SCENE I. An Apartment at Lord RAKELAND's.

AT home? To be ſure I am—how could you make any doubts about it?

Deny me to my old acquaintance, and favourite friend, Tom Conteſt!

My dear Conteſt, I congratulate us both that your travels are completed, and that you are come to taſte, for the remainder of your life, the joys of your own country.

Whether to taſte joy or ſorrow I am yet in doubt; for I am uncertain in what manner I ſhall be received by my father.

Have not you ſeen him yet?

No:—nor dare I till I know in what humour he is.

In a good one, you may depend upon it; for he is very lately married.

To my utter concern! I heard ſome time ago indeed, that it was his deſign to marry again; but as he has never condeſcended to make me acquainted with it himſelf, I know nothing far⯑ther reſpecting the marriage than what public report has thrown in my way. Pray can you tell me who my new mother is?

I am told ſhe is very young, extremely lively, and prodigiouſly beautiful. I am told too that ſhe has been confined in the country, dreſſed, and treated like a child, till her preſent age of eighteen, in order to preſerve the appearance of youth in her mother.

But who is her mother? Of what family is ſhe?

That I don't know—and I ſuppoſe your fa⯑ther did not conſider of what family ſhe was, but merely what family ſhe was likely to bring him.

Yes, I have no doubt but he married on pur⯑poſe [3] to diſinherit me, for having written to him, "that I had fixed my affections upon a widow of ſmall fortune, but one who was ſo perfectly to my wiſhes, that even his commands could not force me to forſake her."

And were you in earneſt?

I thought I was then: but at preſent I am more humble. I have implored his pardon for thoſe haſty expreſſions, and now only preſume by ſup⯑plication to obtain his approbation of my choice.

Is ſhe a foreigner?

No; an Engliſh woman.—We met at Flo⯑rence—parted at Venice—and ſhe arrived in London juſt four days before me.

And when will you introduce me to her?

Are you as much a man of gallantry as ever? If you are, you ſhall firſt promiſe me not to make love to her.

As to that, my dear friend, you know I never make a promiſe when I think there is the leaſt probability of my breaking it.

Then poſitively you ſhall not ſee my choice [4] till I am ſecure of her. But I can tell you what I'll do—I'll introduce you to my young mother-in-law, if you like.

My dear friend, that will do quite as well—nay, I don't know if it won't do better. Come, let us go directly.

Hold! not till I have obtained my father's leave:—for, after offending him ſo highly as not to hear from him theſe ſix months, I thought it neceſſary to ſend a letter to him as ſoon as I arrived this morning, to beg his permiſſion to wait upon him. And here, I ſuppoſe, is his anſwer.

Your ſervant enquired for you, Sir, and left this.

An invitation to go to his houſe immediately.

—Why my father tells me he was only married this very morning! I heard he was married a week ago!

And ſo did I—and ſo did half the town. His marriage has even been in the newſpapers theſe three days.

Ay, theſe things are always announced before they take place: and I moſt ſincerely wiſh it had been delayed ſtill longer.

I do not—for I long to have a kiſs of the bride.

Pſhaw! my Lord: as it is the wedding day, I cannot think of taking you now: it may be improper.

Not at all, not at all. A wedding day is a public day; and Sir Adam knows upon what familiar terms you and I are. Indeed, my dear friend, my going will be conſidered but as neigh⯑bourly. I can take no denial—I muſt go.

Well, if it muſt be ſo, come then.

Notwithſtanding the cauſe I have for rejoicing at this kind invitation from my father, ſtill I feel embarraſſed at the thoughts of appearing before him, in the preſence of his young wife; for I have no doubt but ſhe'll take a diſlike to me.

And if ſhe ſhould, I have no doubt but ſhe'll take a liking to me. So come away, and be in ſpirits.

SCENE II. An Apartment at Sir ADAM CONTEST's.

