SCENE I. Windſor Park.

I THOUGHT I ſhould find you here, my Lord: this new taſte for ſolitude is a mortal ſymptom in your diſtemper. A lover ſeldom deſires better company than his own thoughts.

I ſhould have been glad of your company, how⯑ever. Why did you not join me ſooner?

I come now to bring you unwelcome news—the Earl of Belmont is in town.

My father in town!

Will, whom I ſent to London upon ſome parti⯑cular buſineſs, is juſt now returned, and tells me my Lord came from his country-ſeat two days ago.

My dear Courteney, I ſhall never be able to look my father in the face.—To return to England without his orders—to be three weeks here under a borrowed name—If he has been informed of this, how can I excuſe my conduct?

Tell him the truth.

The truth!

Yes—That his Lordſhip, in his laſt letter to you at Paris, propoſed a match to you; your impatience to ſee the lady made you anticipate his orders for your return; you left Paris incognito, ſaw the lady at Ranelagh, and—

What then?

Are ready to obey him.

Pſhaw! why will you trifle? You know I can⯑not.

Cannot! my Lord—

No: Lady Ann does not pleaſe me.

Becauſe Miſs D'Arcy pleaſes you too well.

Pr'ythee, do not torment me, Courteney.

Doubtleſs, his Lordſhip will excuſe the violence of a paſſion, which keeps you here at Windſor, [3] under a fictitious name, ſighing at the feet of a young divinity, that has viſited this ſublunary world in the ſhape of an humble dependant upon a haughty lady of quality.

What a blunder has Fortune committed, to place her in that ſtate!—Courteney, ſhe is an angel.

An angel! Lovers have a fine creative fancy! It coſts them little to make angels, goddeſſes, nymphs—

Are you apprehenſive, then, that my paſſion for Miſs D'Arcy may lead me too far?

Why, truly, my Lord, there ſeems to be ſome reaſon for my apprehenſion.—However this may be, ſome particular buſineſs obliges me to leave you.

Particular buſineſs! Is this affair to be a ſecret to your friend?

I have no ſecrets that I would hide from you, my Lord. My ſiſter, whom you have often heard me mention with tenderneſs, though I have not ſeen her ſince ſhe was a child, has privately with⯑drawn herſelf from an aunt, with whom ſhe has reſided ſince the death of her parents; and it is conjectured ſhe is gone to Paris to meet me, my laſt letter to her being dated from thence.

Her aunt had made ſome prudent choice of a husband for her, perhaps—

No—the old lady is a bigoted Roman Catho⯑lick—and, having a large fortune to beſtow, at⯑tempted to make a proſelyte of the poor girl, pro⯑miſing her, in that caſe, to ſettle her eſtate upon her. This failing, ſhe laid a ſcheme for entrapping her into a convent; which my ſiſter being informed of, fled to me.

Who gave you this intelligence?

A friend of my father's, whom I accidentally met with upon the terrace, who had ſeen me at Leyden, while I was at the univerſity there, and knew me immediately. We cannot hope, you ſee, to be longer concealed; therefore it is abſolutely neceſſary, my Lord, that you ſhould preſent your⯑ſelf as ſoon as poſſible to your father.—What do you reſolve to do, my Lord?

Give me a day or two to conſider.

But, in the mean time, my ſiſter—

True—You ought to fly immediately to her aſſiſtance.

And leave you here, my Lord?

Why not? Do you doubt my prudence?

Your Lordſhip's in love.

Can you think me weak enough to form a raſh engagement with a young woman, to whoſe birth and circumſtances I am wholly a ſtranger.

You are in love, my Lord.

You are determined, then, to acquaint my father with my being here?

Certainly, unleſs you reſolve to preſent yourſelf to him immediately. My friendſhip for you, my Lord, has already carried me farther than it ought: I have indulged you, in coming over privately, that you might gratify your curioſity with a ſight of the lady your father deſigns for you; this done, you promiſed to go back with me to Paris, there to wait his expreſs orders for your return; but you have not kept your word. You ſtill linger here— my remonſtrances have hitherto been fruitleſs.

Well, ſince it muſt be ſo, I will go back with you to Paris.

Were it not better to wait upon your father, who is perhaps, by this time, informed of your re⯑turn?

I cannot ſee my father; I cannot reſolve to marry the lady he has choſen for me. Kind and indulgent as he has ever been, I have not fortitude enough to meet his frown — I will write to him when we get to Paris, and we will ſet out to-mor⯑row. Now are you ſatisfied?

I am, my Lord, your ſervant; I will go home, and give the neceſſary orders for our journey.

Nay, pr'ythee, take a turn with me, dear Courte⯑ney; my heart is oppreſſed, and I have a thouſand things to ſay to you.

Your Lordſhip muſt excuſe me; we have not a moment to ſpare.

If your Lordſhip is only for a ſhort walk, I think I will accompany you.

So, you have a moment to ſpare then; confeſs honeſtly, that the ſight of Miſs Autumn has brought you back.

Miſs Autumn! ſure, my Lord, you do not imagine that I would neglect any ſerious buſi⯑neſs for the converſation of ſuch a vain coquet?

Not unleſs you were in love, Courteney.

Well, I am not in love with Miſs Autumn, I do aſſure you, my Lord.

With whom then?

Nor with your Paſtorella, my Lord, your bluſhing Dryad, who, with all her innocence and [7] ſimplicity, has had art enough to enſnare your af⯑fections.

Dear Courteney, ſpeak with more reverence of what I love—they are again in ſight; ſhall we go round and meet them?

Well, ſince it muſt be ſo, I will attend you.

SCENE II.

It is very true, my dear, when I told you this morning, that you would make but an awkward fine lady, you ſurveyed yourſelf in my glaſs with a certain conſciouſneſs

well, I will allow that you are tolerably handſome; but half that bloom which you brought from the country might be ſpared, provided you knew what to do with the remainder—indeed, Harriet, I am almoſt aſhamed of your ſimplicity.

Why, my dear whimſical friend, what faults have I committed lately?

Faults! you never do one earthly thing that is right—all my documents are thrown away upon you—you bluſh, truly, when a ſop looks atten⯑tively on you—you cannot meet the ſteady gaze with the confident ſtare. You ſpeak without liſping; walk without tottering, and courteſy without toſſing back your head.

All this is groſs affectation.

Indeed, Harriet, you are a ſilly girl, with all your knowledge—you have ſpent eighteen years of your life in cultivating your underſtanding, without reflecting that it is by your beauty only you can hope to make your fortune; ceaſe to be wiſe, child, and grow prudent; do not ſtudy the belle lettres, but the belle air—reaſon leſs with your tongue, and more with your eyes—why, really now, I believe you imagine nature gave you thoſe two ſparkling orbs for no other purpoſe but to ſee with.

You railly your ſex's follies ſo agreeably, my dear, that one would conclude you deſpiſed them, were you not too often ſeen practiſing them your⯑ſelf—your eyes ſerve you for many other purpoſes beſides ſeeing.

My eyes, child, are well-diſciplined troops; they know how to attack, conquer, purſue, retreat, beg quarter—

Beg quarter! I am ſure they will never give any, if they can poſſibly help it—what an obſtinate ſiege have they laid to the heart of poor Freeman!

True; and they have carried the place at laſt, you find.

Well, and what do you intend to do with it?

Do with it—? why, throw a garriſon into it, and march off to new conqueſts.

I doubt the place is not tenable, my dear; two enemies to your power, pride and reſentment, have got admittance, and it is more than probable will expell your garriſon.

That, indeed, would be a great diſgrace upon my generalſhip.

Mr. Freeman is a man of ſenſe: he has per⯑ceived that your deſign was only to torment him. You are too much and too little of a coquet, my fair friend; and have not artifice enough to diſ⯑ſemble the want of it.

