ACT I.

WELL, Willis, they are come!

Yes, Sir, but I am quite of opinion, they will ſoon be gone again, at leaſt out of this houſe; for as I aſſiſted in carrying in their trunks, and band-boxes, merely to contemplate their countenances, I cou'd perceive the ſtrongeſt marks of diſſatisfaction, in Sir William's face; and when the ſervants retir'd from the parlour, I overheard him, and his ſiſter Winifred, in high diſputation—Both their Welch bloods were up, and a fine ſplut⯑ter there was, between them; but, tho' you might [2] have heard them into Hyde-Park, they ſpoke ſo quick, that I cou'd only pick up an odd word, here and there, as if Sir William did not like this part of the town.

I wiſh they had ſtaid in the country, with all my heart.

I believe there are more people of that mind, than you, Sir. I fancy my lord wou'd give a good round ſum, that they had remained fixed to the freehold, at Langwillan.—Tho', to be ſure, Miſs Harriet is, by many degrees, the handſomeſt girl, that ever his lordſhip was fond of.

You muſt not, Willis, talk of her, in that ſtile—She is a young woman, both of character, and family.

So much the better for her, Sir, if ſhe has a good family of her own, for I am pretty ſure ſhe never will belong to ours.

I muſt again deſire you, Mr. Willis, not to ſpeak ſo lightly, of this affair—the real friends of your lord, will not be much inclin'd to mirth, or ridicule, upon this occaſion, I can tell you.

As we were both placed here, by my lord, to manage this matter for him, I thought there cou'd be no great harm, to argue, a little, upon it, Mr. Frampton.

I am not, at preſent, in a humour for con⯑verſation.

O, Sir, another time will do, as well.

I wou'd have you go, immediately, and acquaint lord Euſtace with their arrival—Let him alſo know, that I ſhall wait upon the ladies, and make his apology, for not being here to receive them.

You have been very obliging to his lord⯑ſhip, upon many ſuch occaſions, Mr. Frampton; [3] but I fancy he never ſtood more in need of your aſſiſtance, and mine, too, than he does, at preſent.

Tho' in the ſame cauſe, I believe our ſer⯑vices will tend to different purpoſes—I ſhall not flatter his vices.

Lord, Mr. Frampton, you are grown ſo prudiſh, of late!

You are grown too familiar, Mr. Willis.—You'll oblige me, and obey your lord's com⯑mands, at the ſame time, by going, directly, with the meſſage I deſired you.

I did not mean to offend you, Sir, by obſerving how uſeful your friendſhip has been to my lord.—Has your honour any farther com⯑mands?

None, but thoſe I gave you.

Here's more to do, with theſe ſhabby, ruin'd, hangers-on, of my lord's, than all the family, beſide.—I think myſelf as good a man as he, and if he had not a little too much ſpirit for me, I wou'd tell him as much.

To what a ſtate, have I reduced myſelf, when even ſuch a wretch as that, dares to upbraid me! What now remains, of all the ſcenes of mirth, and revelry, which I have been partaker of, beneath this roof! A ruin'd fortune, a diſturb'd mind, and a broken conſtitution, are the only mementos that are now left me—Yet, I think I have fortitude ſufficient, to bear all theſe—but to be obliged to miniſter to another man's vices, for a wretched ſubſiſtence, is to degrade human nature, below the brutes.—Thank heaven, however, I have eſcap'd being concern'd in this iniquitous affair; and tho' my friendſhip for lord Euſtace, will not ſuffer me to deſert him, in his preſent difficulties, I am de⯑termin'd [4] to proceed no farther, than is conſiſtent with my honour, and my peace.—I have con⯑ſented to ſee the lady, and excuſe his abſence.—I muſt wait for Sir William's going out, and then haſten to fulfil my promiſe.

I tell you, again and again, ſiſter Wini⯑ [...]. I am not ſatisfied.

As to that matter, brother, you know you never are ſatisfied, with what any perſon does, [...] yourſelf. I ſhall, therefore, make myſelf per⯑fectly ea [...]y, on that head.

That's more than I ſhall be, while I am [...]n this houſe, I can tell you—I have very ſolid objections, to ſtaying here—A young, idle, rakiſh lord—

What a vulgar objection! I declare, Sir William, if I were not acquainted with your anceſtry, I ſhould ſuſpect you to be deſcended from mechanics. But I hope the family of Ap Evans, is known to be quite as ancient, as—

Adam, at leaſt, ſiſter—But let me now inform you, that lord Euſtace is placed in a much higher rank, than any of your boaſted an⯑ceſtors have ever been; and that I hate obligations, to perſons above me; for the only ſatisfaction I ever felt, in receiving favours, aroſe from the pro⯑ſpect of repaying them.

Pride, abſolute pride, brother!

It is an honeſt one, at leaſt, you muſt allow, that inclines perſons to diſcharge their debts of honour, as well as of law.

Pray, Sir William, give me leave to aſk you, where is the mighty matter, of inter⯑changing civilities, between perſons of a certain rank?—Lord Euſtace ſpent, ſome months, at your houſe, in the country.—

Not by my invitation, ſiſter, but yours—You know I was at my eſtate in Devonſhire, the greateſt part of the time he ſpent at Langwillan—I have, therefore, neither right, nor inclination, to accept of his houſe—Beſides, it is extremely inconvenient to me, as I have ſo much buſineſs to tranſact, in Lincoln's Inn.

You ſhould have written to your broker, then, to provide you apartments, in ſome of the ſtoves, on t'other ſide Temple-Bar, Sir Wil⯑liam;—but, as to my niece and me, we don't chuſe to be ſuffocated, I muſt inform you.

Why, this place, as you ſay, is airy, enough—When I was laſt in London, about twelve years ago, there was not a houſe, within a mile of it—but all the fools in the nation, have now crouded up to the capital, and made the head too large for the body; and this very place, where I uſed to ſend my horſes to graze, begins now, to look ſomething like a ſtreet.

Like a ſtreet, Sir William!

Let us have done with wrangling, ſiſter; I give it up—this air may be better for my girl—I ſhall ſtay here, therefore, for the ſhort time I remain in town, tho' I don't like it—You are content, I hope—But what ſays my Harriet? Why ſo grave? I expected to have ſeen you as blithe, as [6] one of the kids, upon our mountains, at your ar⯑rival in London.

I find myſelf a little fatigued, Sir.

You were all life and ſpirit, during our journey—the bad air of this town, can't have affect⯑ed you, already, child. But tell me how you like this houſe?

I think it very retired, Sir.

Why, really, Miſs Harriet, I don't believe my lord intended following buſineſs, or opening ſhop, when he took it; but, ſurely, for perſons of diſtinction, it is the very ſpot one wou'd deſire. I am aſtoniſhed at your want of taſte, child—Sir William, I know loves noiſe.—I think there is nothing elſe left to wiſh for, here.

Except the owner of the manſion.

Pray, madam, which is to be my young lady's appartment.

That, upon the right-hand, child—You had better go with her, Harriet, and adjuſt your Dreſs.—O Betty, bid 'em look in the coach for my ſnuff-box; they'll find it on the ſeat, or in the pockets.

Don't you think you ſhall be full late, for your law⯑yers, Sir William?

Yes, as I have ſo far to go to them—Who is there?

Here's the box, madam.

Send David for a Hackney-coach—take this key, and bring me a parcel of papers, which you will find tied up, in my ſtrong box, Robert.

Yes, Sir.

I hope, Sir William, you have your addreſs written upon your cards, and that you have ordered your letters to be directed to Lord Euſtace's Houſe. As his Lordſhip honours me with his friendſhip, I think it neceſſary that our Acquain⯑tance ſhou'd be informed, of his great politeneſs.

His lordſhip honours me with his friendſhip!—how well the traffic is kept up, in that phraſe, between vanity and vanity. I had or⯑dered my letters to Serle's Coffee-houſe, but ſince it is determined that I muſt ſtay here, I ſhall direct them to be ſent to me.

I muſt beg, Sir William, that you will order all the news-papers, and magazines, to be ſent here, alſo. My mental faculties are quite at a ſtand—I have not had the leaſt political information, theſe four days.

Here are the papers, Sir.

Are they of this day, Robert?

They are of much older date, ſiſter, and will not, I fancy, afford you much entertain⯑ment.—Get me my hat and cane: do you know, Robert, where captain Lloyd lodges?

In Craven-ſtreet, Sir; they told me at Trevallin.

Direct the Coachman there.

For Heaven's ſake, Sir William, what do you loiter for? It will be monſtrous late, before you can return—you won't be back, by din⯑ner.

You ſeem ſo very impatient, for my ſetting out, ſiſter, that I cannot imagine you ſhou'd [8] be very anxious for my coming back, again. I ſhall go firſt to captain Lloyd's.

You are, doubtleſs, at liberty, to go where you pleaſe, Sir William—but I hope you will not think of incumbering us with his viſits, here.

You amaze me—not receive the uncle of the man, who is to marry my daughter?

That may be ſooner ſaid than done, I fancy, Sir William.

You are miſtaken—I never yet have fal⯑ſified my promiſe.

A pretty alliance, truly, for my niece, and your daughter. But let me tell you, Sir, if Harriet had not a ſhilling, her family and her beauty wou'd intitle her to a much better match, than your colonel; who has nothing but an old tottering caſtle, a ſcarlet coat, and a ſword, to ſettle, by way of jointure.

Your abſurdity diſtracts me. What has your family and beauty done for you? And I dare ſay, you once rated them as high, as you do Har⯑riet's.

You'll pardon me, brother, I under⯑ſtand genealogy better, than ſo—tho' there is not a very great difference, between my niece's years, and mine, ſhe has one generation more, in her table, than I; which, let me tell you, is of no ſmall con⯑ſequence, to thoſe who know how to ſet a proper value, upon family.

Family! Nonſenſe! Let thoſe who have no other merit to ſupport them, build on that; but, know, that I deſpiſe it; and to make an end of this ridiculous altercation, for ever, I ſhall inform you, that eight years ago, when Harriet was but a child, and the colonel was ſent young abroad, [9] to ſerve his country, I liked him ſo well, that I promiſed his father, if the young fellow return'd, with life, and honour, my daughter ſhou'd be his.

I have ever diſapproved of that me⯑thod, of affiancing young perſons.—Have you no idea, that it is poſſible, the colonel may diſlike your daughter?

I am not very apprehenſive, on that ac⯑count.

Have you no fears, of her refuſing him?

None.—Bred up in retirement, and in⯑nocence, ſhe can have formed no attachment; and her obedience to a fond father, will certainly in⯑cline her to diſpoſe of, both her hand and heart, where his prudence ſhall direct.

Sir, the coach is ready.

'Tis later than I thought it was—Why, I ſhan't be back to dinner—I ſhall go no-where, but to the captain's; if I don't meet with him, I ſhall return, directly. Put up theſe papers, Robert.

Deſire Miſs Evans to come to me, and pray, good Robert, ſend out, for the laſt Gazette, directly. There may be a thouſand treaties, on foot, that I am ignorant of.

What an ab⯑ſurd man, is my brother! His ideas are dreadfully confined.—His daughter's hand and heart will fol⯑low her obedience! thank heaven, they are not, now, to be diſpoſed of.

What, not begun to dreſs, niece!

My ſpirits are too much agitated, madam, to think of dreſs.

For heaven's ſake, child, don't talk, in this doleful ſtrain, to me—I can eaſily conceive that your father's preſence may diſtreſs you, as he is ſo totally ignorant of your good fortune—but, with me, it appears ridiculous.

I am, indeed, madam, infinitely diſtreſſed, by my father's ignorance of my ſituation.

What a fuſs, is here, about your fa⯑ther? You know he wou'd never have given his conſent, to your marrying lord Euſtace, if he had been aſked—he hates men of quality; and as my lord is not yet in poſſeſſion of his fortune, I doubt if he wou'd even have thought it a good match.

I wiſh he were acquainted with it, be it good, or bad.

I tell you, child, I loſt two excellent matches, myſelf, by waiting for advice, and, by that means, giving time to the parties, to conſider of it; ſo it came to nothing;—but I now tell you, that by my prudence, your good fortune does not admit of a doubt.

Wou'd to heaven it did not!

You are the very counterpart, of your father; never content with any thing—Are you not intitled to ſupporters, and coronets, upon your coach? And when the Evans's arms are quartered with my lord's, and well emblazoned, there won't be ſo hand⯑ſome an equipage, in London.

Yet the poſſeſſor may be wretched, madam!

Wretched, and a counteſs! I think that ſcarce poſſible. But what is it you wou'd have, [11] child? Have I not, with the greateſt addreſs, imagi⯑nable, managed matters, with my headſtrong brother, and triumphed over his obſtinacy? Are you not, at this inſtant, lodged in your huſband's houſe?

