her fame. Lord Seaton is a more modern kind of lover, Madam.

Lord Seaton again! What can you mean by him? Is he not married, Sir?

For his unhappy lady's ſake, as well as yours, I would he were not. The woman I once loved might then have had ſome excuſe.

I can ſuſtain this injury no longer—Have you not known me from my earlieſt youth?

No, Madam, 'tis plain I did not. My fond imagination had indeed conceived a fair idea from Miſs Melville's form—a heart replete with honour, love and conſtancy! virtues too ſeldom found in your frail ſex, and it was vanity in me to hope I ſhould engroſs ſo rare a treaſure.

What have I done to forfeit your opi⯑nion? But I will condeſcend to waive the pride of injured virtue, and tell you, Sir, that you are much deceived.

I have been ſo, I own, but the delirium's fled. My time is precious, now—I came hither on other purpoſe, Madam, and neither thought, or wiſhed to have met you here.

Can it be poſſible the time ſhould come, when Ramſay ſhould not wiſh to ſee me!

Too many hours have I, alas, devoted to the fond impatience of ſeeing her I loved.—'Twas the reward I promiſed to myſelf, for toil, for dan⯑ger, for the ſtill greater pangs of abſence—and how have you repaid my anxious hope!

If the moſt conſtant, unabated tender⯑neſs and eſteem could have repaid the ſufferings you pretend, I ſhould not now be deemed your debtor; nor would a lover, ſuch as you would ſeem, have liſtened to a tale invented by ſome fiend to blaſt my honour. O Ramſay! 'tis now, alas, too plain, you never loved.

(I know not what to think—ſhe ſpeaks with confidence, and looks with innocence—yet Lady Seaton ſurely could not invent a falſhood. Perhaps I have been too raſh; and yet I have not time to repair my error, now. My honour is elſe⯑where too far engaged, at preſent, and the time draws near.

) If ever we ſhould meet again, Miſs Melville, you will be then convinced that I have loved.

What do you ſay? If ever we ſhould meet! Do not diſtract me, Sir—you muſt not leave me till this riddle is explained, and you con⯑vinced both of my truth and love.

You muſt excuſe me, Madam, for the preſent. Tho' 'tis a ſubject of the deareſt im⯑port, I cannot now attend the explication.

Lord Seaton, Madam.

Lord Seaton! What can his viſit mean?

O, fair diſſembler! my doubts are all ex⯑plained.

I come, Madam, to make my apo⯑logy for having been, tho' inadvertently, the cauſe of any anxiety or diſtreſs to you.

Indeed, my Lord, I know not how I have deſerved it, but you have been the ſource of moſt mortifying difficulties and diſtreſſes to me; but ſurely you will now be candid and generous enough to undeceive this gentleman, my friend—I know not what to ſtile him—Colonel Ramſay, with re⯑gard to me.

O ſpare yourſelf and him the trouble, Madam; you are miſtaken, I am not deceived; I know Lord Seaton well, and know Miſs Mel⯑ville, too.

Blind and ungrateful as you are to love and friendſhip, yet for Miſs Melville's ſake—

O, Sir, I doubt not but, for her dear ſake, your Lordſhip may generouſly condeſcend to vouch her honour, with the loſs of yours. (But, my Lord, you know there is another mode of ſa⯑tisfying me.

)

My dear, my injured Charlotte, I have not words to atone the wrong I have done you, but hope in Colonel Ramſay to obtain an ad⯑vocate more powerful than myſelf, for your for⯑giveneſs.

(This ſurely muſt be illuſion all! my feet are rooted to the ſpot I ſtand upon with wonder!

)

My dear Lady Seaton, this is too good, too condeſcending, and too kind! I meant to have gone to you.

No, my friend, nothing can be too much from one who has injured innocence and worth like yours by doubting of your virtue, for a moment.

I cannot comprehend this miſtery—it is impoſſible that you ſhould wrong me. Some ſpell has ſurely been caſt round me, for Ramſay too has doubted of my truth and love.

I, only I, who formed the charm, can break it. (My weak unjuſt ſuſpicions have betrayed you into error; your cenſure and reſent⯑ment therefore ſhould light on me alone.

)

I am perplexed—What can all this mean?

It means, my Charlotte, that my too haſty credulity has hurried me into a fault; which I can never hope you ſhould forgive, the ſuſpecting truth and virtue ſuch as yours.