Prodigious! What, the ſage Harriet taking upon her to give me leſſons in coquetry!

I might profit by your faults, were I diſpoſed to commence coquet.

Well, ſince I find you have ſome ſkill, I may venture to conſult you ſometimes upon my opera⯑tions; tell me truly then, do you think Freeman will eſcape me?

I think he has already.

This would mortify me extremely, if I did not deſpiſe the rebel.

I perceive you do.

Not that I think him deſpicable, I aſſure you.

No, really!

No, really! why, is he not handſome? has he not wit, learning, elegance?

Ha! ha! ha! and yet you deſpiſe him, my dear.

Deſpiſe him—why yes—and yet I do not deſpiſe him neither. — I only mean that I do not like him.

Why ſhould you not like him? is he not hand⯑ſome? has he not wit, learning, elegance?

Pooh! to convince you that I do not like him, obſerve how ill I will treat him the next time we meet.

That will be the way to convince me that you do like him.

Strange indeed! you could not ſay more were I to treat him well.

No, but I ſhould ſay as much.

You have a mind to maintain paradoxes, I per⯑ceive.

Indeed you are miſtaken, I have no mind to be ridiculous; the glitter of falſe wit, like the ſhine of falſe jewels, ſerve at once to ſhew the poverty and vanity of the poſſeſſor. What I mean, my dear, is, that if you are indeed—indifferent towards Mr. Freeman, you will treat him with that general po⯑liteneſs, which a man of real merit is ſure to meet with from a woman of ſenſe: too much or too lit⯑tle attention to ſuch a man, is alike liable to be conſtrued into a ſecret attachment.

According to this rule, my dear Harriet, you have certainly a ſecret attachment for his friend Mr. Belmour.

I, a ſecret attachment! why, is it poſſible you can have diſcovered—that is, that you ſuſpect—

Ha! ha! ha! no, my dear, your extreme reſerve made me firſt ſuſpect, and afterwards diſcover—

What have you diſcovered?

That you love Mr. Belmour—aye, you may bluſh.—This was a ſecret that required all my ſa⯑gacity to diſcover; but as for his paſſion for you — any ideot might have found that out.

Yet does not reſerve become one in my circum⯑ſtances? An unhappy orphan, compelled by my ill fate, to become a fugitive from the friend to whom I owed my paſt, and from whom I expected my future ſupport; thus diſtreſt — perhaps cenſured—

I will not hear you talk ſo, cenſured you cannot be; you have acted upon motives too juſtifiable; and I hope my fortune is ſufficient to keep diſtreſs far from us both.

Generous Charlotte! yet if Lady Autumn ſhould diſcover me, ſhe will think it her duty to force me back to my aunt.

Moſt certainly; what favour can youth and beauty expect from a coquet of fifty?

Indeed, my dear, you make too free with the foibles of your father's widow; but you ought to remember, that, if ſhe loves admiration at fifty, it is becauſe ſhe was a coquet at fifteen.

That is true; — I proteſt I tremble at the idea, of being one day, what my ſtep-mother is at preſent. Oh heavens! in the midſt of wrinkles and grey hairs, to dream of gentle languiſhments, vows, ardors!—but there is ſome comfort yet, fifty and I are at an immenſe diſtance.

Do not cheat yourſelf, my dear, with that thought; young though you are, you will be old: whatever advances with ſuch rapidity, cannot be accounted far diſtant—

Well, I am determined to grow grave in time: dear Harriet, give me a leſſon every day till you have compleated my reformation:—but is not that Freeman and Belmour yonder? They are certainly come in ſearch of us; —come hither, Harriet—you [13] who pronounced the rebel had eſcaped me—mark that penſive air, thoſe folded arms.—Well, my ſage monitreſs of eighteen, will you pretend to aſſert that he is not thinking on me? Now can I not for my life reſiſt my inclination to teaze him a little.—Do, dear girl, indulge me this once; I promiſe you, I will not be very cruel.—Nay, you ſhall preſcribe the utmoſt limits of my triumph; and when you think I am carrying it too far,— only pull me by the ſleeve, and I will inſtantly re⯑collect myſelf.

Ha! ha! ha! I ſee your reformation is begun.

SCENE III.

Your ſervant, ladies; we have been looking for you this half hour.

One would think you expected to find us like daiſies ſpringing up under your ſteps. I obſerved your eyes bent conſtantly on the ground.

My friend is a little thoughtful to-day.

Mark that, Harriet; he has certainly eſcaped me: do you not think ſo?

That is your melancholy, is it not ſo, Mr. Freeman? Well, does not this prove what I have often told you; there is not the leaſt ſympathy in our minds; you are always ſad when I am gay; but I have a mind to be complaiſant for once, and will permit you to chuſe the humour I ſhall be of during the next half hour.

Pardon me, Madam, you muſt chuſe for your⯑ſelf; you are ſo agreeable in whatever humour you aſſume, that it is impoſſible for me to give the preference to any. Your ſmiles and frowns become you in my opinion ſo equally, that I am charmed alike whether you ſmile or frown.

Indeed! ſo indifferent!

I think I muſt pull him by the ſleeve, my dear.

Mr. Bellmour, my mamma ſent you a card this morning; you and your friend dine with us, I hope.

We will certainly wait on you, ladies.

It muſt be a farewell viſit then, ladies; for we ſet out for Paris to-morrow.

(Going, and ſo unconcerned too!

This reſolution is very ſudden, Sir. To be ſure, Paris is a charming place; you are vaſtly in the right to go. Miſs D'Arcy, my dear, we have but juſt time to dreſs for dinner.

We will wait on you home, ladies.

No ceremony, Sir; I can walk without aſſiſt⯑ance.

Piqued by heaven! this is better than I expected.

SCENE IV.

There they are, but I ſhall not join them; theſe girls are never weary of walking.

They are young, Madam.

Young! well, I ſuppoſe you do not think me old; and yet I hate walking, it is a robuſt exer⯑ciſe.

To be ſure, there can be no pleaſure in walking, when one has the rheumatiſm ſo bad as your Lady⯑ſhip has.

The rheumatiſm! who told you I had the rheu⯑matiſm? What, becauſe I was laid up with a ſprain, which I got by running rather too giddily indeed after my ſquirrel, it paſſed for the rheuma⯑tiſm?

I am ſure, Madam, the doctors called it ſo.

The doctors were blockheads then.—(Not return to join me! aſide, and looking about.) Simple, ob⯑ſerve, whether Mr. Freeman be coming back.

No, indeed, Madam; he is walking on towards the houſe, with the young ladies.

It is certainly ſo, he is vexed, I treated him with too much rigour laſt night; rigour was al⯑ways my fault, I cannot help it.

Bleſs me! I hope your Ladyſhip is not taken ill

Ill! no; and yet one cannot be very well, when one is the cauſe of ſo much pain to others.

Madam!

It does not ſignify, there is no living without a confidant;—Simple, you have been in my ſervice but a ſhort time; but I have a notion that you are very diſcreet.

Indeed I am, Madam.

Aye, I know you are, I am ſeldom miſtaken in my judgement of people: to ſhew you then that I think you very diſcreet, I am reſolved to make you my confidant.

Confidant! I thank you, Madam, — but, but—I had rather keep the place I was hired for, Madam.

Yes, I am determined to depoſite all my ſecrets in your breaſt.—Know then, Simple, that there is a young man who ſeems—but why do I ſay ſeems—who is deſperately—what ſhall I call it— who really languiſhes with an unconquerable, in⯑vincible, hopeleſs, fatal, dying paſſion, for—for— me;—is not this a ſad thing?

Yes, indeed, Madam, it is a very ſtrange thing!