What is his houſe, while he is abſent from it? I hoped to have met him here—my letters muſt have informed him—

Perhaps, his, and your father, my lord Delville, Harriet, may have claimed his lord⯑ſhip's attendance. It is only people of no conſe⯑quence, who are maſters of themſelves; and, there⯑fore, pretend to dignify their inſignificance, with the title of independence. But perſons of quality, my dear, never preſume to rebel againſt the laws of ſubordination—But this is a political ſecret, which you are yet ignorant of, child.

He appeared to be perfect maſter of his own time, when we were firſt acquainted; nor did his engagements ſeem to interfere with his inclinations, till after you had commanded me to receive his hand.

'Till after I commanded you! Really, Miſs Evans, any perſon who was to hear you talk, in this manner, might ſuppoſe that I had compelled you, to marry lord Euſtace; but, perhaps, miſs, you had rather have been ſacrificed to your father's ridicu⯑lous attachment to colonel Loyd, and been buried alive, in the old caſtle of Trevallin.

Notwithſtanding all your attention to my happineſs, madam, if my lord no longer loves me, I muſt be miſerable.

Can he hinder your being a counteſs, ſimpleton? But, prithee, what can have put all theſe melancholy thoughts, into your head? Did ever any man appear to be more in love, than he?

O no! he was all tenderneſs; he wept, at our parting; I wept too, yet found a pleaſing ſoft⯑neſs, in that grief he ſeemed to ſhare.—What a change!

Revolutions are common, in all ſtates, child; and if you underſtood politics, you would not be ſo much ſurprized at them.

Mr. Frampton, madam, deſires to ſee my young lady.

Mr. Frampton! I don't know ſuch a per⯑ſon; do you know him, Robert?

I know nothing more of him, madam, than that he lives in this houſe, and has a fine man to at⯑tend him. There are a power of people, coming and going, but I can't tell who they be.

He muſt certainly be a friend, or relation, of your lord's—I think we had better ſtep into the parlour, to receive him, leſt your father's return ſhould interrupt us. We will ſee the gentleman, below, Robert, and wait on him, directly.

I feel myſelf extremely ſhocked, at this affair, both for lord Euſtace, and the unhappy girl—it is an infamous buſineſs, and I am certain it muſt turn out ill.

The ladies will wait upon you, immediately, Sir▪

Would the interview were over.—If ſhe is but half ſo amiable, as lord Euſtace has deſcribed her, I fear I ſhall acquit myſelf, but indifferently, of his com⯑miſſion.—Beauty, that makes moſt men knaves, makes me honeſt; for I hold it the loweſt baſeneſs, to be capable of admiring, and betraying, an innocent creature, in the ſame moment.

I come, madam, from lord Euſtace, to your ladyſhip.—

By acoſting my niece, in that man⯑ner, Sir, I ſuppoſe you are one of his lordſhip's par⯑ticular friends; but, pray, be more guarded, Sir, and do not call my niece ladyſhip;—that time is not yet come.

I ſtand corrected, madam.

How does lord Euſtace, Sir? I hope he is well.

Perfectly ſo, madam, though extremely concerned, at having it not in his power, to receive your ladyſhip—

Again, Sir!

—The moment of your arrival;—but his attendance, on his father, who is, at preſent, ill, in Berkſhire, prevented him that happineſs.

Aye, I knew it—Did not I tell you ſo, Miſs Harriet?

Pray, Sir, when may we expect to ſee lord Euſtace? I hope his father's illneſs is not dangerous.

No, madam, I hope not; though old mens lives are, certainly, precarious. I am ſure your lord will leave him, the firſt moment it is poſſible, as I well know he burns with impatience, to throw himſelf at your feet.

I hope your mind is eaſy, now, child.—She may be a counteſs, ſooner than I thought for; and if my lord can get into the miniſtry, I may be of ſome conſequence to my friends.

I am much obliged to you, Sir, for the trouble you have taken.—I, by no means, wiſh that lord Euſtace ſhould neglect his duty, to lord Del⯑ville, or diſtreſs himſelf, in any other way, on my account; though I ſincerely deſire the happineſs of ſeeing him.

His inclinations, madam, I am ſatisfied, more than keep pace with yours; and you may, with great probability, expect to ſee his lordſhip, either to-day, or to-morrow morning.

You alarm me, vaſtly, Sir; I would not have his lordſhip catch us, in this deſhabille, for any conſideration. I beg, child, you will go to your toilet—Bleſs me, what figures we are!

I ſhall attend you, madam. You have made me very happy, Sir—but do you think that he will come, to night?

I fear it is not in his power, madam.

Come, when he will, I ſhall rejoice to ſee him.

Pray, niece, come away, now. Sir, your humble ſervant—You don't know but his lordſhip may be here, in a few minutes.

I never lied, with a worſe grace—By heaven, that girl is an angel, and lord Euſtace, of courſe, a devil! What a delicate ſenſibility, in her countenance! what ſoftneſs, in her voice! The man, who could firſt injure, and then forſake, ſuch a wo⯑man, deſerves to be marked as the moſt infamous, becauſe he muſt be the moſt cruel, of his ſex—I have ſome conſolation, in thinking, that lord [15] Euſtace, tho' ten years younger, is ten times a greater—

—What, what, Frampton!—I will lay ten thouſand pounds, that is impoſſible; tho' you did not finiſh the ſentence—Do you think I ſhou'd loſe, Frampton?

I certainly do, my lord, tho' you were to determine the bet, yourſelf. But this is no time for fooling. I am aſtoniſhed, at your imprudence—I thought you had determin'd not to come, this night; what can have changed your purpoſe?

Have you ſeen Harriet, Frampton, and can you aſk that queſtion? My mind, reſtleſs, diſtracted, and impatient, has impelled me, hither—But, tell me, have you ſeen her?

I have ſeen lady Euſtace.

You ſtartle me; don't talk ſo loud—are you ſure that no one can overhear us?

Not a creature—Sir William is gone abroad; and the ladies are retired, to dreſs.

What ſaid Harriet, to my abſence?

The tears which ſeemed to have dimned her lovely eyes, reproached you, ſilently; but not an angry word eſcaped her lips.

Do not add to my diſtreſs, Frampton! By heaven, my heart bleeds, for the unhappy Har⯑riet! Had I, like you, been born a private man, and not at once bound down, by the vile tramels of family, and dependence, the world ſhould not have bribed me, to forſake her.

The ſenſe, you now ſeem to have, of your own ſituation, ſhou'd have operated, ſooner, my [16] lord, and prevented your involving an innocent young woman, in certain ruin.

No, Frampton! no! that was beyond my power; I loved her, to diſtraction—nay, I do love her, ſtill—but let us talk no more, upon this ſubject; it ſoftens me into weakneſs; and as I am dependent, on my father, I muſt obey him—I hope ſhe has not heard, of my intended marriage.

No, no, the devil is too great a gainer, by your ſchemes, to blaſt them.

Don't you think it is, rather, too late, in the day, for you to turn methodiſt, Ned?

It is never too late, my lord, for a man to condemn, and forſake, his follies; and young as you are, I heartily wiſh this was the time appointed, for your doing ſo, likewiſe.

Theſe ſentiments have, at leaſt, the grace of novelty, to recommend them, from you, Mr. Frampton.

My ſentiments, my lord, are of little con⯑ſequence to you; but the time draws near, when you muſt juſtly ſuffer, in the opinion of one, who ought to be dear to you. Miſs Evans cannot be much longer deceived—and when I reflect upon the vile artifices, that were uſed, to draw her into a feigned marriage, by heaven, I cannot help deteſting you, and every one of the infernal agents, who were any way concerned in it.

O Frampton! my heart tells me that I deſerve your deteſtation—Why, why were you not with me, to ſave me from the ſad effects, of my wild, youthful paſſions!—The wretches, who were near me, but inflam'd them.

The attachments, of mean perſons, are always founded in ſelf-intereſt, my lord, nor was there ever yet a ſolid friendſhip form'd in vice.

Don't upbraid me with my miſeries, Frampton, but think what a ſituation is mine. Tho' I feel the errors of my conduct, and wou'd repair them, I am ſo much involved, in my own toils, that I find it impoſſible, to break them.—What wou'd I not give, even to poſtpone this fatal marriage?

Poſtpone it! aye, for ever!

Cou'd I do that, I might yet be hap⯑py, Frampton; but matters are gone, too far—every thing was ſettled, between my father, and lady Anne's guardians, before I came to town, and I am certain he never will be brought to relinquiſh the great advantage, of her immenſe fottune.

And can you, my lord, be brought to conſider thoſe advantages, as an equivalent, for your peace, and honour?

What wou'd you have me do?

Avow your ſituation, to lord Delville.

Were it a common folly, I had com⯑mitted, Frampton, I might hope for his forgiveneſs; but the infamy, which muſt deſervedly attend my conduct, in this affair, wou'd probably make him caſt me from his heart, and fortune, for ever.

You are certainly in very difficult circum⯑ſtances, my lord, nor can I diſcover any means of extricating you, from them.

The only miſerable hope, I have now left, is founded on the gentleneſs of Harriet's na⯑ture, which may enable me to prevail on her, to re⯑turn into the country, before ſhe hears of my in⯑tended marriage.

It is rather ſhameful, my lord, to erect a ſanctuary for our vices, upon the virtues of others.

I acknowledge it, Frampton; but were Harriet remov'd from the probability of hearing of this hateful marriage, my mind wou'd be more at [18] eaſe, and I might then poſſibly think of ſome ex⯑pedient, to break it off.

There is ſome merit, in that thought, my lord, and now let me know how I can ſerve you.

You ſhall hear—That villain Lang⯑wood, my father's ſteward, who perſuaded me into this ſham marriage, and perſonated the clergyman, on that occaſion, is now dying, and writes me word that he is diſtracted, with the horrors of his conſci⯑ence, and is determined to aſk the young lady's for⯑giveneſs—a letter from him, to the family, wou'd diſcover all.

That wou'd, indeed, be fatal; but how can I prevent it?

You muſt remain in this houſe, and take care that my ſervants prevent their receiving any letters, without bringing them firſt to you. I will order Willis to intercept them.

He is fit for the office; but this is a very odious affair, my lord. However, I have promis'd to aſſiſt you, and if I can prevail upon myſelf, I will go ſo far, as to prevent Langwood's haſtening the cataſtrophe, which I much fear will be a ſad one.

You know not how you torture me! But let me now indulge my fond impatience, and ſee my lovely Harriet.

You muſt not think of it; I wou'd adviſe you to retire, directly.

It is impoſſible I ſhou'd obey you! I long, yet dread, to ſee her, Frampton.

It will require a good deal of courage, my lord, to ſupport the interview; for I really think, that an injured, innocent woman, is a very formi⯑dable object.—But tho' you may be brave enough, for the encounter, I muſt prevent it, for the preſent, as I have but juſt now apologized for your abſence, [19] by telling her you were in Berkſhire, with your fa⯑ther; and the inconſiſtency of your immediate ap⯑pearance, might juſtly alarm her.—I wou'd, there⯑fore, have you withdraw, immediately, leſt any of the family ſhou'd ſee you.

You have a right to direct me, and at your deſire, I will defer my viſit, for a little time, but I can have no reſt, 'till I behold her.

I don't fancy your meeting will contribute much, to the quiet of your mind.

I do not hope it ſhou'd—But never yet was that mind ſo diſtreſſed, ſince it had firſt the power of thinking.

Peace and guilt ſeldom cohabit, my lord.

True, Frampton, true—and if young men, like myſelf, wou'd but calculate the pains and difficulties, which are the natural conſequences of vice, and how much they over-balance its tranſitory joys, they wou'd be ſhocked at a traffic, where cer⯑tain loſs muſt be the reward of their induſtry.

The being ſenſible of our errors, is the firſt ſtep to amendment; for no man ever ſets ſeri⯑ouſly about getting out of debt, 'till he is thoroughly apprized of the vaſt ſum he owes.—But, come, my lord, let us retire, immediately; I hear ſome of the family in motion—this way, quickly.

ACT II.

I Feel the force of Frampton's ſentiments, and tremble at the thoughts of ſeeing Harriet; and yet, I cannot deny myſelf this laſt indulgence. If my father were acquainted with my diſtreſs, perhaps—O no! I muſt not think of that.—Curſed ambition!—deteſted pride of family!—that makes us ſink the man, to aggrandize the peer.

The ladies will wait on your lordſhip, im⯑mediately.

I am glad the aunt comes with her—Her folly and impertinence will help to interrupt, what I moſt dread, my Harriet's tenderneſs, and ſenſibility. She comes—I feel her ſuperiority, and ſhrink to nothing.

My Harriet's firſt motion was, ſurely, natural, why then does ſhe reſtrain the feelings of her heart? Have I been ſo unfortunate, as to de⯑ſerve this coldneſs?