Nothing is ſo provoking as to be in a ſituation where one is expected to be merry—it is like being aſked in company "to tell a good ſtory, and to be entertaining;" and then you are ſure to be duller than ever you were in your life. Now, notwithſtanding this is my wedding day, I am in ſuch a bleſſed humour that I ſhould like to make every perſon's life in this houſe a burthen to them. But I won't

—No, I won't.—What a continual com⯑bat is mine! To feel a perpetual tendency to every vice, and to poſſeſs no one laudable qua⯑lity, but that of a determination to overcome all my temptations. I am ſtrongly impelled to violent anger, and yet I have the reſolution to be a calm, peaceable man—I am inclined to ſuſpicion, yet I conquer it, and will place con⯑fidence in others—I am diſpoſed to malice, yet I conſtantly get the better of it—I am addicted to love, yet I—No, hold!—there I muſt ſtop—that is a failing which always did get the better of me. Behold an inſtance of it.

Now I will be in a good humour, in ſpite of all my doubts and fears.

Did you ſend for me, Sir Adam?

Yes, my dear; your guardian is juſt ſtept home, to bring his wife to dine with us; and I wiſhed to have a few minutes converſation with you. Sit down.

I obſerved, Lady Conteſt (and it gave me uneaſineſs), that at church this morning, while the ceremony was performing, you looked very pale. You have not yet wholly regained your colour: and in⯑ſtead of your uſual cheerful countenance and air, I perceive a penſive, dejected—Come, look cheerful.

—Why don't you look cheerful?

—Conſider, every one ſhould be happy upon their wedding day, for it is a day that ſeldom comes above once in a perſon's life.

But with you, Sir Adam, it has come twice.

Very true—it has—and my firſt was a day indeed! I ſhall never forget it! My wife was as young as you are now—

And you were younger than you are now.

—No, I won't be angry.

—She was beautiful too—nay more, ſhe was good; ſhe poſſeſſed every quality.—But this is not a proper topic on the preſent occaſion; and ſo, my dear, let us change the ſubject.

Pray, Sir Adam, is it true that your ſon is come to town?

It is; and I expect him here every moment.

And have you invited no other company all day?

Your guardian and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Ploughman, you know, will be here; and what other company would you have?

In the country we had always fiddles and dancing at every wedding; and I declare I have been merrier at other people's weddings, than I think I am likely to be at my own.

If you loved me, Lady Conteſt, you would be merry in my company alone. Do you love me? My firſt wife loved me dearly.

And ſo do I love you dearly—juſt the ſame as I would love my father, if he were alive.

Now could I lay her at my feet for that ſentence. But I won't—I won't.

Anſwer me this—would you change huſbands with any one of your acquaint⯑ance?

What ſignifies now my anſwering ſuch a queſ⯑tion as that, when I am ſure not one of my ac⯑quaintance would change with me?

What makes you think ſo?

—

—Your equipage will be by far the moſt ſplendid of any lady's you will viſit. I have made good my promiſe in reſpect to your jewels too; and I hope you like them?

Like them! to be ſure!—Oh my dear Sir Adam, they even make me like you.

A very poor proof of your love, if you can give me no other.

But I'll give you fifty others.

Name them.

Firſt—I will always be obedient to you.

That's well.

Second—I will never be angry with you if you ſhould go out and ſtay for a month—nay, for a year—or for as long as ever you like.

Sure I [10] was not born to commit murder? I had better go out of the room.

"And old Robin Gray was kind to me."

Oh my firſt wife, my firſt wife, what a treaſure was ſhe! But my trea⯑ſure is gone!

Not all your money, I hope, Sir Adam; for my guardian told me you had a great deal.

And did you marry me for that? What makes you bluſh? Come, confeſs to me—for there was always a ſincerity in your nature which charmed me beyond your beauty. It was that ſincerity, and that alone, which captivated me.

Then I am ſurpriſed you did not marry your chaplain's widow, good old Mrs. Brown!

Why ſo?

Becauſe I have heard you ſay "there was not ſo ſincere a woman on the face of the earth."

And egad I almoſt wiſh I had mar⯑ried her. By what I have now ſaid, Lady Conteſt, I meant to let you know, that in compariſon [11] with virtues, I have no eſteem for a youthful or a beautiful face.

Oh dear! how you and I differ! for I here declare, I do love a beautiful youthful face, bet⯑ter than I love any thing in the whole world.

Leave the room—leave the room inſtantly.

No: Come back—come back, my dear—

—

I'll be in a good humour pre⯑ſently—but not juſt yet.—Yes—I will get the better of it.—I won't uſe her ill—I have ſworn at the altar, not to uſe her ill, and I will keep my vow.