A ſtrange thing! I ſay, is it not a ſad thing?

To be ſure, it is a ſad thing, Madam; and I am very ſorry for it.

Poor Freeman! I am ſorry too;—but there was a kind of fatality in it.—I never told you, Simple, the manner of our firſt acquaintance?

No, Madam.

One morning, when I was ſauntering in the foreſt, habited in a looſe white ſack, with my walking-crook in my hand—poor Lord Autumn uſed to ſay I looked like a nymph in this dreſs—I found myſelf fatigued, and was obliged to reſt under a tree.—Here I ſat, or rather reclined, in a penſive attitude, when I was rouſed by the ſight of a monſtrous ſnake, that had faſtened on my arm—

Lord bleſs me! Madam, what did you do?—

Do!—I ſcreamed ſo loud, that two young gen⯑tlemen, who were walking at a little diſtance, came running to me:—both were eager to aſſiſt me;— but Mr. Freeman's aſſiduity was ſo animated, ſo languiſhing—ſo—ſo—in ſhort, the blow was ſtruck; I perceived immediately that I had made a violent impreſſion.

But pray, Madam, if I may be ſo bold, how did your Ladyſhip get rid of the ſnake?

The ſnake!—O, I was miſtaken: it was only a caterpillar, which my fears had magnified into a ſnake. Mr. Freeman then offered me his hand, to lead me home; but it was with ſuch a timid aſpect!—Since that day, his friend Belmour and he have been conſtant viſitors at my houſe; and al⯑though his paſſion has been continually increaſing, yet he has concealed it ſo carefully, that no perſon in the family has diſcovered it but myſelf.

I'll anſwer for it, Madam, nobody dreams of any ſuch thing.—But I wonder the gentleman has not broke his mind to your Ladyſhip!—

No, he has ever been ſilent, awfully ſilent, as to that point—ſuch is his extreme timidity!— Timidity, Simple, ever accompanies a violent paſ⯑ſion; for flames, as the poet ſays, burn higheſt, when they tremble moſt.

I vow, Madam, here is Mr. Freeman coming, all alone. — Sure he intends to break his mind now.

It is he, indeed!—This can never be chance: he has certainly followed me hither. His paſſion has at length got the better of his timidity, and he is reſolved to declare himſelf. — I muſt not be too re⯑ſerved—I muſt not kill his hope.—Simple, obſerve his looks when he accoſts me.

Your Ladyſhip's moſt humble ſervant. I did not expect to meet you here, Madam.

No! you had a mind for a ſolitary walk, then?

No, indeed, Madam: I have been walking all the morning. I left Mr. Belmour with the young ladies, to take leave; for we ſet out for Paris to⯑morrow.

How! do you leave us to-morrow?—Is this to try me?

Poſitively, Mr. Freeman, you muſt not go.

Indeed, Madam, I muſt: there is an abſolute neceſſity for it.

Indeed, but there is no abſolute neceſſity for it. Do you think I have ſo little penetration as not to have diſcovered the cauſe of this ſudden reſolu⯑tion?

So, ſhe means my Lord's paſſion for Miſs D'Arcy! —If I could but draw ſome intelligence from her, concerning this young woman, it might be of uſe.

Now is he conſidering with himſelf, whether he may venture to make a diſcovery of his paſſion.— I proteſt, I am all in a ſlutter! He wants cou⯑rage.

—Mr. Freeman, have I gueſſed truly, as to the cauſe of your ſudden departure?

I cannot anſwer that queſtion, till I know what it is your Ladyſhip gueſſes.

Nay now, Mr. Freeman—this is too much!— you throw me into the greateſt confuſion imagi⯑nable!—To be ſure, I have gueſſed—a paſſion ſo very obvious;—but, methinks, it would better be⯑come you to explain yourſelf—

Why, Madam, I confeſs you have gueſſed truly: my friend's paſſion is indeed pretty obvious; but there are certain reaſons which make it highly im⯑proper for him to indulge it.

His friend's paſſion! prettily turned.—How cau⯑tious! how diffident!

—Well, Sir, this you may aſſure your friend of, however, that to my certain knowledge he need not deſpair.

So, ſhe favours this buſineſs, I find.

Well, Sir, do you ſtill hold your reſolution of leaving us?

Your Ladyſhip may eaſily imagine, that I am ſomewhat intereſted in this affair.—

Yes, yes, I can very eaſily imagine that.

I ſhould be glad, therefore, to know—

Poſitively, you ſhall know no more now.—You men are ſo importunate!—But ſuppoſe now I ſhould [21] give you an opportunity of talking to me upon this affair?

I ſhould be greatly obliged to you, Madam.

He might have thrown a little more rapture into his anſwer.

—Well, I ſhall be alone, in the drawing-room, after dinner—and—But this looks ſo like an aſſignation, that I have a good mind to withdraw my promiſe.

Aſſignation! how could that come into her head?

—No, no, Madam; depend upon it, I will hold you to your promiſe.

Adieu, then, till dinner. Simple, do you hear, lay out my pink and white.—I ſhall dreſs imme⯑diately.

What a piece of affectation! But if ſhe has not entered heartily into the intereſt of this Miſs D'Arcy, with whom my pupil is madly in love, I ſhall be able to diſcover her character and circumſtances, and muſt take my meaſures accordingly.

SCENE I. The Drawing-Room.

I AM aſtoniſhed! — Leave me to-morrow morn⯑ing, and return to her aunt! What can have occaſioned this ſudden reſolution? Sure Lady Au⯑tumn has not affronted her!—Betty—

Madam—

Have you obſerved any coldneſs lately between Lady Autumn and Miſs D'Arcy?—She talks of leaving me to-morrow. I am afraid ſhe has taken ſome diſguſt.

O, dear Ma'am, you are quite miſtaken; Miſs D'Arcy has other thoughts in her head.

Other thoughts! What do you mean?

Lord, Ma'am, I mean nothing, not I; but I know—

What do you know?

Nay, Ma'am, I know nothing, not I;—but I have ſeen ſomething, and I have been told ſome⯑thing.

Then, pray, ſay ſomething. What have you ſeen? and what have you heard?

For that matter, Ma'am, nobody knows how to keep a ſecret better than I do.

Oh! if you have been truſted with a ſecret—I ſhall not tempt you to betray it, I aſſure you.—Go, and tell Miſs D'Arcy, that I wiſh to ſpeak with her here—

Depend upon it, Ma'am, Miſs D'Arcy will con⯑feſs nothing; ſhe has carried this matter too cloſely.

You would fain diſcloſe this ſecret, I perceive; but I will not gratify my curioſity at the expence of your fidelity.—Go, and deliver my meſſage.

Nay, Ma'am, ſince you will have it—though, I am ſure, I never thought to have told—

Be gone, impertinent; I will not hear you.

Nay, Ma'am, what I know is no great matter; it is only, that Mr. Freeman is in love with Miſs D'Arcy.

What is that you ſay? Come back—Mr. Free⯑man in love with Miſs D'Arcy! impoſſible!

Oh, dear Ma'am, why impoſſible? Miſs D'Arcy is a fine young lady; and, to be ſure, Mr. Freeman doats upon her.

Doats upon her! —Tormenting wretch! — But tell me inſtantly all you know.

I would have told you before, Ma'am; but you were ſo nice about betraying a ſecret—you would not hear me.

That is true;—but this is a ſecret which ought not to be concealed. You know, Miſs D'Arcy is my friend—ſhe may be taking ſome raſh ſtep.—It is fit I ſhould enquire into this matter.—So, Mr. Freeman is her lover, then?