I hope, madam

you will be ſo good as to excuſe my abſence, at the time of your arrival, and that you have found every thing, in this houſe, agreeable, and convenient to you.

Ceremony, my lord, is quite unne⯑ceſſary, among perſons of rank and breeding; eſpe⯑cially, where they have the honour of being ſo cloſe⯑ly allied to your lordſhip. And I have great reaſon to believe, that every thing in your houſe, is like your lordſhip, perfectly compleat.

You are very polite, madam; and if my Harriet knew what I had ſuffered—

—I might, then have been more concerned, than I am at preſent, and that, my lord, is needleſs.

I hop'd we ſhou'd have had an end of your ſighs, and your tears, when you ſaw lord Eu⯑ſtace—I declare, child, you are a perfect Niobe!—One wou'd imagine that you were the moſt unhappy creature, in the world.

You alarm me, extremely, madam—Speak, my love, and tell me what affects you?

Your lordſhip may remember with what great reluctance, I conſented to a private marriage.

My Harriet's ſcruples coſt me too many ſighs, ever to forget them.

Yet your too powerful perſuaſions conquer'd them; and while you remain'd in Wales, your pre⯑ſence ſilenc'd my reflections, nor ſuffered even a painful thought to intrude into that heart, which was ingroſs'd by you. What a delirium!

May it laſt, for ever!

It fled, with you, my lord—Left to myſelf, the offence I had committed, againſt an abſent father—the clandeſtine air, which accompanied the awful ceremony—

Pray, niece, cou'd that be avoided?

—The painful neceſſity of your abſence—

Let me, I intreat you, flatter myſelf, that my preſence, now, may be ſufficient to remove the anxiety my abſence cauſed—What wou'd I not do, to make my Harriet happy! Command me; taſk my power.—

I would intreat, but not command, my lord.

Then name the ſoft requeſt, and think it granted.

Since you permit, I wiſh you to employ that dear purſuaſive art, which you poſſeſs, ſo amply, to reconcile my father to our marriage.

My deareſt Harriet—

You, madam, ſure will join us, and aſſiſt in bringing about an event, which cannot longer be deferr'd, without injury to your honour, and my peace.

I am his lordſhip's guarantee, that this treaty ſhall be kept ſecret, Harriet; and I ſhall pre⯑ſerve my promiſe, as inviolably, as if the peace of Europe, were concern'd. And to avoid the leaſt infringement of the articlcs, I will prevent Sir Wil⯑liam's ſurprizing you, in this ſtate of altercation, and give you notice, of the enemy's approach.

If ever I was dear to you, my lord, this is the time to prove it: remove the veil of myſtery, which I bluſh to wear, and give that love, which is my higheſt boaſt, a ſanction to the world.

Never was man ſo embarraſs'd.—

I will obey my Harriet, tho' in oppoſition to my own judgment, which had determined me not to reveal the important ſecret, to Sir William, till our return into the country; leſt the warmth of his re⯑ſentment, for what he will ſtile an act of diſobedience, might tempt him to diſcover our marriage, to my father.

Muſt it be ever kept a ſecret, then? And muſt we always live thus ſeparated?

By no means—I can make a pretence to my father, of joining my regiment, and then can I retrace thoſe paths, that brought me firſt to Lan⯑gwillan; and the moment I arrive there, Sir Wil⯑liam ſhall be made acquainted, with my happineſs.

Do you mean to come there, ſoon, my lord?

I ſhou'd have been there, in a few days, if you had not come to town.

Why did you not tell me ſo? the leaſt hint of your deſign, would have prevented my coming to London.

Does my Harriet think I would delay my own happineſs, by deferring an interview, I ſo ardently deſired, even for an hour?

You can perſuade me, to any thing. I ac⯑quieſce, in your determination.—There is but one thing more, diſturbs my mind; but that's a trifle.

It cannot be ſo, in my eſtimation, if it affects you—Let me know it.

Where there is much ſenſibility, the heart is eaſily alarmed—It has appeared extraordinary to me, that your lordſhip, in any of your letters to me, has never honour'd me, with the title, of your wife.

And can my Harriet blame me, for ſuch a caution, meant to ſecure her happineſs? If my fortunes only, were at ſtake, I ſhou'd now boaſt, what I ſo much endeavour to conceal, nor fear the conſequence of lord Delville's reſentment. The miſcarriage, or interception, of a letter, ſign'd your huſband, wou'd precipitate the diſcovery of our marriage, and ruin me with my father.—

I wou'd not have you ſuffer, for my ſake.

It is only thro' you, that I can ſuffer—Had my fortune been independent, I ſhou'd, at once, have aſked you of Sir William.—Nay, ſitu⯑ated as I am, I can forego all the advantages of wealth, without regret, and, bleſt with you, only lament its loſs, for your dear ſake.—You weep, my Harriet! Let me kiſs off thoſe tears.

No, let them flow, my lord—Joy has its tears, as well as grief, and theſe are tears of joy.

My lovely ſoftneſs!—How ſeverely ſhe diſtreſſes me!

I will not truſt this ſimple heart, again, and bluſh to think it was ſo eaſily alarmed.

Softly, ſoftly, here comes my bro⯑ther—have done with your love-prate—What, always a pouting, Harriet?

Give the coachman half a crown—and, do you hear, Robert, let there be ſprings put to our coach—every one has them, now—Luxury! luxury! Every alderman and apothecary ſkims [25] over this new-fangled pavement, without ſo much as a jolt.—One of theſe city ſparks wou'd be ſhook to death, if he were to ride my Bay Bolton, a fox chace.

My brother is always his own herald, and proclaims himſelf, by the noiſe he makes—How deteſtably vulgar! how unlike a man of faſhion!—Here is lord Euſtace come to wait upon you, Sir William.

I am glad to ſee your lordſhip, you have been a good while abſent, from quarters—But you young men of quality, can have leave of ab⯑ſence, when you pleaſe, I ſuppoſe; and all you have to do, is to appear handſomely on a field day, or at a review. It was not ſo, in my time—But diſcipline, of every kind, is relaxed, now-a-days.

I have been a truant, Sir William, but I mean to make up for loſt time, and return, im⯑mediately, to my regiment; and then, look to your partridge.

You ſhall be welcome to my manor, my lord.—How does my Harriet? I think you look pale. Don't you think her alter'd, my lord?

Rather improv'd, Sir.

She uſed to be remarkably lively; but as girls grow up, they affect gravity, in order to appear women before their time.—Her brother and ſhe, are all I have left; and when Harriet is married—

Lord, Sir William, are you entering into family-matters!

Well, well, we won't talk of that, now; but ſince we are upon the ſubject, I think I ought to congratulate your lordſhip.

It muſt be, then, Sir William, upon [26] the happineſs, I, at preſent, enjoy, in the company of theſe ladies.

What does my father mean?

No, no, my lord, I meant to give you joy, of your approaching marriage.—

Surely, my ears deceive me!

You jeſt, Sir William!

By no means, I aſſure you—I have it, from undoubted authority.

Ridiculous!

I tell you, ſiſter, that it is in one of to⯑day's papers—I know what I read, ſure.—

Did it mention how things go, in the Mediterranean? that is an article, which concerns us more—We ſhall not have a port left us, there, ſoon.—

I ſpeak only of domeſtic news, and mind no other—The paragraph, I ſaw, ran thus—‘We hear there is certainly a treaty of marriage, on foot, between lord Euſtace, and lady Anne Mountfort, which will be concluded, in a few days’—and then, a great deal more, my lord, about both your accompliſhments, which I have forgot.

I never knew any thing come of a We hear, yet.—But I wiſh you had brought home the paper.

Ha! ha! ha!—And is that your undoubted authority, Sir William? Why, at this ſeaſon of the year, when occurrences are rare, the news writers couple half the nobility, in England, to fill up their papers—But, as there are no other papers fill'd up, by the parties themſelves—your marriages, in print, are not allow'd good, in law.

How can you be ſo eaſily, diſcon⯑certed, child?

I think it highly inſolent in them, my lord, to take theſe liberties, without authority, as ſuch reports may ſometimes happen to be prejudicial, to one party, or the other.

The freedom of the preſs, Sir William, tho' ſometimes injurious to individuals, muſt never be reſtrain'd, in this land of liberty. 'Tis the very Magna Charta of freedom.

So it is, my lord.

However, there have been ſome ſlight grounds, for the report you mention.

So I ſhould imagine.

Lady Anne's large fortune was rather a deſirable object, to my father—he did, therefore, propoſe my paying my addreſſes to her; but, upon my declaring, that love ſhould be my firſt motive, in an engagement of that nature; and that my heart had never given me the leaſt hint of her lady⯑ſhip, he had the goodneſs to ſacrifice his project, to my happineſs. The affair had been whiſper'd, in our family, and even whiſpers have echoes, Sir William.

Your lordſhip has taken more pains than was neceſſary, to explain this matter to us. For, tho' you ſhou'd not marry lady Anne, it is to be ſuppos'd that you'll ſoon marry a lady Betty, or a lady Mary, Somebody.—Such an accompliſh'd young nobleman will not be ſuffer'd to remain long ſingle.—

Lord, Sir William, how can you talk, ſo oddly? There are many inſtances, of perſons who have lived ſingle, in ſpite of temptation, and ſoli⯑citation, too; and that, to your certain knowledge, I believe.

You'll pardon me, ſiſter; I am really [28] not acquainted with any of theſe coy, theſe ſenſitive plants.

You ſeem inclin'd to be witty, bro⯑ther, and, therefore, I ſhall retire.

I ſhould oppoſe the ſeverity of that reſolution, madam, but that an engagement of buſineſs, calls me away, at this moment. May I hope for your permiſſion to wait upon you, fre⯑quently, while you ſtay in town?

Your lordſhip's viſits muſt always be conſider'd, by us, both as an honour, and an obli⯑gation.

My ſweet Harriet!—Ladies, your ſer⯑vant.—I hope we ſhall often meet, Sir William.

Nay, no ceremony.

Your lordſhip muſt excuſe me.

With what nice delicacy, and honour, has my nephew explain'd away this idle report! But I am amazed, how you could be affected with it, child.

Chide me, as you pleaſe, I own I deſerve it, for doubting the moſt amiable of men. Yet when my father hinted the ſubject, I ſhould have fainted, if the tenderneſs of my lord's looks, even more than his words, had not convinc'd me of his love and truth. Our fears are proportion'd to our treaſure; you cannot, therefore, condemn my ap⯑prehenſions, without leſſening his worth.

That I ſhall never do. Perſons, of a certain rank in life, are always worthy.—But come, child, I am in a monſtrous dilemma, at preſent.

What's the matter?

I want your aſſiſtance, to calculate the diſtance, from Perſia to America; for I have great [29] apprehenſions that the Sophy may join the Czarina, ſail down the Baltic, together, and ſtrip us of all our ſettlements.—

Dear madam, how can you trouble yourſelf, with things ſo foreign, either to your knowledge, or intereſts?

I beg your pardon. Why, niece, now that you are married to my ſatisfaction, I know nothing in the domeſtic way, worth being concern'd for; and one's affections, you know, child, cannot lie idle—therefore, I beg you will go, immediately, and ſearch for Salmon's Geography, which, I be⯑lieve, you will find in my trunk, along with Col⯑lins's Peerage, which are books, I never travel without; and which no perſon can pretend to keep company, without being thoroughly converſant in.

Prithee, Robert, was that man in the hall, my lord's valet de chambre? Of what uſe can he be to his maſter, here?

Of a great deal, I fancy, Sir. There are numbers of people come here, after his lord. A fine lady, juſt now, wanted to gain admittance, but Mr. Willis had dacity enough to make her diſbe⯑lieve her own ſenſes, and perſuaded her that his maſter was down at Briſtol, tho' ſhe ſaid her eyes ſaw him come into the houſe. O theſe Londoners are cunning folk!

You told me of another perſon, that lives here, a gentleman, I think—

Yes, poor fellow, I believe he may be an honeſt man, becauſe Willis don't ſeem much to like [30] him.—But 'tis hard to ſay, which is good, or bad, amongſt them.

There is ſomething very myſte⯑rious, in all this—I deſire, Robert, that you will have as little communication, as poſſible, with his lordſhip's ſervants, and that you will prevent the reſt of my family, from having any, alſo.

Your honour need not fear.—They are not kindly to any of us.

I am glad of it.—Civility is the moſt dangerous maſk of art.

[My ſiſter's folly in forcing us into this houſe, can only be equall'd by my own, in ſubmitting to come to it. But I will get out of it, as faſt as I can.] I hope, Robert, to finiſh my buſineſs, in a few days, and I ſhall not remain in London, an hour after.

Your honour makes my heart glad.

Do you know where Harriet is, Ro⯑bert? I left her here, juſt now.