—Pray, Lady Conteſt, pray, have not you heard from your mother yet?

Not a line, nor a word.

It is wonderful that ſhe ſhould not ſend us a proper addreſs! There is no doubt but that every letter we have ſent to her ſince ſhe has been abroad, has miſcarried. However, it will be great joy and pride to her, when ſhe hears of your marriage.

Yes—for ſhe always ſaid I was not born to make my fortune.

Which prediction I have annulled. And after all—Come hither—come hither—

—And after all, I do not repent that I have—for although I cannot ſay that you poſſeſs all thoſe qualifications which my firſt wife did, yet you behave very well conſidering your age.

And I am ſure ſo do you, conſidering yours.

All my reſolution is gone, and I can keep my temper no longer.

Go into your own chamber immediately.

I'll—I'll—I'll—

No, I'll go another way.

My young maſter and another gentleman.

I kneel, Sir, for your pardon and your bleſſing.

You have behaved very ill; but as you appear ſenſible of it, I forgive, and am glad to ſee you. But I expect that your future conduct ſhall give proof of your repentance. My Lord Rakeland, I beg pardon for introducing this ſubject before you; but you are not wholly un⯑acquainted with it, I ſuppoſe?

Mr. Conteſt has partly informed me.

—Aſk for your mother.

I ſincerely congratulate you on your nuptials, Sir, and I hope Lady Conteſt is well.

Deſire Lady Conteſt to walk this way.

I, ſincerely congratulate you, too, Sir Adam.

Thank you, my Lord, thank you.

My dear, this is my ſon—and this, Tom, is your mother-in-law.

Dear Sir Adam,

I was never ſo ſurpriſed in my life! Always when you ſpoke of your ſon you called him Tom, and Tommy, and I expected to ſee a little boy.

And have you any objection to his being a man?

Oh no, I think I like him the better.

—Sir, I am very glad to ſee you.

I give your Ladyſhip joy.

I ſhall be very fond of him, Sir Adam—I ſhall like him as well as if he was my own.

Now am I in a rage, leſt ſeeing my ſon a man, ſhe ſhould be more powerfully re⯑minded that I am old; and I long to turn him out of doors. But I won't—no—I'll be the kinder to him for this very ſuſpicion. Come, Tom, let me ſhake hands with you—we have not ſhaken hands a great while; and let this be a ſign of the full renewal of my paternal affec⯑tion.

Sir Adam, you have not introduced me to Lady Conteſt.

Is this another ſon?

What, could you be fond of him too?

Yes, I could.

And like him as well as if he were your own?

Yes, I could.

But he is not my ſon.

I can't help thinking he is.

I tell you he is not.

Nay, nay, you are joking—I am ſure he is.

I tell you, no.

Why he is very like you.

No, he is not ſo like when you are cloſe. I beg ten thou⯑ſand pardons, Sir, you are not at all like Sir Adam.

Zounds, now I am jealous—and I am afraid my propenſity will get the better of me. But no, it ſhan't—No, it ſhall not.—My Lord, I beg your pardon, but I want half an hour's pri⯑vate converſation with my ſon; will you excuſe us?

Certainly, Sir Adam—I beg you will make no ſtranger of me.

Come, Tom.

—There, now, I have left them alone; and I think this is triumphing over my jealouſy pretty well. Well done, Sir Adam, well done, well done.

My dear Lady Conteſt, though I acknow⯑ledge I have not the happineſs to be your ſon, yet, permit me to beg a bleſſing on my knees—'Tis this—Tell me when and where I ſhall have the happineſs of ſeeing you again?

Dear Sir, without any compliment, the happi⯑neſs will be done to me.

Enchanting woman! appoint the time.

I'll aſk Sir Adam.

No—without his being preſent.

I don't know if I ſha'n't like that full as well.

Appoint a time, then; juſt to play a game at cribbage.

Or what do you think of "Beggar my Neighbour?"—would not that do as well?

Perfectly as well. The very thing.

But you muſt take care how you play; for it is a game you may loſe a great deal of money by.

But Sir Adam muſt not know of it.

Reſolutions come and go—I wiſh I could [17] have kept mine, and ſtaid away a little longer.