Yes, Ma'am, I am ſure he is; for you muſt know, Ma'am, that they met here, in this very room, to-day: I ſaw them with my own eyes;—I was paſſing by the door when they were in earneſt diſcourſe.—Now, I abhor liſtening, Ma'am—I am above it:—ſo I ſtood ſtill, and ſhut the door half⯑way, that they might not ſee me; but I could ſcarcely hear a word they ſaid—they talked ſo low. —At laſt, I ſaw Miſs D'Arcy burſt into tears; and preſently afterwards, Mr. Freeman threw his arms about her neck, and kiſſed her.

Kiſſed her! and did ſhe ſuffer that?

Yes, indeed, did ſhe, Ma'am; and kiſſed him again, very cordially too.

Amazement! Her motive for leaving me is now too plain.

To be ſure, Ma'am. Why, Ma'am, Mr. Free⯑man is to go along with her.

How do you know that?

Why, Ma'am, you muſt know that Mr. William, Mr. Freeman's ſervant—his gentleman, I ſhould ſay; for he is above wearing a livery—

What is that to the purpoſe? Go on—

I hope you will excuſe me, Ma'am;—but Mr. William has for ſome days made his addreſſes to me, upon honourable terms.

Abſurd creature! What then?

He told me, Ma'am, under a promiſe of ſe⯑creſy, that his maſter was certainly going to ſteal a marriage with Miſs D'Arcy; for that he had or⯑dered him to hire a poſt-chaiſe for her; that he was to attend her as far as London, and Mr. Freeman was to join them there; but where they were to proceed afterwards, he did not know.

It is certainly ſo!—What a dupe have I been all this time!—Treacherous Harriet!

If I had thought this news would have diſcom⯑poſed you ſo much, Ma'am, I would not have told you.

Diſcompoſed! What is it to me whom Mr. Free⯑man marries?—Leave me.

Diſcompoſed!—yes, I feel it but too ſenſibly.— Ungrateful Harriet! But why do I complain of her? Have I not always affected to deſpiſe this man? laughed at, and raillied him continually? He is coming! Let me laugh and railly ſtill. Let me conceal my weakneſs at leaſt.— It will not be! I cannot look at him without betraying myſelf.

Miſs Autumn, you are wanted at the quadrille⯑table.

I ſhall not play to-night, Sir.

That was ſpoke in a peeviſh tone—I am ſure:— her eyes ſeemed full of tears too. Can that im⯑penetrable heart have feelings! Charming creature! She only wants a little ſenſibility to make her ir⯑reſiſtible.

I am in no humour to play this evening—dear Courteney, take my place—

That you may have an opportunity of entertain⯑ing Miſs D'Arcy.—Is it not ſo, my Lord?

I confeſs it is. But why muſt I find you eter⯑nally in my way? What is it you apprehend?

Great inconveniences, from this attachment, my Lord; and I think it my duty to oppoſe it.

I muſt diſſemble with him

—What! do you imagine I am weak enough to be honourably in love with this girl?

Ha! and do you own, my Lord, you have diſho⯑nourable deſigns upon this girl, as you call her?

Why, if I had, what then?

What then! confuſion! diſhonourable deſigns upon—upon—this is too much, my Lord. Let us talk no more upon this ſubject.

This is aſtoniſhing! By Heaven, his colour changes; what can this mean?

My Lord, I muſt adviſe, nay I intreat, you to think no more of Miſs D'Arcy; you will find inſuperable difficulties in your way. Hereafter I will explain myſelf more fully.

Stay, Courteney; I inſiſt upon your explaining yourſelf now—gone!—what am I to think of this? he loves her himſelf perhaps—what then? does he expect I ſhould reſign her to him? has he been baſe enough?—no, that is not poſſible.

I thought Mr. Freeman had been with you, Sir?

Mr. Freeman! Madam? it was Mr. Freeman then you wiſhed to ſee?

I have a little buſineſs with him.

Buſineſs with Mr. Freeman! Madam? how long has Mr. Freeman been honoured with your confidence?

I always eſteemed Mr. Freeman. Sir.

Well, Madam, he is worthy of your eſteem.

He ſeems chagrined at ſomething

—Will you not join the company, Sir, in the next room?

Her looks are colder than uſual; but I will clear up all my doubts at once

—Indulge me with a few moments. Madam, while I intreat your pardon for having concealed my real name and circumſtances from you. I am now at liberty to declare myſelf, ſince my father, by this time, knows my reſolution never to marry the lady he deſigned for me.

What would he ſay?

My name is not Belmour; it is Clairville. I am ſon to the Earl of Belmont, and heir to his title and eſtate; but title and eſtate with you, I am ſure, will weigh nothing, if the man is unworthy. But if, as Belmour, I have been ſo fortunate as to [40] gain your eſteem, you will not refuſe your hand to Clairville.

Generous youth! oh, my hard fate!

You turn from me; you anſwer me not. — Was it then a vain hope I flattered myſelf with, when I believed I was not diſagreeable to you?

Oh! brother, what a taſk have you impoſed upon me!

Keep me not, dear Miſs D'Arcy, in this cruel ſuſpence—but why do I ſay ſuſpence?—your ſilence ſpeaks plainly enough—your affections are beſtowed upon another.

Oh! think not ſo, my Lord; my heart—

Go on, Madam, I conjure you.

Is ſenſible to your worth; but—

Finiſh the harſh ſentence, Madam; you love another.

Love another! oh, heavens!

— What can I ſay, my Lord? the honour you do me de⯑mands my moſt grateful acknowledgements; but there are obſtacles—

My father—he will conſent, perhaps—if not, he will forgive.

I underſtand you, my Lord. No, this can ne⯑ver be—there are difficulties which cannot be ſur⯑mounted.—Yet do not ſuppoſe me ungrateful— inſenſible of—what am I going to ſay?—Think of me no more, my Lord, and obey the commands of your father.

Think of her no more!—difficulties that never can be ſurmounted!—Courteney ſaid the very ſame words!—I fear it is too true that they love each other. Their ſecret conferences, the ſimularity of their conduct, their mutual confuſion and reſerve, all contribute to heighten my ſuſpicions. Diſtrac⯑tion! this double jealouſy of the objects both of my friendſhip and my love is intolerable.—Can then Courteney?—I cannot bear theſe doubts—I muſt and will be ſatisfied.

Did Betty tell you this?

Yes, indeed, Madam.

It cannot be—I will not believe it—I know I am the object of his ſecret affection.

I would lay ever ſo much, your Ladyſhip is miſtaken.

Simple, I begin to think you have not ſo much underſtanding as I once imagined you had.

Here is Mr. Belmour; Madam, pray aſk him: I dare ſay he knows all his ſecrets.

Leave me.

—Mr. Belmour, where have you been this half hour?

Is Mr. Freeman gone home, Madam?

No, certainly; he ſups here to-night, and you too, I hope.—We will join him in the garden, he is there—but firſt, Mr. Belmour, I would aſk you a queſtion—do you ſuſpect your friend to be in love?

Ha! this may lead to a diſcovery

—I do, Madam.

You do?—well, that is candidly ſaid. And ſo do I

—Poor Freeman!—yes, he is in love; a perſon of the leaſt diſcernment in the world might have perceived his paſſion.

Then your Ladyſhip has perceived it?

His ſighs, his languiſhments, his tender aſſi⯑duity.—Do you imagine all this could eſcape ob⯑ſervation?

Yet it did mine—how have I been deceived?

But has he not truſted you with the ſecret?

Me, Madam! was it likely he would own his paſſion to me?

I think ſo; but you have found it out, however; and, I doubt not can gueſs the object.

Yes, Madam, I believe I can—but your Ladyſhip knows, I am ſure.

I vow this is very provoking—know—yes, cer⯑tainly, I know—that is, I can gueſs—but ſure you would not be ſo unpolite, as to oblige me to name her?