I ſaw her go up ſtairs, with madam Wini⯑fred, as we came hither, Sir. I think, with ſub⯑miſſion, our young lady likes London, as little as either your worſhip, or myſelf; ſhe mopes mightily, to be in the country, again.

She ſhan't mope long, for that, Robert, nor when ſhe is there, neither; for I intend to ſettle her ſoon, both to her happineſs, and my own, by marrying her to colonel Loyd, immediately. And when the wedding is over, and I am once more ſat down ſafe, at Langwillan, I ſhall think all my troubles are at an end.—I'll go to Harriet, directly, and talk the matter over with her.

And I'll go, and write the good news, to my friends in Wales.

To barricade the doors, and deny admit⯑ance to their friends!

Theſe were his lordſhip's orders, Sir.—Wil⯑lis, ſays he, with an arch look, which I underſtand, pretty tolerably, you muſt be my Cerberus, and not ſuffer the devil, himſelf, to get thro' the key-hole, for a few days. But as ſoon as I am married, and gone off to the country, your care will be needleſs.—Yes, ſays I, to his lordſhip, I will then make my eſcape out of the gulph, leave the doors open for all the devils to enter, and purſue your lordſhip to the Elyſian fields.

You are very poetical Mr. Willis.—But I fancy his lordſhip is rather over cautious, and that you will have no great employment, for your ex⯑traordinary talents; for I don't think the family have any acquaintance, in London.

More is the pity, for the girl is deviliſh handſome, It wou'd be a good deed to bring her a little into life.—I ſhou'd like to have the intro⯑ducing her.

Stop your licentious tongue!—I have al⯑ready told you, that this is no common affair.—She is a young lady of unblemiſhed character.

This the old ſtory, Mr. Frampton; I never knew a woman, in my life, who had not an unble⯑miſhed character—till ſhe loſt it.—This fellow is turn'd puritan; he'll preach, preſently—But I hope his canting will not be able to corrupt my lord.—This would be no place for me, then. I fancy he likes the girl, himſelf.

Believe me, Willis, lord Euſtace will find it a very difficult matter, to get clear of this unhappy adventure.—Sir William is a man of ſenſe, and ſpirit, and the young lady has, beſides, a brother, in the army, who is eſteemed a brave young man.

As to Don Pedro, the father, I think my lord had better get commodore Loyd, to take a ſhort walk with him, upon the quarter-deck; and, as to the young Spaniard, his lordſhip can't well refuſe to take a bout of tilting with him, if he ſhould inſiſt upon it—But I have been pretty well uſed to things of this ſort, as you know, Mr. Framp⯑ton, and I never yet knew a wounded reputation cured, by a ſword, or piſtol—Perhaps they may think as I do, and ſo let the matter reſt in peace.

I ſhou'd imagine their ſentiments to be very different, from yours, upon this occaſion.—But, pray, who is this captain Loyd, that you talk of, for Sir William's antagoniſt?

There I was out, a little—I forgot his be⯑ing a Welchman, and a particular friend of the Ap Evans's.

But how came he connected with lord Euſtace?

They were acquainted, before the captain went to ſea, and a jolly buck he was. But he has now loſt his ſhip; and to ſolicit another, he is as conſtant, at lord Delville's levee, as an old maid at her pariſh church.—The ſimile holds farther too, for his head is caſt in ſo peculiar a mould, that he be⯑lieves every thing he hears, and repeats it as matter of fact.

What an infinite deal of falſhood, muſt this honeſt man utter, in the courſe of a ſummer's day!

I will ſave his poor conſcience, for this one day, at leaſt, by keeping him out of our fortreſs.

It will be more neceſſary for your pur⯑poſe, to prevent telling his truths, at preſent, I ima⯑gine.

Your honour knows it is not to be ſpoken, at all times. He has told a thouſand, for my maſ⯑ter, himſelf.

I muſt fly to my poſt, Sir.

A fit one, for ſuch an office! It is ſuch wretches, as theſe, that corrupt us all; that clear the thorny paths of vice, and ſtrew them o'er with roſes.—Theſe agents for perdition, can remove mountains that obſtruct our paſſage, till we are ſunk in the abyſs of guilt, and then their weight falls on us! I would willingly perſuade myſelf, that lord Euſ⯑tace is not ſo far gone, in baſeneſs, as to conclude his marriage with lady Anne, and deſert this amiable unfortunate. Yet can I not, at preſent, foreſee, how it may be poſſible for him, to avoid it. There is ſome time, however, to think about it. I'll ſeek him out, directly, and try how his heart beats, after his interview with Harriet.

I am ſorry to find you ſo cold, upon this ſubject, Harriet. But I flatter myſelf when you come to know the colonel, you will have no objec⯑tions to him. Believe me, my child, he is the only man I know, deſerving of an heart like yours, un⯑tainted with the follies, or vices, of the world, and unſullied with the image, of any other man.

This is too much; I cannot bear it.

—Sir.

Captain Loyd is come to wait upon your honour.

Deſire him to walk in.—And do ye hear, Robert?

To be obliged to compound with my duty! Aſhamed to look my father in the face! To bluſh at his confidence, and be humbled by his kindneſs! To feel the irkſomeneſs of receiving praiſe, which I am conſcious I do not merit! What a ſtate, for an ingenuous mind!

O heavens, that monſter here!—But 'tis impoſſible now to eſcape.

Good morrow, my good friend. Fair ladies, your ſervant.

I am extremely glad to ſee you, captain.

Why, ſo I thought you wou'd be, baronet, or I ſhould not have been here; and yet it has not been without ſome difficulty, that we are met. I fancied, juſt now, that I ſhould have been obliged to tack about, without ſeeing you.

I don't underſtand you, captain.

Why, to ſay truth, Sir William, I don't rightly comprehend it, myſelf; but one of your lazy hall furniture—the moſt obſtinate puppy! I have ſeen him, before, tho' I can't now recollect where, took it into his head, to deny me admittance; and if old Robert had not come to the door, and clear'd deck of this fellow, I ſhou'd have ſheer'd off, directly.

What can this mean! Was it your or⯑ders, ſiſter, that we ſhou'd be denied?

As our arrival in town, has not yet been annonced, to any one, I did not expect viſi⯑tors, ſo ſoon; and, therefore, gave no orders, about the matter—Tho' I wiſh to keep him, and all his family, out of the houſe.

There is ſomething very extrordinary, in this proceeding.

Since the wind ſits ſo, I am glad I came aboard you; I ſhou'd not chooſe to run foul of a lady's orders, eſpecially any that belong to you.

You ſeem to have forgot theſe ladies, captain; this is my ſiſter, and this will, ſoon, be your niece, I hope.

They are both much altered, ſince I ſaw them; for one is grown a young woman, and the other an old one.

You are not grown a brute, for you always was one.

Have a care, captain, you are very near ſplitting on a rock.

Not at all—Time brings every veſſel into port, at laſt, that does not founder—But, faith, my nephew has had an excellent look out; I could al⯑moſt envy him ſuch a ſtation. A fine full ſail, truly!—Well, proſperous gales attend their voyage!—But where is Harry? I expected to have ſeen him, here.

Whom do you ſpeak of, captain?

Why, of your ſon, the young colonel.—I met him, yeſterday, in the Park, not in his regi⯑mentals, tho'; for he told me he was a little incog, at preſent, and had even changed his name, for fear, of being known. I think it was Weſton, he called himſelf, as he had quitted quarters, without leave of abſence, and at the hazard of loſing his commiſſion.

And he deſerves it—What can have brought him, here?

I rejoice at the thoughts of ſeeing him; does he look well, good captain?

Do you know where my nephew lodges, Sir?

I ſhou'd have as many tongues, as there are ſwivels on the quarter-deck, to anſwer ſuch a broadſide of queſtions; but one, at a time, I beſeech you.—As to you, madam, I anſwer no; and to you, fair lady, yes; and as to you, Sir William, I think one need not have doubled the Cape, to be able to find out his errand, hither. A fair woman, and a fair wind, certainly brought him from Ireland.

Raſh, inconſiderate, boy!

That may not be quite the caſe, neither, Sir William. But I ſhou'd not have mentioned this matter to you, if I had not thought it had been all above-board, between him and you, for Harry was never kept under hatches, I know.—But, never fear, man, keep a ſtout heart, and I warrant you he ſhall weather it; he ſhall not loſe his commiſſion.

I fancy, Sir, it may require the in⯑tereſt, of a perſon of rather more conſequence, than you, to preſerve it. But there are ſuch, who are ready to intereſt themſelves, for any one who belongs to my family; the Ap Evans's are neither unknown, nor unallied, to the nobility.

As to that, madam, I ſhou'd think the Loyds—

For ſhame! for ſhame!—Can you, who are a man, be infected with this folly?

Why 'tis not right, or becoming a man of war, to attack a frigate, to be ſure.—But the Loyds, Sir, William—

Piſha!

Pray, brother, let the gentleman value himſelf upon what he pleaſes; but 'tis rather un⯑lucky, that a perſon of his weight and importance, [37] ſhou'd not be able to inform us where my nephew lodges, as that is the only thing, in which the captain could be, any way, ſerviceable to us.

Not ſo faſt, Miſs Winifred, if you pleaſe; there are many people in this town, who are apt to make offer of their ſervices, without either will, or power, to be of the leaſt uſe to us. Now, if you will tell me, madam, who thoſe people are, that you reckon upon, I ſhall be better able to judge of your intereſt with the great.

What do you think of lord Euſtace? Did you ever hear of him, captain?

I ſuppoſe I may; why he is one of my moſt intimate friends, madam, and I will ſpeak to him about the buſineſs, directly.

Pray now, good captain, ſpare your⯑ſelf that trouble, for he is one of my moſt intimate friends, alſo. It is he who has been ſo obliging to lend us this houſe, while we ſtay in London.

I do remember this place, now, as well as my own cabbin—But the impertinence of that foot⯑man, whom I now recollect to be his, put it out of my head.—Yes, my lord, and I have had ſome jovial parties, here.

What, in this identical houſe?

Why, aye—This uſed to be the place of rendezvous—But thoſe days muſt be all over with him, now that he is going to be married.

How! married!

Yes—The ceremony is to be performed, immediately; he'll ſoon be in the bilboes.—But you ſeem ſurpriz'd.—'Tis odd enough, truly, that he has not mentioned it to you, Miſs Winifred, in particular, who are one of his moſt intimate friends.—When did you ſee him, pray?

What! again alarmed, at the ſame ſtory?

He was here, this morning; and I knew it was ſo then, tho' my ſiſter choſe not to believe it.

Nor do I, now.—But pray, Mr. intel⯑ligencer extraordinary, to whom is lord Euſtace to be married?

Why, really, madam, it is no extraor⯑dinary intelligence, that he is to marry lady Anne Mounfort, for it is juſt as public, as the arrival of a king's ſhip in the Downs, or an Indiaman at Blackwall.—The news-papers tell theſe things, and every one in London, knows them.

Gracious heaven! Where ſhall I hide my head?

We have heard this choice account, before, Sir; but tho' I have as implicit a faith, in the veracity of the public prints, as any perſon can have, I wou'd, however, take my life on't, that this is a falſhood.

You are not ſerious, madam? But if you chuſe to deny the fact, I have nothing further to ſay, about it.

It is very odd, that lord Euſtace ſhou'd diſown it to me, and yet, 'tis certain, that he did ſo.

That may be poſſible; but I, who am, every day, at his father's, and have ſeen the liveries, equipage, and jewels, brought home, for the wed⯑ding, cannot eaſily be perſuaded, that all this rigging ſhou'd be prepared, before there is a bottom on ſtocks, for it.

'Tis too true! Undone, unhappy Harriet!

What think you now, ſiſter?

That the captain has dreamed all he has ſaid, or may be, perhaps, infected with a calenture; for I think I have very good reaſon to know, that lord Euſtace is otherways engaged.

Aye, aye, engag'd, to be ſure; ſay, rather, that he has taken another frigate, in tow, to add to his ſquadron; I know the man, pretty well. I now recollect my having heard, ſome time ago, that he had ſome attachment, to a pretty country girl. He was a long time abſent, from London.

A country girl, truly!

Some poor ſimple creature, I ſuppoſe, who had youth and beauty, enough, to attract his inclinations, but neither ſenſe, or virtue, ſufficient, to preſerve herſelf, or them.

This is, probably, the real truth of the matter.

Though I lament the unhappy victims of their own folly, I cannot ſay that I am ſorry ſuch adventures happen, ſometimes, as theſe examples may, poſſibly, have their effect, in abating the pre⯑ſumption of young women, who are, often, too apt to fancy themſelves much wiſer, than their fathers and mothers.

I can no longer ſuſtain the agonies I ſuffer!

My Harriet! my dear child! what's the matter?

I am, ſuddenly, taken ill; I hope you'll excuſe me, Sir.