To doubt of pardon, on repentance, ag⯑gravates the crime; for who that pretends not to perfection in themſelves, ſhall dare to be impla⯑cable to another's ſailings. But ſtill I am in the dark and on the rack, to know how all this ſtrange confuſion has been conjured up.

It aroſe intirely from my indiſcretion in letting drop to Markam my having met you at Mrs. Frankly's. She happened to ſee the Colonel immediately after, and informed him of all, and perhaps more than ſhe knew.

At Mrs. Frankly's!

Yes, at Mrs. Frankly's. Take care, Colonel; relapſes are dangerous to ſuſceptible con⯑ſtitutions—but I ſhall at more leiſure account to you for ſo extraordinary an incident.

And I ſhall moſt patiently wait 'till you think proper to gratify merely my curioſity, in that particular.

But mine is not to be ſatisfied, 'till I know how Lady Seaton ſhould come there.

And I am ready to indulge you.— Unhappy at your abſence, my dear Charlotte, I ordered my ſervant to make every poſſible inquiry to find you out.—He ſaw you, by chance, going into Mrs. Frankly's, and was informed you lived there. I immediately flew to requeſt your com⯑pany, in hopes of agreeably ſurpriſing both you and the Colonel with an unexpected interview, at my houſe. You know the unhappy miſtake oc⯑caſioned then by Mrs. Frankly's behaviour, for which I again aſk both my Lord's pardon, and yours.

The nobleneſs of your behaviour, upon that occaſion, my dear, has fully entitled you to the warmeſt gratitude of every perſon pre⯑ſent, tho' you yet know not how highly merito⯑rious your conduct has been, to us all.

I bluſh to think how I have injured your Lordſhip, by my raſhneſs, and here throw myſelf on your generoſity for forgiveneſs.

You ſhall not ſtoop to aſk it, Co⯑lonel—forgiveneſs we beſtow upon our enemies— but we are now, and ever ſhall be friends.

A gentleman ſeeing your Lordſhip's car⯑riage at the door, inquired if you were here, and deſires to ſpeak with you.

I ſhall attend him.

By the degree of familiarity he uſes, I fancy it muſt be the Governor.

If it be, my Lord, pray deſire him to walk up.

You ſee, Madam, he introduces himſelf without a gentleman-uſher.

I have been at your houſe, to look for you, my Lord.

Well, Governor, and now you have found me, what are your commands?

Why, my Lord, I have both queſtions and commands to propoſe to you, d'ye ſee, tho' I think you have been more inclined to a game of croſs-purpoſes, than any thing elſe, lately. But in plain Engliſh, I think you have behaved very ungenerouſly in this affair of my marriage, let me tell you.

His marriage! bleſs us, with whom?

Your charge is ſevere, Governor; but, prithee, explain yourſelf, for at preſent I don't underſtand you.

I ſhall make it plain enough, I warrant you—I mean, my Lord, that you have traduced [85] the character of a woman, whoſe honour I am bound to ſupport, by every principle of a man, and I never yet put up with an affront, nor ever will, d'ye ſee.

Spoken like a champion, ſtout and ſtrong, Governor.

I don't mean to act the bravo, my Lord, tho' I have faced a Nabob, at the head of his forces, before now; but all I deſire of you, at preſent, is, that as a man of honour you will come with me and aſk Mrs. Frankly's pardon, before we go to church together.

Indeed, Governor, you muſt excuſe me from going through ſuch a ceremony, and alſo for endeavouring to prevent your going through a more ſerious one, with a woman who is—

Don't venture to ſay a word againſt her beauty, or her virtue, my Lord, or I may not be able to command myſelf, perhaps.

The goodneſs and generoſity of your own heart, Governor, render you too liable to im⯑poſition. 'Tis the nature of man to impute their own principles to others, be they good or bad.

Why, I am not apt to be ſuſpicious, that's certain; and when I met you at my pretty widow's, yeſterday evening, I little thought that we had been rivals, d'ye ſee.

To convince you, Sir, as well as the reſt of this company, that I have no farther deſigns upon that lady, I here reſign into your hands the laſt favour I received from hers. Read that, Governor.

Hey day!— What's this! a billet to you! She has been very nimble in ſending it, truly.—I thought I had made [86] tolerable haſte in finding you, myſelf; but my legs are none of the beſt, to be ſure.