Well, Madam, I will name her then; but your Ladyſhip muſt condeſcend—

Condeſcend—bleſs me! you are leading me very far, methinks—I will not hear another word upon this ſubject —you are making conditions for your friend, I find;—but come, tell me what would you have me condeſcend to?

When I have named the lady, to tell me if I have gueſſed truly.

Well, I proteſt this is a very modeſt requeſt!— and to you would have me own—but name her— name her.

Miſs D'Arcy.

Miſs D'Arcy! Is this your diſcernment? You never was more miſtaken in your life.

Am I miſtaken, Madam?

Certainly; but I know upon what grounds— Miſs D'Arcy has ſurprized us all, with a ſudden reſolution to go into the country to-morrow; and Miſs Autumn's tattling woman has told us, that it is at Mr. Freeman's inſtigation— that he has pro⯑vided a poſt-chaiſe for her, and is to conduct her himſelf. She pretends to know this from his own ſervant—idle ſtuff—but we will railly him upon it.

So! it is all out; perſidious Courteney!

Well, what do you think of this abſurd report?

That it may poſſibly be true, Madam; for you ſay Miſs D'Arcy is to leave you to-morrow.

Yes, but not to ſteal a marriage with Mr. Free⯑man. Ha! ha! ha! how people may be deceived! Do you underſtand the language of the eyes, Mr. Belmour?

The language of the eyes, Madam?

If you did, you would not have been ſo much miſtaken with regard to your friend's attachment; your ſuſpicions would have fallen ſomewhere elſe, I aſſure you.—Come, ſhall we take the air in the garden? The ſun is almoſt ſet.

Excuſe me, Madam; I have a little private bu⯑ſineſs with Mr. Freeman.

You will find him in the garden — I will bring you to him.

I will follow you. Madam.

Perfidious Courtney! it is too plain he has ſupplanted me, baſely ſupplanted me; and the ſtory he has told me of his ſiſter was in⯑vented to excuſe his ſudden abſence. Is this the friend who poſſeſſed more than a brother's part of my affections? I have been his dupe, his bubble: I will find him inſtantly, acquaint him with my detection of his perfidy, and demand ſatisfaction.

SCENE I. A garden.

YES, my dear ſiſter, I agree with you that Lord Clairville has acted with great delicacy; and this frank offer of his hand is a proof that his eſteem of you is equal to his love—but do not carry your gratitude too far; do not encourage ſentiments that muſt be ſuppreſſed: the Earl of Belmont will ne⯑ver conſent to your marriage—I am bound by ho⯑nour to prevent it—endeavour then to baniſh him from your thoughts.

To baniſh him from my thoughts, is—perhaps— not in my power; but never to be his without your approbation, I can, and do promiſe, becauſe I am convinced you ought to act as you do.

And you hold to your reſolution of going to⯑morrow?

I do.

How does this generous ſelf-denial endear you to me! Believe me, my dear Harriet, it wrings my ſoul to be obliged thus to oppoſe your happineſs— were any thing leſs than my honour at ſtake— but you are juſt enough to perceive the reaſonable⯑neſs of my conduct.

No more, I beg you, on this ſubject—but tell me, when you will permit me to regain the confidence of my friend?

Whom do you mean?

Miſs Autumn—my ſudden reſolution to leave her to-morrow, without being able to give her a ſatisfactory reaſon for it; and your deſign of con⯑ducting me yourſelf, having by ſome means or other come to her knowledge, ſhe ſuſpects you are my lover, and her reſentment—

Reſentment! does the ſuſpicion of my being your lover give her any concern?

I am to blame; I have betrayed my friend's ſe⯑cret, without being ſure of his ſentiments for her.

But tell me, dear Harriet, is it poſſible that Miſs Autumn can be jealous?

Jealous! what an inference has your vanity drawn! Miſs Courteney thinks I have entered into ſome engagements with you, and conſiders my not having communicated them to her, as a breach of our friendſhip.

Yes, to be ſure—that is very natural—then ſhe is angry—but, as you ſay, ſhe conſiders it as a breach of friendſhip—that indeed accounts for her [48] anger. But tell me, Harriet, are Miſs Autumn's affections wholly diſengaged? is there not one happy man in the world who has been able to touch her heart?

Perhaps I may not tell you that; but I will tell you whoſe heart ſhe has touched.

That is no great matter—whoſe?

Yours, brother.

You may be miſtaken.

Am I miſtaken?

No—now laugh if you will—but do not tell your friend; I would not ſwell her triumph, and be numbered in the liſt of her diſcarded admirers—

There is no danger of that, I believe.

But what proofs have you of her partiality for me?

The ſtrongeſt in one of her temper; ſhe affects to hate you.

That is a good ſign, I confeſs.

And me ſhe has ceaſed to love; now that ſhe ſuſpects me to be her rival. I can perceive her heart is torn with jealouſy, yet ſhe affects her uſual gaiety and unconcern—but indifference is of all [49] diſpoſitions of the mind, the hardeſt to feign, and ſhe is too little practiſed in diſſimulation to feign it well.—I wiſh it were conſiſtent with your plan to own our ſecret.

Do not preſs me on this ſubject;—my ſituation is already ſufficiently perplexing.—Should Lord Clairville ſuſpect you are my ſiſter—but I think I ſee him in the next walk.—Leave me, dear Harriet:— I would not have him find us alone.

It was ſhe!—They ſeparated at my approach.— Both, both are perfidious—

My Lord, you ſeem chagrined at ſomething!— What is the matter?

Aſk your own heart!—Have you dealt ingenu⯑ouſly with me, in regard to the lady who parted from you this moment?

My Lord—

I will ſpare you any further diſſimulation, Sir: I know all.

I am ſorry for it, my Lord, becauſe it convinces me of my ſiſter's imprudence.—She has broke her word with me: weak girl!

Your ſiſter's imprudence!—Yes, that was one of your artifices, to furniſh you with an excuſe for quitting me—falſe, falſe Courteney!

Forbear theſe unjuſt reproaches, my Lord.—By Heaven! till this day, I knew not that my ſiſter—

No more of your evaſions, Sir!—The ſtory you told me of your ſiſter, may, or may not be true: it matters not; though it is moſt likely it was feigned, to cover your deſigns upon Miſs D'Arcy.

He knows her not yet, I find: ſhe has kept her promiſe—my generous ſiſter!

You knew my paſſion for Miſs D'Arcy!—Con⯑fiding in your friendſhip, my unſuſpecting heart truſted you without reſerve; and, while you were treacherouſly ſupplanting me in her affections, I was weak enough to believe that your eagerneſs of oppoſition, was the effect of a prudential regard to my intereſt.

And ſo it was—ſo it is ſtill.—

Villain! 'tis falſe.—

Ha! Villain!—He thinks I have wronged him.— But then this outrage.—Villain! 'tis too much—

Yes, Villain! I repeat the term, and will ſupport my aſſertion. Lead where you pleaſe, I will follow you.

No, my Lord; I will neither lead nor follow you at preſent. You think I am your rival—think ſo ſtill.—After the treatment I have received from you, it would be mean to undeceive you.

Againſt ſuch plain, ſuch convincing circum⯑ſtances, what can you offer in your juſtification?

Nothing—I will offer nothing;—and yet I could undeceive you with a ſingle word:—but you do not deſerve this condeſcenſion, my Lord—you, who have condemned your friend unheard—who have ſuffered a light, ill-grounded ſuſpicion to rob him of the merit of many years faithful attachment— injured, inſulted, and branded him with the name of Villain!—while he—but no more.—Here⯑after you will know the motives upon which I have acted:—then, when ſhame and remorſe for your offence have intitled you to my forgiveneſs, then I may think you worthy of an explanation.