Was there ever any thing, ſo abſurd? Let us retire, my dear, and leave theſe wonder⯑making gentlemen to compoſe ſome other mar⯑velous anecdotes.

I am extremely alarmed.

—You'll be ſo good as to excuſe my ſtaying longer with you, captain, at preſent. Harriet's illneſs diſtreſſes me, extremely.

Doubtleſs, Sir William.—I will now go and give chace to the colonel, and if I can hail him, ſhall pilot him, hither.

I ſhall be much obliged to you.

But you muſt not play old ſquare-toes, upon us, baronet. Remember you were once as young, and I'll warrant as frolickſome, too, as any of us. Your ſervant, your ſervant, Sir William.

There is ſomething, very ſingular, in this affair of lord Euſtace.—My ſiſter's abſurdity, in denying the fact, I can account for, from the peculiar obſtinacy of her character. But why ſhould Harriet be affected with it? Her aunt's folly may have operated there, alſo; perhaps perſuaded her, that his lordſhip's common addreſs of galantry and politeneſs, was a profeſs'd declaration of paſſion for her. But this marriage will ſoon put an end to ſuch illuſion, and reſtore my child to her ſenſe, and duty, again. I will, therefore, go now, and ſooth, not wound her mind, with my ſurmiſes.—The ſoibles of youth, ſhould be rather counteracted, than oppoſed, leſt, in endeavouring to weed them out, we may deſtroy a kindred virtue.

ACT III.

IT was unlucky I could not meet with lord Euſtace. I perceive I am more anxious, about this affair, than he appears to be. Youth and diſſipation buoy him up, againſt thoſe conſequences, which I cannot help foreſeeing.

Here they are, Sir; and if you knew what pains and addreſs, it coſt me, to get them into my hands, you would ſay, Willis, you deſerve to be rewarded.

With a halter.

I was forced to ſwear to the fellow who brought them, that I was Sir William's own ſervant; and as the devil wou'd have it, he was a Mon⯑mouthſhire lad, waiter at Serles's Coffee-houſe, and had come, on purpoſe, to aſk a thouſand imperti⯑nent queſtions, about Gillian, and John, James, and Mary Lewellins, Ap Griffiths, Ap Owens, and the lord knows who. Then my terrors, about Robert ſurprizing us; but, luckily, he was out of the way, ſo I carried the lad to a beer-houſe, killed one half of his kindred, and married the other, without knowing one of the parties.

What an ingenious raſcal!

—You have acquitted yourſelf of your commiſſion, very well.—Leave the letters.

I hope, Sir, your honour will be ſo kind, to let my lord know the pains, I have taken, for his ſervice, ſince you don't chu [...]e to take any notice of it, yourſelf.—Induſtry ſhould be rewarded, Mr. Frampton.—You uſed to be generous, Sir; but—

How the fellow wounds me!

—Your ſervices will be repaid; you have no cauſe to doubt of your lord's generoſity.

No, really, Sir—If you don't prevent it.

—I fancy, now, I could gueſs, pretty nearly, to the contents of theſe epiſtles. I wiſh I could keep them in my poſſeſſion, 'till I gave them to my lord, and then I ſhould be ſure of being paid the poſtage.

—Let's ſee—To Sir William Evans, baronet; the poſt-mark, Monmouth; this, probably, comes from his ſteward, and may, poſſibly, contain an account of a ſtrayed ſheep, or a cur hanged.—This, to the ſame, from Ireland; from his ſon, I preſume, the young hero you talked of, about fighting my maſter—but I think we are pretty ſafe, while he's at that diſtance.

I hope he may remain there, 'till this un⯑happy buſineſs is over.

To Mrs. Winifred Evans; poſt-mark Here⯑ford; 'tis Langwood's hand—this muſt be the letter of letters.—Am I right, Sir?

Prithee, leave them, and your imperti⯑nence—You have no right to pry into their ſecrets.

I aſk pardon, Sir; I have been truſted with a great many ſecrets, before now, and I believe your honour knows I never betrayed them.—And, though I am not a gentleman, Sir, I believe my lord will give me the character of being faithful to him; he never had any cauſe to repent his confi⯑dence, in me—Whatever he may—

Leave the room, this moment, leſt I ſhould be tempted to forget myſelf, and chaſtiſe your inſolence, as it deſerves.

I wiſh I had the letters again, and the devil ſhould have them, before that ſneaking puppy. (Aſide.)

What a mean light, do I appear in, at this moment, to myſelf! Involved in an infamous con⯑fidence, with an inſolent footman!—Let me keep clear of the looking-glaſs, that I may not be ſhocked at my own features.—And can I perſiſt, in an action, that the leaſt remains of honour or con⯑ſcience, muſt revolt againſt? No, let beggary, rather than infamy, be my portion.—My indiſcretions have deſerved the firſt, but let not the baſeneſs of my conduct, ever ſet a ſeal to the laſt.—I will go and deliver them, inſtantly, to Sir William.

Well, my dear Frampton, have you ſecur'd the letters?

Yes, my lord, for their rightful owners.

As to the matter of property, Framp⯑ton, we wo'nt diſpute much about that.—Neceſſity, you know, may, ſometimes, render a treſpaſs excuſable.

I am not caſuiſt ſufficient to anſwer you, upon that ſubject; but this I know, that you have already treſpaſſed, againſt the laws of hoſpitality, and honour, in your conduct towards Sir William Evans, and his daughter.—And as your friend, and counſellor, both, I would adviſe you to think ſeriouſly, of repairing the injuries you have com⯑mitted, and not increaſe your offence, by a farther violation.

'Tis actually a pity you were not bred to the bar, Ned: but I have only a moment to ſtay, and am all impatience to know, if there be a letter from Langwood, and what he ſays.

I ſhall never be able to afford you the leaſt information, upon that ſubject, my lord.

Surely, I don't underſtand you.—You ſaid you had ſecur'd the letters—Have you not read them?

You have a right, and none but you, to aſk me ſuch a queſtion.—My weak compliance, with your firſt propoſal, relative to theſe letters, warrants your thinking, ſo meanly, of me.—But know, my lord, that though my perſonal affection for you, join'd to my unhappy circumſtances, may have betray'd me to actions, unworthy of myſelf, I never can forget, that there is a barrier, fixed before the extreme of baſeneſs, which honour will not let me paſs.

You'll give me leave to tell you, Mr. Frampton, that where I lead, I think you need not halt.

You'll pardon me, my lord; the con⯑ſciouſneſs, of another man's errors, can never be a juſtification, for our own—and poor, indeed, muſt that wretch be, who can be ſatisfied, with the negative merit, of not being the worſt man he knows.

If this diſcourſe were uttered in a con⯑venticle, it might have its effect; by ſetting the congregation to ſleep.

It is rather meant to rouze, than lull your lordſhip.

No matter what it is meant for; give me the letters, Mr. Frampton.

Yet, excuſe me—By heaven, I could as ſoon think of arming a madman's hand, againſt [45] my own life, as ſuffer you to be guilty of a crime, that will, for ever, wound your honour.

I ſhall not come to you, to heal the wound: your medicines are too rough and coarſe, for me.

The ſoft poiſon of flattery, might, per⯑haps, pleaſe you better.

Your conſcience may, probably, have as much need of palliatives, as mine, Mr. Framp⯑ton, as I am pretty well convinced, that your courſe of life, has not been more regular, than my own.

With true contrition, my lord, I confeſs part of your ſarcaſm, to be juſt.—Pleaſure was the object of my purſuit, and pleaſure I obtained, at the expence, both of health, and fortune—but, yet, my lord, I broke not in upon the peace of others; the laws of hoſpitality, I never violated; nor did I ever ſeek to injure, or ſeduce, the wife, or daughter, of my friend.

I care not what you did; give me the letters.

I have no right to keep, and therefore ſhall ſurrender, them, tho' with the utmoſt re⯑luctance; but, by our former friendſhip, I intreat you not to open them.

That you have forfeited.

Since it is not in my power to prevent your committing an error, which you ought, for ever, to repent of, I will not be a witneſs of it—There are the letters.

You may, perhaps, have cauſe to repent your preſent conduct, Mr. Frampton, as much as I do our paſt attachment.

Rather than hold your friendſhip, upon ſuch terms, I reſign it, for ever.—Farewel, my lord.

I am glad they have quarrelled, I ſhall have my lord all to myſelf, now.

I have been to blame—but yet 'twas cruel in him, to diſtreſs me, when he knows the difficulties of my ſituation—he has ſhocked me, ſo extremely, I find it impoſſible to touch the letters.

Then we are all ruined, and I ſhall never be paid for the carriage.

Yet if Langwood's letter ſhould fall into their hands, I muſt be undone.

In order to ſtrengthen his lordſhip's con⯑ſcience, I'll make my appearance.

I hope Mr. Frampton has given your lord⯑ſhip the letters, I took ſo much pains to get for you—there is one from Langwood, to Mrs. Winifred—

—The devil! he here again! there is no doing any buſineſs, with theſe half gentlemen.

My lord!

Mr. Frampton!—Leave us. Willis.

So, I have loſt my labour.

Ill treated as I have been, my lord, I find it impoſſible to leave you ſurrounded by difficulties.

That ſentiment ſhould have operated, ſooner, Mr. Frampton—recollection is ſeldom of uſe, to our friends, tho' it may, ſometimes, be ſer⯑viceable, to ourſelves.

Take advantage of your own expreſſion, my lord, and recollect yourſelf—Born and educated as I have been, a gentleman, how have you injur'd, [47] both yourſelf and me, by admitting, and uniting, in the ſame confidence, your raſcal ſervant?

The exigency of my ſituation, is a ſuf⯑ficient excuſe, to myſelf, and ought to have been ſo, to the man, who called himſelf my friend.

Have a care, my lord, of uttering the leaſt doubt, upon that ſubject; for cou'd I think you once mean enough, to ſuſpect the ſincerity of my attachment to you, it muſt vaniſh, at that inſtant.

The proofs of your regard, have been rather painful, of late, Mr. Frampton.

When I ſee my friend, upon the verge of a precipice, is that a time for compliment? Shall I not rudely ruſh forward, and drag him from it? Juſt in that ſtate, you, are at preſent, and I will ſtrive to ſave you.—Virtue may languiſh, in a noble heart, and ſuffer her rival, vice, to uſurp her power; but baſeneſs muſt not enter, or ſhe flies, for ever—The man, who has forfeited his own eſteem, thinks all the world has the ſame conſciouſneſs, and, therefore, is, what he deſerves to be, a wretch.

Oh, Frampton! you have lodged a dagger, in my heart.

No, my dear Euſtace, I have ſaved you from one, from your own reproaches, by preventing your being guilty of a meanneſs, which you cou'd never have forgiven yourſelf.

Can you forgive me, and be ſtill my friend?

As firmly as I have ever been, my lord.

You are, indeed, my beſt, my trueſt friend

But yet, I fear you will deſpiſe me, Frampton—You never lov'd, to that exceſs, that I do, and, therefore, cannot pardon the madneſs of that paſſion, which wou'd deſtroy its deareſt object.

We muſt not judge of the ſtrength of our paſſions, by the miſeries they bring on others, but, [48] rather, by the means we uſe, to ſave them from diſtreſs—But let us, at preſent, haſten to get rid of the mean buſineſs, we are engaged in, and forward the letters we have no right to detain.

Here, take them; do what you will with them: I will be guided by you—Yet this affair, of Langwood's letter—

Will make dreadful confuſion, my lord—Let me think, a little—I have it—Suppoſe we delay the delivery of it, for a few days; ſomething may happen, in that time, that may ſave the unhappy Harriet the pain of ſuch a diſcovery.

Tho' I have little hopes, on that ac⯑count, yet wou'd I not precipitate her wretchedneſs; it was to ſave her from it, Frampton, that firſt in⯑duced me—

Talk nomore of it, my lord—Mr. Willis—

So, they are friends, again, I ſee.

—Did your honour call, Mr. Frampton?

Take theſe letters, and give them to Sir William's ſervant, to be delivered, immediately.

What, all of them, my lord?

No, this one muſt be kept back. Look it up, carefully, 'till I call for it.

Come, my dear Frampton, I have a thouſand obligations to you, and a thouſand things to ſpeak to you, about.

My dear Frampton!—There's a fellow for you, that, without half a crown in his pocket, talks as much ſtuff, about honour, and ſuch nonſenſe, as if he were a duke—They have not broke the ſeal, I find; that's Frampton's fault: if he had not re⯑turn'd, the inſtant he did, I wou'd have ſatisfied my lord's curioſity, and my own—Well, cannot I do ſo, now? A good ſervant ſhou'd prevent his maſter's [49] wiſhes—My lord, I am ſure, would be glad to know the contents; egad, and ſo ſhould I, too—but how ſhall I come at 'em?—This curſed ſeal

Zounds! what have I done?—what an accident! why, the letter's open?—why, if it is, one may read it, without offence—So, by your leave, good Mrs. Winifred—

‘Madam, as I am ſenſible the dreadful moment now approaches, when I muſt render an account of all my actions’—A ſteward's account will be tolerably long, I ſup⯑poſe.