What, my Lord, here ſtill? holding converſation with this giddy woman?

I aſſure you, Sir Adam, I am very well pleaſed with Lady Conteſt's con⯑verſation.

And I am ſure, my Lord, I am very much pleaſed with yours.

We have been talking about a game at cards.

But you ſaid Sir Adam was not to be of the party.

Yes, Sir Adam—but not Mr. Conteſt.

No, indeed you ſaid Sir Adam.

Oh no.

Yes—becauſe, don't you remem⯑ber I ſaid—and you made anſwer—

I don't remember any thing—

What! don't you remember kneeling for my bleſſing?

How! What!

Sir Adam, it would be a breach of good man⯑ners were I to contradict Lady Conteſt a ſecond time; therefore I acknowledge that ſhe is right—and that I have been in the wrong.

Won't you aſk him to dinner?

Aſk him to dinner! What a difference between you and my firſt wife!—Would ſhe have wiſhed me to aſk him to dinner? would ſhe have ſuffered a man to kneel—

I did not ſuffer him to kneel a moment.

—But my firſt wife was a model of perfection, and it is unjuſt to reproach you with the com⯑pariſon. Yet I cannot help ſaying—would ſhe had lived!

And I am ſure I wiſh ſo, with all my heart.

But ſhe was ſuddenly ſnatched from me.

How was it, Sir Adam? Were you not at ſea [19] together? And ſo a ſtorm aroſe—and ſo you took to the long-boat—and ſhe would ſtay in the ſhip—and ſo ſhe called to you, and you would not go—and you called to her, and ſhe would not come. And ſo your boat ſailed, and her ſhip ſunk.

Don't, don't—I can't bear to hear it repeated. I loved her too ſincerely. But the only proof I can now give of my affection, is to be kind to her ſon; and as by what he acknowledged to me, his heart I perceived was bent upon mar⯑riage, I have given him leave to introduce to me the lady on whom he has fixed his choice—and if I like her—

Has he fixed his choice? Who is the young lady? What is her name?

I did not aſk her name.

But I hope you will give your conſent, who⯑ever ſhe is.

And if I do, in a little time they may both wiſh I had not. Young people are ſo capricious they don't know their own minds half an hour. For inſtance, I dare ſay you think very highly of that young Lord who was here juſt now; but if you were to ſee him two or three times a week, you would ceaſe to admire him.

I ſhould like to try. Do invite him here two or three times a week, on purpoſe to try.

Mr. and Mrs. Ploughman are come, Sir, and dinner is almoſt ready.

Oh! Oh!—Oh dear! Sir Adam—Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!

What's the matter? What in the name of heaven is the matter?

I wiſh I may die if I have not loſt my wedding ring.—Oh! 'tis a ſure ſign of ſome ill luck.

Here, John!

Go and look for your miſtreſs's wedding ring; ſhe has dropt it ſomewhere about the houſe.

I am afraid it was in the ſtreet, as I ſtepp'd out of my coach. Oh! indeed, Sir Adam, it did not ſtick cloſe. I remember I pulled my glove off juſt at that time; go and look there, John.

Oh! Sir Adam, ſome ill luck will certainly happen to one or both of us: you may depend upon it.

Childiſh nonſenſe! What ill luck can happen to us while we are good?

But ſuppoſe we ſhould not be good?

We always may if we pleaſe.

I know we may. But then ſometimes 'tis a great deal of trouble.

Come, don't frighten yourſelf about omens; you'll find your ring again.

Do you think that young Lord mayn't have found it? Suppoſe we ſend to aſk him?

Did you miſs it while he was here?

No, nor ſhould not have miſſed any thing, if he had ſtaid till midnight.

Come, come to din⯑ner.

But I muſt ſay this has been a very careleſs thing of you. My firſt wife would not have loſt her wedding ring.

But indeed, Sir Adam, mine did not fit.

SCENE I. An Apartment at Mr. MILLDEN's.

MY dear Lady Autumn, Mr. Conteſt is not of a proper age for a lover, much leſs for a huſband of yours.

Mrs. Hamford, I believe, old as you pretend to think me now, you thought me young but a few weeks ago at Venice; when, on your firſt landing there, you impoſed upon me your ro⯑mantic tale, and prevailed with me to bring you to England.