This language is very bold, Sir!—Sure, you forget—

Oh, no—I remember you are a Lord; a title greatly inferior to that of a man of honour.—

How, Sir!

My Lord, nobility is virtue, or it is nothing.

Well, grant it poſſible I may have wronged you by my ſuſpicions—anſwer me then one queſtion; is it true, that you go with Miſs D'Arcy to-morrow?

It is—

You own it?

I do—and—

No more!—I am convinced!—Thou mean ſe⯑ducer!—But hope not to carry it thus triumphant⯑ly!—Within this half hour, meet me behind the garden-wall:—there, if I cannot obtain ſatisfaction from the man, I will at leaſt do juſtice on a coward!—

Coward! My Lord, I'll meet you.

'Tis well—I ſhall expect you.

In taking revenge, a man is only even with his enemy; in paſſing it over, he is ſuperior:—this ſounds well; the practice is ſomething difficult.— But is Lord Clairville my enemy?—a lover, and jealous! appearances ſtrong too, againſt me! But ſuch an outrage! Villain! Coward!

Oh, brother! how greatly you diſtreſs me! I heard high words between Lord Clairville and you: he ſhot by me this moment, with looks inflamed with rage—ſcarce bowed to me in paſſing!—I fear you have quarreled.

Calm yourſelf, dear Harriet; and conſide in my prudence.

Excuſe me, brother; but I cannot help telling you, that your prudence has hitherto produced no⯑thing but confuſion: by ſome means or other, the whole family knows that I go under your conduct to-morrow.

This muſt be owing to ſome imprudence—I doubt—

Your relation to me being a ſecret, this has raiſed a ſuſpicion of my having entered into a clan⯑deſtine engagement with you: on this account, Miſs Autumn has withdrawn her friendſhip from me, Lord Clairville deſpiſes me, and you are be⯑come the object of his reſentment. All theſe in⯑conveniences might have been prevented, had you declared yourſelf my brother.

Perhaps not.—Obliged as I am in honour to oppoſe Lord Clairville's paſſion for you, had I ac⯑knowledged you to be my ſiſter, I ſhould have ex⯑poſed myſelf to importunities, which it would have been difficult to have rejected; and, after all, my conduct might have had the appearance of arti⯑fice.

My heart forebodes ſome misfortune!—Were it not better to own me now to Lord Clairville, than to leave him in a miſtake which draws his ſuſpicions on you?

It is, indeed, unlucky that he ſhould ſuſpect me to be his rival: had he been more temperate, I be⯑lieve I ſhould have undeceived him; but now an explanation would ſeem cowardice.

Ah! I perceive how it is. I muſt and will pre⯑vent it.—Lady Autumn! this is fortunate!

I beg of you, dear Madam, not to quit Mr. Free⯑man!—Something has happened—

What!—has he explained himſelf to you, then?

Explained himſelf to me, Madam! I find your Ladyſhip knows ſomething of the matter.

I believe I do.—

Then, Madam, you ſee the neceſſity of pre⯑venting—

I underſtand you.—Leave me with him.

If I can but ſee Lord Clairville before they meet again—

'Tis ſo!—He has not had courage to declare his paſſion to me himſelf, and has employed her to mediate for him.—I think, I have carried punctilio far enough:—ſo reſpectful a flame deſerves—he ſees me, and advances.—Mr. Freeman, you have choſen the moſt retired part of the garden to walk in. Theſe ſhades are a nurſe for tender thoughts, as the poet ſays.

My thoughts, Madam!—

Come, come—I have known your thoughts for ſome time: I know you love—I know, too, that you are beloved.

And do you condeſcend to tell me ſo, Madam?

I do; and yet perhaps I ought not: but your reſpectful ſilence has had its weight with me, I aſſure you.

And has Miſs Autumn, Madam, conſented?

Miſs Autumn, though miſtreſs of her fortune by her father's will, has yet much to hope for from my favour:—ſhe will hardly preſume to offer any oppoſition; or, if ſhe ſhould—

Ah! Madam, did you not this moment flatter me with the hope of being beloved?

Yes; you are beloved: I repeat it.

Then, ſurely, no oppoſition is to be appre⯑hended!—Your conſent ſecures my happineſs!— Thus let me thank your Ladyſhip—

Oh! riſe—Theſe raptures!—Yet methinks he ſcarcely touched my hand—what invincible reſpect!

Madam, the Earl of Belmont is at the gate, and ſends to know if your Ladyſhip is at home?

The Earl of Belmont! I hardly know him.— Admit his Lordſhip. What can this viſit mean?

'Tis ſtrange, yet it is lucky.—

Nothing could happen more fortunate for me. Madam, than my Lord Belmont's viſit. Whatever be the oc⯑caſion of it, his Lordſhip can acquaint you with ſome particulars relating to my family and charac⯑ter, which it is neceſſary you ſhould know; and which will ſerve to ſhew you, that I am not wholly unworthy of the honour you deſign me.

I am impatient 'till I ſee him.—Adieu!

Sure, never was any thing ſo unfortunate! Lord Clairville is not to be found.

My dear ſiſter, I have the moſt ſurprizing news to tell you!—

It is good news, then; for you look pleaſed.

Lady Autumn is the moſt generous woman in the world! and I am the happieſt of men!—

What do you mean?

Would you think it? Your dear, ſaucy, tor⯑menting, lovely friend, has owned an inclination for me to her ſtep-mother; and this paragon of ſtep-mothers, overlooking the inequality of for⯑tune, is determined to make us happy, and has promiſed me her hand.

You amaze me!

'Tis true! and juſt at the moment when I was preparing to acquaint her with my real name, Lord Belmont arrives; from whom the diſcovery will come with more advantage.

Lord Belmont here! my fears of a quarrel are at an end.—I ſuppoſe I am now at liberty to convince Miſs Autumn that I cannot be her rival?—She promiſed to join me in the gar⯑den.—

Paint, if you can, your brother's tranſports; and obtain me permiſſion to throw myſelf at her feet. Mean time, I will attend Lord Belmont, who is doubtleſs come hither in ſearch of his ſon: our little excurſion will draw ſome reproaches from him; but, when he knows all, I ſhall be juſtified in his opinion. As for you, my dear Harriet, your conduct has been ſo generous—

No more on this ſubject, I intreat you.—I ſhall be impatient to know what paſſes between [58] the Earl and you.—You will find me here in the garden.

I'll come to you.—Adieu.

SCENE I. The drawing-room.

WHAT you tell me, my Lord, ſurpriſes me greatly; your ſon here in Windſor, under a borrowed name, and a conſtant viſitor at my houſe—what an adventure!

It is very true, Madam; he left Paris with his governor ſome weeks ago, without acquainting me with their intention; and, as I am informed, have paſſed the greateſt part of their time here.—Are there not two young gentlemen, who viſit your Ladyſhip under the names of Belmour and Free⯑man?

Pray, my Lord, which of them is your ſon?

He who calls himſelf Belmour; the other is his governor, a young man of a good family, but low fortunes, whoſe father was my friend; and upon that account, as well as for the good qualities I obſerved in him, I determined to take care of his fortune; I placed him at the univerſity of Leyden, and, when he had finiſhed his ſtudies, ſent him to travel with my ſon, to whoſe care I confided him—young as he is, his merit juſtified my choice of him for this truſt.

No doubt of it, my Lord;—all the world muſt approve of your choice; Mr. Freeman's merit— but Freeman is not his name, your Lordſhip ſays?

No, Madam; Courteney is his real name.

Courteney!—your Lordſhip had reaſon to ſay he is of a good family!—Courteney is a name that any perſon might be proud to own.

And he always ſupported the honour of it till now.