‘I wiſh, even by this late confeſſion, to atone for the crime I have been guilty of, in aiding lord Euſtace to impoſe upon your niece, by a feigned marriage.’—The devil! This is a confeſſion, indeed! for which, like all other mean-ſpirited, whimpering raſcals, he deſerves to be hanged. My lord was in the right, to look ſharp, after this buſineſs—We muſt have been blown up, if it had come to light. But as I hope to be well paid, for the contents of this, I may let the others go free.

I cannot pierce thro' the myſtery, in which I am involved. I ſtrive, in vain, to recover my confidence in lord Euſtace. Theſe fatal reports unhinge my very ſoul—Yet nothing can abate my love. One falſe ſtep has involved me, in a thouſand difficulties. I can endure my ſituation, no longer; and let the conſequence be what it may, I will reveal the ſecret, to my father. But then, my lord's intreaties, and my aunt's commands—why even they muſt be ſacrificed, to filial duty—Wretch, [50] that I am, how did I dare to break that firſt of mo⯑ral ties!—Heavens! he is here!

I have juſt received a letter, from your brother, Harriet, which I ſhould have had, ten days ago, had I been at home.

Does he aſſign a cauſe, for coming to Lon⯑don, Sir?

Yes, yes, 'tis as Loyd gueſſed, an af⯑fair of galantry, but an honourable buſineſs, tho'—I long 'till ye are both married, that I may hear no more of romances. I hope, when Harry has led the way, you will have no objection to follow him.

What ſhall I ſay to him?

I wiſh I knew who my future daughter-in-law is to be. Harry tells me ſhe has a great for⯑tune; but that, I ſuppoſe, is a ſweetener—But if ſhe has worth and virtue, ſufficient to make him happy, I ſhal [...] be content.—But what's the matter, Harriet? I thought your illneſs was quit gone off—you look as if you had been weeping—My ſiſter, I ſuppoſe—

No, Sir; indeed her goodneſs to me, as well as yours, is graved upon my heart.

She is a very odd woman—She wou'd fain perſuade me, that I diſtreſſed you, by jeſting with captain Loyd, about lord Euſtace's miſtreſs—I begin to think that ſhe is in love with him, her⯑ſelf—Of what conſequence are his galantries to her? I dare ſay he has had a hundred, of the ſame ſort; and that the lady, to whom he is now going to offer his hand, can have but a very ſmall remnant, of his heart.

I have heard him ſay, Sir, they ſhould ne⯑ver be divided.

Fine talking, for a libertine, truly!—However, I agree with you, that it is not right, to [51] make a jeſt, of thoſe unfortunate women he may have ruined—And I commend your delicacy, upon this occcaſion, as I well know it is the reſult of the moſt amiable female virtues, modeſty, and com⯑paſſion.

O, Sir!

What ails my child?

My father!

What is the matter? You amaze me, Harriet!

I am—

What?

You ſee, before you, Sir—

Don't diſtract me! Whom do I ſee?

I am—lord Euſtace—my father!—

Speak; go on—Lord Euſtace!—What of him?

I am his wife—

What—lord Euſtace's wife!—Then you are a wretch, indeed!

Yet pardon me, Sir!

I cannot pardon you! Harriet, you have undone yourſelf.

O do not ſay ſo, Sir, when it is in your power, to make me happy.

I wou'd it were—but there is very little proſpect of happineſs, for a virtuous woman, who is connected with a libertine.

I hope, Sir, you have miſtaken his character; and when you know him better, I am ſure you will be ſorry—

It is you, child, that I fear will have cauſe to be ſorry, for having miſtaken his character—young women are but bad judges, of their lovers morals.

My aunt, Sir—

Aye, aye, ſhe, I ſuppoſe, was privy to the match; he is a lord, and that's enough for her. [52] I might have expected ſuch a ſtroke, from her in⯑tolerable vanity—But how have I been deceived, in my opinion, both of your duty, and affection to me!

My future conduct, Sir, ſhall prove them both.

O Harriet! What a diſappointment is mine? I hoped to have ſeen you united to a man of ſenſe, and worth, who wou'd have reſpected, as well as loved you—Inſtead of that, you are now joined to one, who, from his too intimate know⯑ledge of the vicious part of your ſex, is likely to deſpiſe them all.

I flatter myſelf, Sir, that the goodneſs, both of his heart, and underſtanding, will make him rea⯑dily renounce any light errors, he may have fallen into.

I wiſh it, moſt ſincerely—but—

Do not, Sir, injure him, by doubting it.

I fear, my child, you flatter yourſelf, in vain, with any change in your huſband's conduct—that laſt amour, which captain Loyd ſpoke of—

How bleſt am I, to be able to acquit my lord!—Tho' bluſhing I avow it, it was his myſteri⯑ous attachment to his wife, that caus'd that vile re⯑port.—O Sir! let me, again, upon my knees, entreat you to pardon what is paſt, and give lord Euſtace leave to prove the ſincerity of his affection, to me, by his reſpectful tenderneſs and gratitude, to⯑ward you.

Riſe, riſe, my Harriet. Since it is ſo—I forgive, and bleſs you.

You have made your daughter happy—how will lord Euſtace be tranſported!

Wou'd I cou'd ſee occaſion, for this joy!

—Retire, my child; compoſe your ſpirits, and let me compoſe mine.—I wiſh to be alone.

It is almoſt impoſſible, Sir!—I am too, too happy.

Why was this marriage huddled in the dark? It ſhall not be kept ſecret—Myſtery is the fit maſk for vice; my daughter needs it not—I am impatient, 'till I ſee lord Euſtace.

It is not long, Sir, ſince he went from hence.

No matter; leave me, Robert.

If your honour wou'd hear a few words, that I have to ſay.—

I cannot hear you, now; my thoughts are all engaged.

—I muſt write to colonel Loyd, directly.—I ſhall have a ſad piece of work, with the old gentleman at Trevallin—he doats upon my girl, as if ſhe were his child.—

Aye, Sir, and ſo does every one, who knows her, except ſome of the folk in this houſe.—I wiſh, indeed I do, that we were fairly out of it.

Well, we ſhall leave it, ſoon—but, for the preſent, Robert—

Your honour little knows what's going for⯑ward, in it—ſuch quarrelling, ſuch high words! aye, and ſuch fine words, too, as I ne'er heard, before; tho', if I underſtand them right, they have but a black meaning.

Robert, we'll talk of this, ſome other time.—I ſay, again, I am not at leiſure, now.—

I can't be eaſy, 'till I tell you, Sir; as I am ſadly afraid there is ſomething a plotting, againſt your honour, or my young miſtreſs.—I have heard that wicked Willis talking of her, to his fellow ſervant.—O Sir, that fellow knows all his lord's ſecrets; he is at the beginning, and ending, of all miſchief; and he ſays, as how Miſs Harriet has been only impos'd upon.

—Yes, Sir, impos'd upon— [54] and that his maſter will be married to a fine lady, in leſs than a month's time.—

How! impos'd upon! what can this mean? lord Euſtace dare not think of any thing ſo baſe.—I injure both myſelf and him, by the ſuſ⯑picion.

All I know of the matter, is, Sir, that the gentleman that lives here (whom I believe to be a very honeſt man, tho' Willis calls him a poor rogue) and my lord Euſtace, had a ſad quarrel, and they talked ſo loud, that I cou'd not help overhearing Mr. Frampton—for I ſcorn to liſten—reproaching my lord, with having behaved, very ill, both to you, and your daughter—but they were friends, after⯑wards, and went out, together.—But Willis ſaid a great deal more, to James, my lord's footman, to the ſame ſenſe—and whatever miſchief there is a brewing, I am ſure he knows all about it.

I cannot comprehend the meaning of all this.—Impoſed upon!—I will be ſatisfied—His ſcoundrel ſervant talk of my daughter, and of his marriage with another lady!—I have not patience to wait the meeting with lord Euſtace—Is that fellow in the houſe?—That Willis, Robert?

Yes, Sir, James and he have been taking a hearty glaſs, I believe; he looks pure and merry.

Bid him come to me, directly.

I am afraid he will be too cunning, for your worſhip.

Do, as I bid you.

I will, Sir.

The happineſs, or miſery, of my child, ſeem now ſuſpended, in an equal balance.—Let my impatience to turn the ſcale in her favour, ex⯑cuſe me, to myſelf, for condeſcending to inquire in⯑to another's ſecrets, tho' they ſo nearly concern me.

Your valet de chambre told me, Sir, that you deſired to ſpeak with me.

Our converſation will be but ſhort, Mr. Willis.

I am in a rare humour, to bam this Welſh Baronet.

I ſay our converſation will be but ſhort, Mr. Willis; but I ſhou'd wiſh it to be ſincere.

There he has hit the mark.

—O, to be ſure, Sir! I have been remarkable, for truth and ſincerity, all my life, Sir. My mother taught me, from a child, never to tell a lie.

Truth is, certainly, the foundation of every other virtue, and I hope I may depend upon yours, to anſwer a few queſtions, that I ſhall aſk you.

O yes, you may depend upon me.—What the devil is he about! He is certainly going to hear me my catechiſm.

I ſhall think myſelf obliged to you, if you will acquaint me with what you know, in rela⯑tion to lord Euſtace's marriage.

Me, Sir! How is it poſſible I can tell?—All's out, I ſuppoſe—O that curſed Langwood!

No trifling with me, friend; I will be anſwer'd.

Yes, to be ſure, Sir, all ſervants ought to give civil anſwers to gentlemen; but really, Sir, I cannot poſſibly tell you any thing about it.

Since fair means will not prevail upon you, this ſhall extort the truth.

For heaven's ſake, Sir, don't terrify an evi⯑dence, in this land of liberty——You will either frighten what I do know, out of my head, or make [56] me confeſs any thing, without knowing any thing, at all, of the matter.

No prevarication, Sir—Men, like you, who are bred up in vice and idleneſs, are to be influenced by nothing, but their fears—There⯑fore, tell me, I ſay, again, what you know of this marriage?

Yes, yes, they have had another letter, from Langwood; ſo I may as well make a merit of giving up ours, ſince there can be none in keeping it from him.

What are you muttering, villain? Don't urge me farther; I have loſt my reaſon, and will not anſwer for the conſequences.

I will do any thing, Sir, if you will be pleaſed to drop the point of that ugly piece of cold iron.—What you have heard from Langwood, is moſt certainly true.—But a good ſervant, you know, Sir, ought to keep his maſter's ſecrets, till his life is in danger.

Langwood!—Maſter's ſecrets!—Ex⯑plain yourſelf, this moment.

Dear Sir, be patient—What need you have the trouble of hearing it over again, when you know it all, already?

Dare you again inſult me, with your trifling?

Why, really, Sir, I can't ſay it was a right thing of my lord, but none of his ſervants were in fault, except Langwood; we muſt do what our maſters bid us; and he, poor devil, is ſorry enough, as you know, Sir, and may ſee, Sir.

Langwood, again!—Who is Lang⯑wood? And what has he to do, with your lord's marriage? And what is this letter?

It is for Mrs. Winifred, Sir; and as to Lang⯑wood, he was the mock-doctor, the counterfeit parſon, that married my lord; I was only the clerk, indeed, Sir; and I hope your honour will be ſo good to forgive me, and not leave all the ſin, and the ſhame, too, upon my poor conſcience.

Why, villain! raſcal! what is all this ſtuff? If your lord be married to my daughter, how dare he think of any other wife?

So, I have made a fine piece of work on't!—I find he did not know it was a ſham marriage, till now.—

Why, really, Sir, you terrify me ſo, that I don't rightly underſtand you; I thought you knew all about it, before I opened my lips to you.

I aſked you, wretch, about your lord's intended marriage?

O lord, Sir, it was very unlucky I did not un⯑derſtand you. I ſhall be obliged to fly my country; my lord will never let me live in England, after this. I ſhall loſe an excellent place, Sir.

Be gone, thou profligate! Fly from my ſight, this moment.

I am an undone ſcoundrel, that's the truth of it!—But this comes of muddling, in a morning—Had I been ſober, I ſhou'd have been an over-match, for his worſhip, or any juſtice of peace, in England. I'll e'en retire, till my maſter, and this Welch family, have ſo reconciled matters, between themſelves, that a gentleman may be able to live, with ſome ſatisfac⯑tion, amongſt them.

What am I now to think! My child is diſhonoured! Let me contain my rage, a moment longer, and be yet more fully ſatisfied, from their own lips.—Robert!