Hold, Madam, do not conclude too haſtily, that, becauſe I have for a few days ſince my arrival in my native country, deferred my pro⯑miſe of revealing to you my real name and my connections here, that I am for this reaſon an impoſtor.

No; upon recollection, you certainly have been living on a ſavage iſland for theſe ten or twelve years, which gives you all theſe Hottentot ideas in reſpect to the advanced age of women. In ſome ſavage countries women are old at ſeventeen; but in this enlightened nation we are all young at ſeventy.

Lady Autumn, I make no apology for enter⯑ing your apartment thus abruptly, becauſe I come with good news—Your daughter is mar⯑ried.

Married! What! while I have been abroad?

No doubt—But I cannot give you any parti⯑culars of the marriage, nor tell you even the gen⯑tleman's name—for I only paſſed her guardian by accident in his carriage, and I had not an op⯑portunity to enquire, nor he to inform me far⯑ther, than "that it was a moſt advantageous union for your daughter, for that her huſband is a man of fortune and title."

There, Lady Autumn! you find you have a daughter old enough to be a wife.

More ſhame for her—Why was not my con⯑ſent aſked?

You were out of England, and no letters reached you. However, your daughter's guar⯑dian will call upon you in the evening, and ex⯑plain to you every particular.

But now, my dear Mr. Millden, and you my dear Mrs. Hamford, don't let this marriage eſcape your lips, if Mr. Conteſt ſhould call this [24] evening—for if my daughter's huſband ſhould not, after all, be a man of ſome importance, I ſhould wiſh to keep it a ſecret from Mr. Conteſt that I have a daughter married.

Mrs. Hamford, I obſerve a gloom upon your countenance; I hope no enquiries you have made concerning any part of your family ſince you ar⯑rived in England—

—You tremble! What's the matter?

I tremble till a viſit which I am now going to make is over; and then, whatever is my deſtiny, I truſt in that Power which has ſupported me through numerous trials, to give me reſignation.

SCENE II. An Apartment at Sir ADAM CON⯑TEST's.

Has any body called on me, Hannah, ſince I have been out?

Yes, Madam, an elderly gentlewoman; but ſhe refuſed to leave her name—ſhe ſaid ſhe had particular buſineſs, and wanted to ſpeak to you in private.

Then pray let me ſee her when ſhe comes again.

I told her, Madam, that you were only gone to the milliner's in the next ſtreet.

Has any body elſe called, Hannah?

No, ma'am.

Lord Rakeland, if your Ladyſhip is not en⯑gaged—

Oh! Hannah, Hannah! is this the elderly gentlewoman?—Oh! for ſhame, Hannah!—However, poor Hannah, don't be uneaſy. I won't be very angry with you.

You may deſire his Lordſhip to walk up.

Upon my word, my lady—

Oh, hold your tongue, Hannah—you know this is the elderly gentlewoman you meant—but no matter—I am almoſt every bit as well pleaſed.

My adorable Lady Conteſt—

I hope you are very well—but I need not aſk, for you look charmingly.

And you look like a divinity! I met Sir Adam this moment in his carriage going out, and that emboldened me—

Yes, Sir, he is gone out for a little while with my guardian; but he'll ſoon be back. I ſup⯑poſe, Sir, you called to play an hand of cards.

No—my errand was to tell you—I love you; I adore you; and to plead for your love in re⯑turn.

But that is not in my power to give.

You cannot poſſibly have given it to Sir Adam!

I ſha'n't tell you what I have done with it.

You could love me; I know you could.

If you were my huſband I would try: and then, perhaps, take all the pains I would, I could not.

Oh! that I were your huſband!

You would not kneel ſo if you were. Not even on the wedding day.

No, but I would claſp you thus.

Oh dear! Oh dear! I am afraid Sir Adam's firſt wife would not have ſuffered this!

Why talk of Sir Adam? Oh! that you were mine, inſtead of his!

And would you really marry me, if I were ſingle?

Would I?—yes—this inſtant, were you un⯑married, this inſtant, with rapture, I would be⯑come your happy bridegroom.