'Till now, my Lord;—I am ſorry—your Lord⯑ſhip muſt excuſe me—but any imputation caſt upon Mr. Freeman—Mr. Courteney, I mean—

I ſee, Madam, you are prejudiced in his favour; I am not ſurpriſed at it—Courteney has many good qualities; but to me he has ſhewn himſelf ungrateful. I confided my ſon to his care; and he has either led him into this miſconduct, or has concurred with him in it; either way he has be⯑trayed his truſt.

A youthful frolic; perhaps love.

Aye, Madam, that is what I apprehend.—Your Ladyſhip muſt excuſe me; but, although Miſs An⯑tumn is an accompliſhed young lady—

Your Lordſhip is extremely miſtaken; Miſs Autumn is not the object of Mr. Courteney's vows, I aſſure you.

Mr. Courteney, Madam, is his own maſter: he may offer his vows where he pleaſes; but I per⯑ſuade myſelf your Ladyſhip will not encourage my ſon in a clandeſtine addreſs to Miſs Autumn, when you know that I have other views for him.— It was to tell you this, Madam, that I took the liberty to trouble you with a viſit.

I do aſſure you, my Lord, I know of no cor⯑reſpondence between Lord Clairville and Miſs Au⯑tumn—I never expected to be conſulted by her upon theſe occaſions; a mother-in-law of my years cannot be ſuppoſed to have much authority over a girl of one and twenty.

Oh! dear Madam, I am in ſuch a fright! I hope your Ladyſhip will excuſe me; but here is Mr. Belmour's ſervant, who tells us, that his maſ⯑ter and Mr. Freeman have quarrelled, and are gone out to fight.

What can this mean?—quarrelled!—with your leave. Madam—bid the fellow come hither.

It cannot be, my Lord; I left Mr. Courteney a few minutes ago.

My old Lord here! we are all blown up.

Well, Sir; what is the meaning of the alarm you have given the family?

Pray, my Lord, pardon me; I am but a ſer⯑vant, and was obliged to obey the orders that were given me.

What orders?

I brought my young Lord his piſtols, as he com⯑manded me; and, to be ſure, I believe ſome miſchief is going forwards; for I know my Lord and his governor have quarrelled: I overheard them in the garden; I was behind an hedge—a challenge paſſed between them; and my young Lord, meeting me, ſent me to bring his caſe of piſtols. I fol⯑lowed my Lord unobſerved, and ſaw which way he went; and ſome time afterwards I ſaw Mr. Courte⯑ney taking the ſame path.

Bring me inſtantly to the place; I may yet pre⯑vent their raſhneſs.

Oh! Madam, I thought my brother had been with you.

Your brother!—but this is no time for expla⯑nations. I'll follow Lord Belmont—my fears diſtract me.

Alas! what are your fears to mine!— Oh! Char⯑lotte!

Well, Madam, your coquetry has produced fine effects!—two of the moſt amiable young men in the world are this moment, perhaps, dying by each other's hand, and you the cauſe! —falſe woman!—

My coquetry! dear Charlotte. Mr. Freeman!

Name him not, would I had never ſeen him!— but you, how have you deceived me!—ſuch inſa⯑tiate vanity in one who pretended to be ſo far ſu⯑perior to all the little foibles of her ſex!—who was continually preſſing her grave rebukes upon me, and throwing out moral ſentences at every turn— away—hypocriſy at eighteen—unnatural vice!

My dear Charlotte, theſe are unjuſt reproaches; I never was your rival—Mr. Freeman is my bro⯑ther.

Freeman your brother!—Freeman Mr. Cour⯑teney!—how barbarouſly have I treated you!

Alas! perhaps I have no brother now; neither of us knew each other till this day, and then an accident—but I cannot enter into particulars—dear Charlotte, let us haſte—

Whither would you go, my dear? we ſhall have ſome intelligence preſently—all the ſervants are gone after them.

Shocking intelligence, perhaps!—oh! why have I concealed this fatal ſecret ſo long?

Why, indeed! but let me not blame you —I have been too raſh already in my cenſures.

Sure the ſight of Lord Belmont;— but he may come too late—I cannot bear this cruel ſuſpence any longer.

Here is ſomebody coming—my dear, dear Har⯑riet; I give you joy! your brother's ſafe, it is him—

My brother—thank Heaven!—but oh! Lord Clairville

—what terrors have you cauſed us! where is your friend?

Be not alarmed, my dear; nothing has happened —but the whole houſe is in ſtrange confuſion; how came this fooliſh affair to be known?—Miſs Au⯑tumn, ha! ſhe looks as if ſhe had been weeping, delightful thought! her fears perhaps for me.

Will you pardon me, Ma⯑dam, for the diſingenuity I have been guilty of, in appearing before you ſo long under a borrowed name? my ſiſter may have informed you that—

Your ſiſter, Sir, has been under too much anxi⯑ety for you to enter into explanations—my dear [65] Harriet, when you have chid your brother ſuffi⯑ciently for the fright he has put you into, come and give me the hiſtory of this pretty adventure, that I may know whether I ought to pardon him or not.

Oh! brother, what affliction would you have ſpared me, had you permitted me to undeceive Lord Clairville?

As things were ſituated, it was not fit you ſhould.

But have you met?

Yes, I met him; I thought I could not in ho⯑nour avoid it.

Oh! Heavens—

Be calm, and hear the event; he brought piſtols, and inſiſted upon my taking one; he then bid me fire: I refuſed, ſaying, that, as I was reſolved he ſhould in every point be the aggreſſor, he ſhould fire firſt; he did, and miſſed me, and on my ſoul I believe deſignedly; for by the changes in his coun⯑tenance, I could perceive that grief, and not anger, was then the predominant paſſion in his mind—my turn was next; I fired my piſtol in the air, then calmly told him, that his father was here, and that I would explain myſelf in his preſence; he ſpoke not a word, but bowed and left me, and we took differ⯑ent paths to the houſe—but tell me, dear Harriet, does Miſs Autumn ſeem to know her mother's fa⯑vourable intentions? has ſhe acknowledged any thing to you?

I have ſeen her but for a few moments ſince you left me, and neither of us was then in a humour to enter upon a diſcourſe of that kind; but now that ſhe knows who you are, ſhe will certainly have no reſerves to me.— Adieu! I am going to her.

Lady Autumn's generoſity is ſo ſurprizing, that it looks more like caprice than a deſign taken up upon reflection; I don't know what to make of it.

So, Sir, you are here; I have been in ſearch of you: where is my ſon? How has your honourable rencounter ended?

Not diſ-honourably, my Lord, for either of us— Lord Clairville will be here this moment, he will do me the juſtice to acknowledge that this affair was forced upon me.

Ungrateful youth! and dare you own! to me too, dare you own a quarrel with my ſon?

My Lord, I can no more ſuffer an injury, than I dare do one.

This is the language of conſcious worth, and but ill becomes a man who has ſo baſely betrayed the truſt that was repoſed in him.

Baſely betrayed my truſt, my Lord!

Yes, Sir, baſely.

This reproach, this unjuſt reproach, my Lord— but you have been my benefactor; I know how much that ſacred title claims from me—rail on, my Lord; you ſhall never force me to be ungrateful.

My father! how can I appear before you after what has paſſed? how can I hope for pardon?

Riſe, Clairville; you have been to blame, but ſo have I; your fault has been the conſequence of my imprudent choice of a governor for you. You have forgot your duty, but he was your ſeducer.

No, my Lord; whatever reaſon I may have to complain of Mr. Courteney in one particular in⯑ſtance in which I only am concerned, yet let me juſtify to yourſelf your choice: he has in every re⯑ſpect fulfilled your intentions, and faithfully diſ⯑charged the truſt which you repoſed in him.

Faithfully diſcharged his truſt! he who could engage in licentious brawls with his pupil, and at⯑tempt the life of one committed to his care.