Go, call my ſiſter, and—I cannot name her.

Miſs Harriet, Sir.

Aye, bid them come hither.

I never ſaw my maſter ſo diſturbed, before.

Of what can they inform me? Do I not know my daughter is undone?

Pray, my lady, go firſt.

Where are theſe wretched, theſe unhap⯑py women, that have brought ſhame, and ſorrow, on themſelves, and infamy on me?

Hey day! What's the matter now? Harriet told me ſhe had juſt leſt you in a heavenly temper; what can have happened, to diſcompoſe you, ſince? but Much Ado about Nothing, is your play, from morning, 'till night.

Read that—

A broken ſeal! What can be the contents?

Dear Sir, what is the matter?

Do not talk to me, unhappy girl! Lord Euſtace has deceived you—you are not his wife.

All gracious heaven!

Rage and madneſs! O women, wo⯑men, what have ye done!

Vaſtly well, I think.

Do not provoke me.

You are enough to provoke a ſaint, yourſelf.—What is all this ſtuff, this letter, this for⯑gery, this nonſenſe! He perſonate a parſon! I [59] think I ſhou'd know a clergyman, in any dreſs. I am not quite ſo eaſily impos'd upon, as you, Sir William.

I will not anſwer you—But thou, un⯑dutiful, unhappy girl! what can'ſt thou ſay?

I wiſh you wou'd hear reaſon, and ſpare your reproaches, Sir William.

No—give them vent—I only fear to live, not die—Let looſe your rage, upon me: I implore it; I will endure it all.

You have deſerved it. Your own de⯑ceit has fallen upon your head; you are betray'd, diſhonour'd, and abandon'd, both by your villain huſband, and your wretched father.

O Sir! have pity on my anguiſh and de⯑ſpair!

I cannot bear your ſight—My being, life itſelf, is hateful to me.—

This is your pride, your rage for quality!—You have un⯑done my child, and I renounce you both!

Will you forſake me, alſo?

Forſake you! no, child; this is a per⯑fect chimera of your father's.

O let us go this moment, implore his good⯑neſs to forgive our fault, and fly, for ever, from this hateful dwelling.

By no means; I don't approve of your quitting your huſband's houſe. I wou'd have you write to him, immediately, and deſire him to come to us, this evening.

I write to him! You make me ſhudder, at the thought.

It muſt be done, child—I inſiſt upon it—This is ſome trick, meant to impoſe upon us.

I feel the impoſition, here—Lord Euſtace has betrayed us.

I tell you, Harriet, it is impoſſible—he is at leaſt the ninth peer of his family, in a direct line.

Tho' honours may be—honour is not hereditary, madam.

No matter; write to him, I ſay: you are, and muſt be lady Euſtace, at any rate, I tell you.

And can you think me vile enough, after ſuch perfidy, to receive his hand? Can I vow to honour the man, whom I no longer eſteem? Shall I go to the altar with him, and ſwear to be faithful, to a perjur'd wretch? again repeat my vows of everlaſting love, for him who has abandoned, and undone me? No; I would ſooner die, a thouſand, thouſand deaths.

You are juſt as obſtinate, as your fa⯑ther—Now you have taken this into your head, no⯑thing can get it out again.

Do you think my father could be ſo inhu⯑man, without juſt grounds, to ſtab me to the heart? It is, it is too true!

I will not believe a word of it.—I never was miſtaken, in my life; my brother is ever in the wrong.—I deſire, Harriet, you will write to lord Euſtace, directly.

Indeed, I will not.

Then, poſitively, I will—I am deter⯑min'd to know the truth, from him. I own I be⯑gin to be a little doubtful, about this matter, myſelf. This letter may be forg'd—but thoſe eternal reports confound me—'Tis impoſſible he ſhould dare to de⯑ceive me—but if he has, he ſhall find that the Ap Evans's are not to be injured, with impunity.

ACT IV.

MY father in London! you ſurprize me, captain—What can have brought him here?

Nay, as to the matter of ſurprize, my young hero, your father was quite as much aſtoniſh'd, at hearing of your being in the ſame port, as you can be; and as to your aunt Winifred, ſhe ſtarted, with as much amazement, as the ſailors that ſpied the firſt Patagonian. Your ſiſter, indeed, ſeem'd more pleas'd, than any of them, at the news, and inquir'd whether I had met you in healthy condition, and if I knew your moorings.

My gentle Harriet!—I am impatient to ſee her.

Hoiſt ſail, and away, then; I'll be your convoy, tho' I ſhould like better to drop anchor, and take in refreſhment, for an hour or ſo, at the Admiralty Coffee-houſe, where I have appointed captain Blaſt, of the Boreas, and ſome other jolly lads, to meet me.

I am much obliged to you, captain, but will, by no means, ſuffer you to break your engagement.—I have a little buſineſs to diſpatch, before I can ſee my father, and ſhall eaſily find out the houſe, without troubling you.

Why, that you may readily do, as it is in⯑clos'd by a very high wall, and has a large hand⯑ſome gate-way, with a bell at the door.—Aye, [62] aye, that bell was not plac'd there, to call the crew to prayers, but to prevent the neighbours from know⯑ing who comes in and out, as they might do, if there was a rapper only.

I can't ſee why that caution ſhould be neceſ⯑ſary.

It is of no great uſe, at preſent—But time has been—Harkee me, Harry, there is a deviliſh ſtorm brewing over your head; you may look for dirty weather, I can tell you—Your father is in a confounded paſſion, at your having quitted the regiment, and is ſtrongly perſuaded that you'll ſpring a leak, my boy.

I wrote to my father, ſome time ago, to acquaint him with my motives; I have alſo written to my colonel, to account for my conduct.

Never fear, I'll take care of you, as I am ſure you did not deſert, from cowardice—But it was a ſilly trick, Harry.—Some girl, I ſuppoſe, is in the wind; they make fools of the wiſeſt of us.—I remember, when I was ſtation'd at Gibraltar, a Donna Iſabella—

Wou'd you were there, now: I know not how to get rid of this tireſome man.

A Spaniard, you may gueſs, by the name, had a deviliſh mind to come off with me, as ſhe ſaid, to ſee foreign parts—But I weigh'd anchor, ſlily, one moon-light night, and left the poor ſigniora on ſhore—But all men have not the gift of diſcretion: tho' I was a younker, then, Harry, not much turn'd of thirty, I'll aſſure you—

I think it was rather cruel in you, to forſake the lady, captain.

Why, I did hear, afterwards, that there was a ballad made about it, intitled The Cruel Cap⯑tain's Garland, and ſet to a very woeful tune—I [63] laugh at theſe things, Harry; but I find you are a truer lover, and have come here, in ſpite of wind and tide, in purſuit of your miſtreſs—You can't expect, however, that Sir William will be highly delighted, if you ſhou'd happen to make a loſing voyage of it.

I hope, Sir, it will be the moſt proſperous one of my life, and I ſhall be able to give my father a ſatisfactory account, of my conduct.

Why, if your miſtreſs be well freighted, a ſixty thouſand pounder, or ſo, he will have no objection, I ſuppoſe.—But come, my boy, tell me a little about it: is ſhe maid, or widow, Harry? I like to hear love-ſtories, mightily.

She is a maiden, young, and beautiful, and of a rank and fortune, beyond my expectation, captain. We have lov'd one another, long; her guardians are upon the point of diſpoſing of her, to another; ſhe has deſir'd me to free her from their tyranny, and accept of her hand, as my reward—Glorious recom⯑pence!—

Why, Harry! this is running before the wind, with a vengeance—Not ſo faſt, not ſo faſt, my boy, you go at the rate of twelve knots, an hour—This ſtory ſounds a little romantic, tho', and puts me in mind of the lady, that the flying man comes to ſave from the monſter.—But 'tis odd enough, that I ſhou'd not know this lady; prithee, Harry, what's her name?

You muſt excuſe my not anſwering that queſtion, captain, as you might poſſibly become my rival.

Why, to be ſure, if ſhe had applied to me, ſhe ſhou'd have been far enough from her guardians, by this, we'd have run gunnel to, all the way, my [64] boy, and left them, and you on the dry land, Harry.

I ſhall tell her of your intended galantry, captain; and I hope you and ſhe will be better acquainted—for the preſent, I muſt wiſh you a good evening.

Nay, if you have a mind to ſheer off, colonel, I wiſh you a fair gale.—I never grapple with any thing, but a pretty laſs, or an enemy; and ſo, your ſervant, your ſervant, colonel.

My meeting with this blundering ſailor, was unlucky, as my father may, perhaps, be diſpleas'd at my not waiting on him, the moment I knew of his being in London.—But I cannot break my en⯑gagement, with lady Anne—every thing muſt give way, to that charming woman—I will fly to her, directly, and, if poſſible, find time to pay my duty to my father, before I ſleep.

He will come, then; you have ſtaid a great while, Robert.

My lord was not at home, madam; and as you deſir'd I ſhou'd bring an anſwer, I was oblig'd to wait his coming—Every thing ſeems in confuſion, in the family; his lordſhip, it ſeems, is to be mar⯑ried, in a few days; they are all packing up, and the ſervants ſcarce knew where to find pen, ink, and paper.

This ſtartles me—'Tis but too plain I have been deceived.

—Hearken to me, Robert, and do, exactly, what I command you—go [65] and place yourſelf by the private door, in the gar⯑den, and the moment you hear a key turn in the lock, come and tell me.

I ſhall obey you, madam.—I am ſure all is not right.

I muſt, if poſſible, prevent Sir Wil⯑liam's knowing of this interview—But here he comes—

—I hope you have vented all your rage, brother, and that one may talk, a little calmly, to you, now?

O yes! I have great reaſon to be calm.

I can tell you that a little more of your outrageous fury, wou'd have kill'd your daughter; nor do I know what fatal effect it might have had, upon my own conſtitution.

That is not very eaſily ſhock'd, I believe.

That is more than you know, at leaſt, brother; but a perſon ſo intirely given up to their paſſions, never once reflects upon conſequences.

I wiſh you had reflected upon conſe⯑quences; but thoſe who have err'd themſelves, are ever ready to reflect on others.

A truce with reflections, on all ſides; and in caſe that there ſhou'd be any truth, in this infamous ſtory, let us ſet about forming ſome ſcheme, for redreſſing the affront, that he has dar'd offer to our family.

I ſhall not ſtand in need of your aſſiſt⯑ance. I am determin'd how to act.

Pray, Sir William, do not be head⯑ſtrong, but, for once, be adviſed by me.—I have thought of a ſcheme, and I am ſure it will anſwer.

What is it?

It is happy for my family, that I have a little ſenſe, brother, tho' I do not boaſt of it.

Your wiſdom in this matter, has been conſpicuous; but what new proofs of it, are we to expect, at preſent?

Suppoſe we were to ſend for lord Euſtace, and try what effect Harriet's tears, and my reproaches, wou'd have upon him—He has always had the greateſt deference, for my opinion.

Your opinion!—Is this your boaſted ſcheme?—He will not come; baſe as he is, it is im⯑poſſible he cou'd endure her ſight.

Your affected ſagacity is enough to ſet one mad—You are miſtaken, as you always are.

I know it cannot be; the conſciouſneſs of his vile treachery, will keep him far from hence.—He dare not ſee her.

I cannot bear this contradiction.

—For once let conviction conquer your ob⯑ſtinacy: I wrote to him, myſelf, in Harriet's name; I have had his anſwer; he will be here, this night.

And ſhall my daughter ſue to him, for juſtice? implore him to receive the hand he has rejected, and the heart he has betray'd? Shall ſhe be ſacrific'd, to make his peace? I tell you, no—I will have other vengeance.

I ſee theſe horrid punctilios will ruin all—If we can make up this matter quietly, what does it ſignify, whether he be a man of honor, or no?

I never [...]uſt forget, that I am one.

I wiſh you wou'd have a little pa⯑tience, and hear me out—If this ſhould fail, I have another project, in my head, which I am certain muſt ſucceed—My imagination has not been idle, and I think it full as active, as your own.

I believe it may be rather more ſo—But I have no leiſure, for imaginary matters, now.

Pray, Sir William, don't be ſo poſi⯑tive—you know lord Euſtace has a place, at court.

What then?

I wou'd, at leaſt, let the king know what a ſervant he has about him; and as I may reaſonably ſuppoſe that his majeſty may have heard of our anceſtors, tho' he knows nothing of you, Sir William, I wou'd adviſe you to throw yourſelf, at his feet—He is himſelf a father.

Bleſt may he long be, in that honour'd title! tho' I am render'd wretched, by the name—But what can he do, for me?

Diſgrace, and diſplace the man, who has wrong'd you, altho' he be a lord.