I wonder what Sir Adam would ſay were he to hear you talk thus! He ſuſpected you were in love with me at the very firſt—I can't ſay I did—I ſuſpected nothing—but I have found a great deal.

Nothing to my diſadvantage, I hope?

No—nor any thing that ſhall be of diſadvan⯑tage to Sir Adam.

Why are you perpetually talking of your huſband?

Becauſe, when I am in your company, I am always thinking of him.

Do I make you think of your huſband?

Yes—and you make me tremble for him.

Never be unhappy about Sir Adam.

I won't—and he ſhall never have cauſe to be unhappy about me—for I'll go lock myſelf up till he comes home.

What are you alarmed at? Is there any thing to terrify you either in my coun⯑tenance or addreſs?—In your preſence, I feel myſelf an object of pity, not of terror.

Ay, but this may be all make-believe, like the poor little boy in the ſong.

A lady, a ſtranger, who Mrs Hannah ſays your Ladyſhip gave orders ſhould be admitted—

Very true—Deſire her to walk in—ſhew her up.

Who is it?

I don't know—I can't tell—I thought you had been her: but I was miſtaken.

Will ſhe ſtay long?

I don't know any thing about her.

Dear Lady Conteſt, do not let me meet her on the ſtairs; conceal me ſomewhere till ſhe is gone. [30] Here, I'll go into this dreſſing-room.

Then you will hear our diſcourſe.

No matter; I will keep it a ſecret.

No, no; you muſt go away—out of the houſe.

I can't—I won't—don't expoſe yourſelf be⯑fore the lady.

—I beg pardon, Madam.

—No apologies, Madam.

I am afraid I am not right!

Yes, Madam—Pray are not you the lady who called this afternoon, and ſaid you had parti⯑cular buſineſs?

I am.

—And are you Lady CONTEST?

Yes, Ma'am.

Sir Adam's wife?

Yes, Ma'am, Sir Adam's wife—Won't you pleaſe to ſit down?

There is then, Lady Conteſt, a very material circumſtance in my life, that I wiſh to reveal to you; and to receive from you advice how to act, rather than by confiding in the judgment of any of my own family, be flattered, by their par⯑tiality, into a blameable ſyſtem of conduct. Such is the nature of my preſent errand to you: but, to my great ſurpriſe, I find you ſo very, very young—

Yes, Ma'am, thank heaven.

And you are very happy, I preſume?

—Y-e-s, Ma'am—yes, very happy, all things conſidered.

I am ſorry then to be the meſſenger of news [32] that will, moſt probably, deſtroy that happineſs for ever.

Dear me! what news? You frighten me out of my wits!

You are now, Lady Conteſt, newly married; in the height of youth, health, proſperity; and I am the fatal object who, in one moment, may cruſh all thoſe joys!

Oh! then pray don't—you'll break my heart if you do. What have I done, or what has hap⯑pened to take away from me all my joys?—Where's my pocket handkerchief?

Here, take mine, and compoſe yourſelf.

—Thank you, Ma'am.

And now, my dear, I will inform you—and at the ſame time flatter myſelf that you will deal frankly with me, and not reſtrain any of thoſe ſenſations which my tale may cauſe.

Dear Madam, I never conceal any of my ſen⯑ſations—I can't if I would.

Then what will they be when I tell you—I am [33] Sir Adam Conteſt's wife—his wife whom he thinks drowned; but who was preſerved and reſtored to life, though not till now reſtored to my own country.

Dear Madam, I don't know any body on earth I ſhould be happier to ſee!

But conſider, my dear, you are no longer wife to Sir Adam!

And is that all?—here, take your handker⯑chief again.

And come you out of your hiding place.

—Come, come, for you need no longer conceal yourſelf now, or be miſerable; for I have no longer a huſband to prevent my being your wife—or to prevent me from loving you—for oh! oh! I do—

—though I durſt not ſay ſo before.

May I enquire who this gentleman is?

A poor man that has been dying for love of me, even though he thought it a ſin.

I beg pardon, and promiſe never to be guilty for the future.—I wiſh you a good evening.

You are not going away?

I have an engagement it is impoſſible to poſt⯑pone.—Good evening.

But you will ſoon come back, I hope?—for I ſuppoſe you hold your mind to be my huſband?

Alas! that is a happineſs above my hopes.