My Lord—

Be ſilent, you can ſay nothing that can exte⯑nuate guilt like this. Mr. Courteney, after what has happened, you muſt not reckon upon my friend⯑ſhip—the ſalary I allowed you while travelling with my ſon, is yours for life—but we muſt meet no more; if you conſider the loſs of my protection [68] as a misfortune, remember you have yourſelf only to blame for it.

There is but one real misfortune, my Lord, which a man can ſuffer; and that is, when he is conſcious of a crime, and has any thing to re⯑proach himſelf with. The ſalary your Lordſhip offers me I will not accept; judging of me as you do, you cannot mean it as a reward; and, low as my fortunes are, I will not be indebted to compaſ⯑ſion, for that which your eſteem only ought to be⯑ſtow upon me. Lord Clairville, I promiſed you an explanation before your father; and—

Hold, Sir; it is but juſt that I ſhould firſt clear you of an imputation which cannot wound you, more than it has me.—My Lord, you have re⯑proached Mr. Courteney without cauſe; he ſought not my life, but gave it me when in his power: I urged him with the moſt opprobrious terms to ac⯑cept my challenge; and when my raſhneſs had given him an advantage, he forbore to take it.

If this be true, I have wronged him, greatly wronged him.

Oh! Courteney, a treacherous rival and a gene⯑rous enemy! how can you reconcile this contra⯑diction?

I never was your rival, my Lord; it is my ſiſter whom you have all this time addreſſed under the name of D'Arcy.

Miſs D'Arcy your ſiſter?

Neither ſhe nor I knew this circumſtance till to⯑day, when an accident which I ſhall ever remem⯑ber diſcovered us to each other. I oppoſed your paſſion for her at firſt through prudence; but, when I knew her to be my ſiſter, my honour was more immediately concerned, to prevent the continuance of an attachment which could never have the ſanc⯑tion of your father's conſent; my ſiſter, with a ſpi⯑rit becoming her birth, adopted my ſentiments; ſhe refuſed your offered hand, and conſented that I ſhould conduct her where you could not have ac⯑ceſs to her; hence roſe your jealouſy, and the con⯑ſequences that followed.

Courteney, you have acted nobly in this affair.

I have done my duty.

But what brought your ſiſter hither? and why did ſhe conceal her name?

She took refuge with Miſs Autumn from the bigotry of her aunt, who, not having been able to pervert her to the Roman Catholick religion by the offer of ſettling her whole fortune upon her, was laying ſchemes to entrap her into a convent.

Something of this I heard before, and had determined to enquire into it.—Is Miſs Courteney ſtill here?

She is, my Lord; but to-morrow I ſhall take her into the country; Lord Clairville will then, I hope, forget a ſlight impreſſion, which he will have no oppurtunity of increaſing.

Generous youth!—Yet you have one more taſk to perform, worthy your diſintereſtedneſs:—engage my ſon—I know your influence over him—engage him to ſubmit to my choice.

Alas! my Lord, were it poſſible for me to ceaſe to love Miſs Courteney, your commands were ſuf⯑ficient.—In this, and only in this one point, I can⯑not obey you.

Courteney, I rely upon your honour.

You may, my Lord, ſecurely.

Worthy ſon of a father whom I loved and eſteemed! I will not intreat you to pardon the harſh treatment you have received from me, till I have made you an atonement equal to the injury.—I leave you to complete your reconciliation with your friend.

I ſcarce can look up to you, Courteney! —Such nobleneſs, ſuch generoſity, to fall under my mean ſuſpicions!—Can you forgive me?

Let us exchange forgiveneſs, my Lord.—I was to blame for leaving you ſo long in a miſtake which occaſioned theſe ſuſpicions.

My friend! my brother!—yes, Courteney, it muſt be ſo—your ſiſter—

Think of her no more, my Lord.—Are you not convinced, by what has paſt to-day, that you are not to expect my concurrence in this affair?

Alas! I am, indeed!—Yet leave your ſiſter to her own determination.

My ſiſter is already determined.

I ſee I am doomed to be miſerable! There is no hope of obtaining my father's conſent; and your too rigid honour—

Baniſh from your heart, then, a hopeleſs paſſion; and, if poſſible, bend your will to your father's choice.

Never. Do not urge me on that head: my re⯑ſolution is fixed.

Oh! Mr. Freeman—Mr. Courteney, I mean— how have you diſtreſſed me! But I have pardoned you.

Your Ladyſhip is all goodneſs.

Clairville, you have ſtill my pardon to obtain. — May I promiſe myſelf that you will merit it, by ſubmitting to my will?

Alas! my Lord, what can I ſay? I have not a heart to beſtow: I can promiſe only a negative obedience—I will not diſpoſe of myſelf without your conſent; but—

This you promiſe, then?

I do, my Lord.

'Tis ſomething, though not all that I have a right to expect from you.

You have, indeed, my Lord, a right to expect my obedience in all things poſſible; but I can never—

Make no raſh reſolutions, ſon; for I will be obeyed. Behold my choice!

My Lord!

My father! can this be real?

Take her, Clairville; the beſt, the worthieſt gift a father can beſtow, a truly virtuous woman! She who could ſacrifice her fortune to her con⯑ſcience, and ſubject her inclinations to her duty; who could deſpiſe riches, and triumph over love; ſhe brings you in herſelf a treaſure more valuable than both the Indies. Take her, my ſon; and en⯑deavour to deſerve her.

Beſt of fathers!—this amazing goodneſs!—Oh! let me thank you thus—

Courteney, I have yet but half diſcharged the debt I owe you.—Generous young man! had I a daughter—but in all things, except the name, I am your father.

All the gratitude, the reverence, the duty, that ſacred title claims, expect from me, my Lord.

Mr. Courteney, after ſuch a teſtimony to your merit, I need not bluſh to declare my intentions—

I acknowledge your Ladyſhip's goodneſs.—You have permitted me to hope for favour here—

—How bleſt ſhould I be, if you, Madam, would confirm it!

How is this!

Now, dear Charlotte, do not play off any of your too agreeable airs.—Did you not, half an hour ago, own to me that—

Ah! do not betray me.—Well, Sir, ſince you have obtained my mama's conſent, though I can⯑not imagine how, I will not hazard the loſs of her favour by my diſobedience.—Here is my hand, ſince it muſt be ſo.

Charming creature! to deſerve it, will be my glory.

I am confounded!—Simple—do I dream?

No, indeed, Madam, you do not dream now; you are but juſt awake, and have been dreaming all this time—I always told your Ladyſhip, that if the gentleman was in love, it muſt be with one of the young ladies.

Confuſion!

What can this diſorder mean? dear Madam, if I have been ſo unfortunate as to have offended you—

Ah, that ſeducing accent!—Simple, even at this moment might not one believe?—but I ſhall re⯑lapſe—lead me to my chamber—my Lord, a ſud⯑den indiſpoſition—oh! what a deluſion!

Here is ſome myſtery.

I could unfold it, I believe.

Be not uneaſy, Madam; I take upon myſelf to reconcile Lady Autumn to your generous choice.

Lord Clairville, I give you joy; and yet con⯑gratulations from me, on the completion of your [75] wiſhes, may appear ſelf-intereſted; but, if my ſiſter continues to maintain thoſe ſentiments ſhe has this day manifeſted, the rectitude of her heart will, in ſome meaſure, atone for the inferiority of her rank and fortune. As for me, though perhaps I have proved myſelf rather too young to be your go⯑vernor, I am yet old enough to be your friend, and ſhall ever be proud of that diſtinction, not from the conſideration of your wealth and honour; but becauſe I am convinced that you want neither example, nor precept to inſtruct you, that there are no characters ſo truly noble, as that of a woman of virtue, and a man of real honour.