‘Notwithſtanding the inhu⯑manity of your unkind treatment of me.’ You ſee, my Lord, ſhe reſents your behaviour, mighti⯑ly. ‘My fondneſs has triumphed over my reſent⯑ment, and I am ſtill weak enough to deſire an⯑other interview.’ Why, what can all this mean! This letter ſhould have been directed to me—

Proceed, Sir, and the miſtery will ſoon vaniſh.

‘Tho' by ſeeing you again, I may poſ⯑ſibly hazard the breaking off an advantageous match, with a man I deteſt.’ Hell and the furies! what is this? Does ſhe mean me? the cro⯑codile of the Nile, and the ſhark of the Ganges! Had ſhe nobody to play off her monkey tricks upon, but me! Deteſt me!

Compoſe your rage, good Gover⯑nor, and finiſh the epiſtle.

Compoſe the devil, my Lord. Why I can't ſee a word more of it—I am ſtruck blind with paſſion—this comes of my falling in love, for⯑ſooth, and wanting to be married to a young girl, truly.

You are cheaply off, Governor, at the expence only of a little laughing, and I think I have a right to my ſhare of that—Ha, ha, ha—

Cheaply off! now I think that, what be⯑tween money and mortification, I have paid plaguy dear for my experiment—but I'll have my re⯑venge, d'ye ſee, and ſhall go, this moment, in purſuit of it.

I muſt ſtop you, Sir, 'till your paſ⯑ſion has ſubſided a little, and then I will venture to truſt to your good nature.

Don't tell me of good nature, my Lord, ſhe has made my heart as hard as a rock.

The meſſenger waits for an anſwer, Sir.

What's this! another billet-doux from the traitreſs!

He's in a horrid paſſion, my Lord.

Not without reaſon, I aſſure you, Madam.

I ſhall burſt with rage.— There never was ſuch a villainous proceeding. A raſcally coachmaker, a varniſhing Scoundrel, I think that's his name, my Lord, threatens to arreſt me for a debt I never contracted, becauſe the fel⯑low thought I had been married, this morning, d'ye ſee.—It would have been a pretty ſort of in⯑cident, truly, to have happened on one's wedding-day.

I apprehend, Governor, that this would not have been the only circumſtance of the kind you would have had to celebrate your nup⯑tials, if you had married that lady.

No, no, I did not fight Gentoos, Ma⯑rattoes, Seapoys, and climates, d'ye ſee, to be bamboozled out of my money, at home.

Except by a pretty woman, Go⯑vernor.

Nor by her neither, when I find her falſe; and ſo Mr. Vaniſh may arreſt Mrs. Frankly, as ſoon as he pleaſes, for me.

No, Sir, that debt I ſhall take upon myſelf, with pleaſure, for the happineſs I have re⯑ceived, through Mrs. Frankly's means, of know⯑ing and eſteeming Lady Seaton as I ought. Be⯑ſides, a woman in diſtreſs, however incurred, is always intitled to the compaſſion and protection of a man of honour.

Nay, for that matter, my Lord, let me have but a little of my own way, d'ye ſee, and I can be as liberal as the beſt of you. I am paſ⯑ſionate, but not ſevere; and ſo I forgive the injury, and ſhall diſcharge that debt; for me⯑thinks a man's mind and his means muſt be mi⯑ſerably poor, indeed, who cannot afford to give, and forgive, too—

Nobly ſaid, Sir—I find you have brought over not only the wealth, but the humanity of the Eaſt Indians, along with you.

His taſtes and manners may be fo⯑reign, perhaps, Colonel, but his good-nature and generoſity are true Engliſh ſtaple. A Briton need never go a trafficking for principles.

Well, take me as I am—I have bought ſome wiſdom for myſelf, at preſent, for I ſhall not ſo readily believe that the women are in love with me, now, as they might have been, ſome thirty years ago. And ſo I ſhall think no more about a wife, for ſome time at leaſt, d'ye ſee; unleſs I ſhould renew my courtſhip to my old paſſion, Miſs Melville, here.

Take care of that, Governor, leſt you ſhould make the Colonel jealous.

Nay, if you are inclined to liſt with him, d'ye ſee, I'll keep clear of you; for 'tis dangerous meddling with other men's wives, now-a-days, I hear.

If our modern marriages, Sir, were con⯑tracted upon the ſame principles I flatter myſelf ours is likely to be, a thorough love and eſteem for each other, we ſhould neither have ſo many liber⯑tine huſbands, or faithleſs wives.