Above your hopes!

It is.

Then it ſhall be beneath mine.

And is it poſſible that you can think of part⯑ing with Sir Adam without the leaſt reluctance?

Pray, Madam, when did you ſee Sir Adam laſt?

Above fifteen years ago.

He is greatly altered ſince that time.

Still will my affection be the ſame.

And ſo it ought; for he loves you ſtill—he is for ever talking of you; and declares he never [35] knew what happineſs was ſince he loſt you. Oh! he will be ſo pleaſed to change me for you!

I hope you do not flatter me!

I am ſure I don't—I expect him at home every minute, and then you'll ſee!

Excuſe me—At preſent I could not ſupport an interview. I will take my leave till I hear from you; and will confide in your artleſs and ingenuous friendſhip to inform Sir Adam of my eſcape.

You may depend upon me, Lady Conteſt.

Adieu!

Dear Madam, I would inſiſt on waiting upon you down ſtairs; but I won't ſtand upon any ceremony with you in your own houſe.

Nobody ſo plagued as I am with ſervants!

Bleſs me, Sir Adam, I did not know you were come home!

I have been at home this quarter of an hour. The coachman has made himſelf tipſy on the joyful occaſion of our marriage, and was very near daſhing out my brains in turning a corner.

And is that worth being in ſuch an ill temper about?—Ah! you would not be ſo croſs, if you knew ſomething.

Knew what?—I have a piece of news to tell you.

And I have a piece of news to tell you.

Your mother is arrived in town: your guardian heard ſo this morning, but he did not mention it to me till this moment, becauſe he thinks it is proper for him to wait upon, and acquaint her with our marriage in form, before I throw myſelf at her feet, to aſk her bleſſing.

Very well—with all my heart. And now, Sir Adam—what do you think?

What do I think!

What will you give me to tell you ſomething that will make you go almoſt out of your wits with joy?

What do you mean?—Have I got another eſtate left me?

No: ſomething better.

Better than that!

A great deal better—you will think.

—Has the county meeting agreed to elect me their repreſentative?

No.

What any thing better than that?

A great deal better than that—and ſomething the moſt ſurpriſing!—Gueſs again.

Pſhaw! I'll gueſs no more—I hate ſuch teaz⯑ing—it is unmannerly—would my firſt wife have ſerved me ſo?

Now you have hit upon it.

Upon what?

Your firſt wife.

Ay, I ſhall never ſee her like again!

No, but you may ſee her—for ſhe is alive, and you may have her home as ſoon as you pleaſe.

What the deuce does the woman mean?

Your firſt wife—eſcaped in the long boat—as ſurpriſing a ſtory as Robinſon Cruſoe!—I have ſeen her, and ſhe longs to ſee you.

Why, what do you mean?—

Alive?

As much alive as I am.

And what does ſhe intend to do?—

Poor woman! poor creature! where does ſhe in⯑tend to go?

Go! Come home, to be ſure.

Home!—what does ſhe call her home?

You are her home.

I her home!—Come to me!—What can I do with her?—and what is to become of you?

Oh! never mind me.

Yes, but I can't think to part with you—

I can't think to turn a poor young creature like you upon the wide world.—Her [39] age will ſecure her; ſhe won't be in half the danger.

Poor ſoul! if you knew what ſhe has ſuffered—

And have not I ſuffered too? I am ſure I have lamented her loſs every hour of my life; you have heard me.

And yet you don't ſeem half ſo much pleaſed at her return as I am.

I cannot help being concerned to think, what a melancholy twelve or fourteen years the poor woman has experienced! moſt likely upon ſome deſert iſland, inſtead of being in heaven!

But if you are concerned upon her account, you ought to be pleaſed upon your own, my dear—

I beg pardon; I mean Sir Adam.

No, no, call me "my dear"—do not ſhew reſerve to me already; for if you do, you will break my heart.

I would not break your heart for the world—and indeed, Sir Adam—you will always be dear to me—quite as dear when we are parted, nay, I think, dearer than if we were living together.

Don't talk of parting—Can you reſolve to part from me?

Yes, becauſe I know you will be ſo much happier with your firſt wife.

But if our parting ſhould give you any unea⯑ſineſs—

It won't a bit.

No!

No,

—not when I know you are with that good, prudent woman, your firſt wife.

—Now here is a time to exert my power over myſelf: what ſignifies having exerted it in trivial matters, if from a trial ſuch as this I ſhrink?—

—Well, Madam, I am prepared to ſee my firſt wife—and to part with my ſecond.

Then ſit down and write to her, that you long to ſee her.

No! I can ſacrifice all my ſenſations, but I cannot ſacrifice truth.

Will you give me leave to write to her, a kind letter for you, and invite her to come hither di⯑rectly?

—You may do as you like.

Ay, I ſhan't be with you long, and ſo you may as well let me have my own way while I ſtay.—

Here they are; only a few words, but very kind; telling her to "fly to your impatient wiſhes." Here, John—

—Take this letter to Mr. Millden's immediately.

—

—Come, look pleaſed; conſider how charming it is for old friends to meet.

Yes, if they are not too old. However, fear nothing in regard to my conduct, for I will, I will act properly—ſo properly, that I will not truſt my own judgment; and the firſt perſon I conſult ſhall be your mother, and I'll go to her this inſtant.

—Sure never ſuch a ſtrange, intricate affair ever happened before!—but ſtrange as it is, I will act as I ought to do—My incli⯑nation may rebel, but my reaſon ſhall conquer—I will act as I ought to do.

Lady Autumn and Mr. Conteſt.

And here your mother comes moſt opportunely.

Sir Adam, according to your permiſſion, I have brought the lady on whom I have placed my affections, to receive from—

Oh my dear mother, how do you do?

Mother!—Your mother!

Yes—though ſhe looks very well, does not ſhe?

This is the lady on whom I have fixed my choice.

What, on my mamma! Nay, Mr. Conteſt, now I am ſure you are joking—ha, ha, ha, ha,—ha, ha, ha, ha,—fixed your choice on my mother!

And my mother! your father's mother!—Why you are as bad as the man in the farce—fall in love with your grandmother.

Dear mamma, don't make yourſelf uneaſy, if you have a mind to marry my ſon; for there is a lady now at Mr. Millden's, and who is coming here, that will claim him for her ſon, and make me no longer wife to Sir Adam.

This can be no other than Mrs. Hamford, whom I brought to England.

Mr. Conteſt, will you ſtep for a moment to the perſon in the next room.

Sir Adam Conteſt, I come to inform you, that there is a lady in the next room who has been near fainting at the ſound of your voice.

And I believe I ſhall faint at the ſound of her's.

Her ſon is ſupporting her to you.

Dear Sir Adam, fly and embrace your firſt wife.

—Dear Lady Conteſt, notwithſtanding his ſeeming inſenſibility he loves you to diſtraction: a thouſand times has he de⯑clared to me, he did not think there was ſuch a woman in the world.

And I did flatter myſelf, there was not.

Oh! Sir Adam!

Oh my dear! If you knew what I have ſuf⯑fered, and what I ſtill ſuffer on your account, you would pity me.

Sir Adam, I give you joy of a wife that ſuits your own age.

And ſuch a one ſhall my ſon marry, when he has my conſent.

Come, come, Sir Adam and Lady Autumn, theſe mutual reproaches, for almoſt the ſelf-ſame fault, ought to convince you, that in your plans of wedlock you have both been wrong.

However, it ſhall be my endeavour to be henceforward right: for after ſettling upon my young bride a handſome dower, I will peaceably yield her up;—and though it is a hard ſtruggle, yet, like all my other ſtruggles, it will, I have no doubt, give me happineſs in the end.

Good b'ye, Sir Adam—good b'ye—I did love you a little upon my word; and if I was not ſure you were going to be ſo much happier with your firſt wife, I ſhould never know a moment's peace.

I thank you. And at parting, all I have to requeſt of you is—that you will not marry again till I die.

Indeed, Sir Adam, I will not—but then you won't make it long?

I believe I ſhan't.

And my next huſband ſhall be of my own age; but he ſhall poſſeſs, Sir Adam, your prin⯑ciples of honour. And then, if my wedding ring ſhould unhappily ſit looſe, I will guard it with unwearied diſcretion: and I will hold it ſacred—even though it ſhould pinch my finger.