What is his title? has he not debas'd it—But know, there is no difference of rank, before the throne—degrees of elevation, are only ſeen by thoſe, who look above them: kings muſt look down, and therefore ſee all equal; and in our mo⯑narch's ſight, the rights, even of the meaneſt ſub⯑ject, are precious as his own—But yet he cannot heal my wrongs.

Tho' I can never believe that a knight baronet is upon a par, with a lord, Sir William.

Abſurd diſtinctions! I will hear no more—The man who has the means of juſtice, in his own hands, and ſeeks for it elſewhere, deſerves to be the ſport of chance, and dupe of his own weakneſs—Then let him come, this night—I'll meet him as I ought.

You are exactly in the ſame caſe, of the Diſſidents, at Warſaw; nothing, but force of arms, will content you; and like them, too, you may be [68] undone, by it—Suppoſe you were to meet lord Euſtace, and he ſhou'd kill you.

I ſhall not, then, out-live my honor.

This ſelf-will'd man diſtreſſes me, ex⯑tremely—he is, for ever, diſconcerting my ſchemes—There never was ſuch a race of ideots, as the fa⯑mily of the Ap Evans's, myſelf excepted—there is not a head, in this houſe, but my own—To be ſure I have been a little over-reach'd, in this affair of the wedding; but the greateſt politicians are liable to miſtakes—I hope to repair all, yet, and make my niece a woman of quality, one way, or another.

Madam, I have juſt now heard the private door of the garden, unlock, and ran to tell you.

Vaniſh!

I muſt not let my brother and lord Euſtace meet, 'till every thing is ſettled.

You are here in ſafety, Sir, and may put up your ſword; this houſe is mine, notwith⯑ſtanding the myſterious manner of my entrance—I hope you are not wounded?

Thanks to your courage, and generoſity, Sir, I have eſcaped unhurt. I thought our police was better conducted, than to ſuffer our lives to be en⯑dangered, by footpads.

Theſe accidents are leſs frequent, in this country, than they uſed to be; but no code of laws was ever yet framed, that cou'd make all men ho⯑neſt.—I am extremely happy, at having come ſo op⯑portunely, to your aſſiſtance.

I ſhall ever be grateful, for the obligation, Sir; but may I not know to whom I am obliged?

Do not mention the matter as a favour, I intreat you—You wou'd, doubtleſs, have done the ſame for me; and had I happen'd to have come firſt, I ſhou'd have ſtood in need of your aſſiſtance—I am call'd lord Euſtace.

I ſhall remain indebted to your lordſhip, and wiſh you a good night.—What a rencontre!

I could wiſh you not to leave me, Sir; 'tis late, and therefore unſafe for either of us, to re⯑turn alone—The fellows who attacked you, may lye in wait for you—I ſhall not ſtay here a quarter of an hour; and as I wiſh to be better acquainted with you, I ſhou'd be glad to know your ad⯑dreſs.

I am extremely obliged to your lordſhip. I am call'd colonel Weſton; you'll hear of me, at the hotel in Pall-mall.

Let me entreat you not to leave me—I am, at preſent, in a very difficult, and diſagreeable ſituation.

Your lordſhip has a right to command me; but I hope you will not ſtay longer than the time you have mention'd, as I have ſome buſineſs to tranſact, this night.

If that be the caſe, I will not treſpaſs upon you; perhaps, there may be ſomething ſimi⯑lar, in our circumſtances; for your buſineſs, at this hour, muſt, in all probability, be with a lady, and you may reaſonably ſuppoſe, by my being alone, and on foot, that I am come to meet one, here.

Let me entreat your lordſhip not to loſe ſuch precious minutes, but fly to the expecting fair one.—This is an odd diſcovery.

The matter is not as you imagine, Sir.

There is, perhaps, a jealous huſband, or an old croſs father, my lord—

Neither, colonel. But matches, made for intereſt, only, too often break the moſt delight⯑ful ties, the union of fond hearts—The lady, who lives here, is the moſt amiable of her ſex, and I adore her; yet, am on the point of marrying one, whom I can never love.

This is a ſad affair, indeed, my lord.—I cou'd ſave you a great deal of trouble, if I were at liberty to tell you lady Anne's intentions.

I fear the unhappy girl has heard of my intended marriage, as ſhe has written to me to come here, this night—I never was ſo embarras'd, or diſ⯑treſs'd.

Some girl you keep, I preſume, my lord.

By no means; ſhe is a woman of family and character—I am almoſt diſtracted about her—I will now ſtep and ſee if the coaſt be clear, as there are ſome of the family, that I ſhou'd not chuſe to en⯑counter, at this late hour, and return to you, Sir, inſtantly—You ſee what confidence you have al⯑ready inſpired me with.

A confidence, indeed! but of what uſe can it be to me, who am bound in honor, not to betray it?

Bleſs me, it is now paſt eleven—the time I ſpent with lady Anne, ſtole un⯑perceived away. It will certainly be too late, to go to my father's, to-night; I muſt defer my viſit, 'till to-morrow; and as lord Euſtace don't ſeem in a great hurry to be married, I ſhall have time enough to get lady Anne out of her guardian's power, and [71] prepare my father for her reception—But here comes my new friend.

All is quiet; I muſt therefore, take the opportunity of conveying you ſafe out, again; and I hope to have the pleaſure of being better known to you.

Your lordſhip's inclination does me honor.

Your obſtinacy is enough to diſtract me—I ſay you ſhall ſee him.

Support me, gracious Heav'n!

My deareſt Harriet, your billet has alarm'd me, more than I can expreſs—I have made the utmoſt diſpatch that was poſſible, to fly to you; and the moments that have paſſed, ſince I received your commands, have been the moſt painful of my life.

Your lordſhip need not enter into a defence of your punctuality.

Why is my Harriet's brow overcaſt? and her eyes quenched in tears? Why is ſhe ſilent?

Aſk your own heart!

Is it poſſible that the idle report of my marriage, can have diſtreſs'd her, thus?

Horrid diſſembler!

Do not exhauſt your ſpirits, my dear Harriet; give me leave to talk to him

—So then, my lord, what we have heard upon the ſubject, is but an idle report, without the leaſt foundation?

If you will but recollect, what has paſs'd between your niece and me, madam, you muſt be fully convinced it can be nothing more.

And yet, my lord, you ſeem, con⯑fuſed.

Why really, madam, the doubts you ſeem to entertain of my veracity, are a little diſ⯑treſſing—But let me hope my Harriet will believe me, while I ſwear—

Away, my lord! I can believe no more—Cou'd I have thought that either my wrongs, or my reſentment, were capable of increaſe!

Really, madam, I do not clearly un⯑derſtand the meaning of this converſation—and I muſt ſay, I think it rather ſevere, to be condemn'd, unheard.

I can contain my rage, no longer; read that.

Langwood's letter! All is diſcover'd, then!

I perceive that even a man of qua⯑lity, may be diſconcerted—Your lordſhip did not uſe to be at a loſs, for an anſwer.

Have patience, madam; I confeſs that appearances are againſt me.

Aye, and realities, too, my lord.

I do not mean to juſtify myſelf—No, I plead guilty. The fear of loſing you, my Har⯑riet, whom I lov'd more than life, and the appre⯑henſion of diſobliging my father, tempted me to [73] make you mine, in an illegal manner—But here I ſwear, I will repair the injury.

I think it will do; matters are in a right train, now, if I can but prevent Sir William from interrupting them.

You are offended, Harriet, and have cauſe—but let not your reſentment turn againſt your⯑ſelf.

Cou'd I forgive myſelf, my lord, I then might pardon you; but while I think my puniſhment ſevere, I own I have deſerved it.

You judge yourſelf, too hardly—Has either your virtue, or your delicacy, ſuffered, by my crime? Nay, even your reputation is ſtill free from ſtain; and if you will now condeſcend to accept my hand, my future life ſhall be devoted to your hap⯑pineſs.

And can you think I'll be again deceived?

By heaven, you ſhall not!—

Nay, I will not—Your poor evaſions have no weight with me—Leave me, for ever leave me—I will not be united to you, by any ties.

Yet hear me, Harriet.

Wou'd I had never heard you—But tho' I were to liſten to you, now, you cannot ſhake my purpoſe. No—I can die!—

No, live, my Harriet! Live, to make me happy—

Where is he? I muſt, and will, ſee him.

Ah! Sir William! This is unlucky! I am not prepar'd, for this encounter

What! is it poſſible that you ſhou'd dare to enter underneath this roof?

What ſhou'd I fear, Sir William?

Your own baſe heart, and my much in⯑jur'd honour; which calls upon you, now, for juſtice.

So then, I find the pride of injur'd vir⯑tue, was aſſumed—Your daughter would ſecure me, by compulſion—But I deſpiſe aſſaſſins!

Do not, my lord, inſult my patience, farther; I did not know you were without a ſword: on that account, I put up mine; but know, young man, I ſhall not reſt, till it has done me juſtice.

Sir William, tho' I cannot pretend to juſtify the injuries I have done your daughter, I neither muſt, nor will be compell'd, to make the reparation; I ſhou'd, indeed, be unworthy to be⯑come her huſband, if fear cou'd make me ſo.

At the firſt hour you ſaw her, Sir, I ſhou'd have deemed you ſo—'Tis not your birth, young man, can varniſh over vices, ſuch as yours—Your rank renders them the more obnoxious.

I readily allow myſelf to blame, Sir William.

You cannot then be baſe enough, to re⯑fuſe the ſole atonement, which is now within your power—

I will confeſs I felt my heart fubdued, by Harriet's grief, and tenderneſs—they had more power, than armies—She might have triumphed over me, but—

You ſurely do not think I mean to give my daughter to you! What! to reward your vices, with a heart like hers—to have my child become, a ſecond time, a ſacriſice to that vain idol, Title!—No, Sir, it is another kind of reparation, I demand; and I will have it.

A brave man, Sir William, never thinks meanly, of another's courage; and as I know you to [75] be ſo, I hope you will not think me otherwiſe, if I decline your offer.

On what pretence, my lord? Have you not wrong'd me?

For that reaſon, only, I cannot, dare not, draw my ſword againſt you.

Theſe are new rules of honour, form'd on the principles of fear, my lord.

Fear, Sir William!

Yes, my lord, I ſay it; none but a coward, ever will decline to meet the man he has in⯑jured; and ſhou'd you ſtill perſiſt in your refuſal, I will proclaim you one.

This is too much—But conſider, Sir, you are—my Harriet's father.

That conſideration wou'd brace a nerve⯑leſs arm—But, look upon me, Sir; I am not bent be⯑neath the weight of years—my mind and body both, are firm as yours; and the firſt ſhock that ever reach'd my heart, except her mother's loſs, is the diſgrace you have brought upon my child—The ſtain muſt be effac'd, my lord.

I know not how to act; ſhou'd I de⯑clare my intention to marry Harriet, he wou'd de⯑ſpiſe me; and if I fight him, that renders it impoſ⯑ſible.

Come, come, my lord, this is no time for muſing—You muſt determine, inſtantly, to give me the ſatisfaction I require, or ſee your title poſted up, with the honourable addition, of coward, to it.

Nay, then, Sir William, tho' with re⯑luctance, I muſt accept your offer—Name your time, Sir.

At eight, to-morrow morning—

I'll call upon you, Sir, and bring a friend—But let me once more add, that you are the [76] only man, on earth, that I ſhou'd fear to meet, upon ſuch terms▪

I am glad my ſon is ignorant, of this af⯑fair—Had he been here, he muſt have fought lord Euſtace—He has, I hope, a long, and happy life, before him; mine, tho' not quite worn out, is of leſs value; and if I loſe it, in defence of my child's honour, 'tis well diſpoſed of.

So ſhe was, or might have been, very well diſpos'd of, but for your intemperance—You have managed your matters, very cleverly, to be ſure—You have driven lord Euſtace away, and the fa⯑mily of the Ap Evans's are diſgrac'd for ever.

Thou weak, vain, woman! whoſe folly has undone me, and my child.

Not I truly, Sir William—It is her own high-flown principles, that have ruined her—My lord offered to marry her, over and over again, it ſeems, but ſhe with her nonſenſical, romantical no⯑tions, affected to deſpiſe him, and refuſed to be his wife, on any terms.

Has ſhe? I rejoice, to hear it—

Rejoice; at what! at her being a mad woman? I think, in her ſituation, ſhe needed not have been ſo nice—It would have been much better for her, to have been lady Euſtace, even againſt his will, than Miſs Harriet Evans's, againſt her own.

How nearly pride, and meanneſs, are allied! You wou'd obtrude your niece, upon a man, who has abandoned, and diſhonour'd her; then vainly think ſhe might receive diſtinction, from a title, which force, not choice, beſtowed.

Brother, I neither underſtand logic, nor ſophiſtry, but I am very ſorry matters are as they are. [77] —As to Harriet, I believe it will be of no great con⯑ſequence, to her; ſhe will ſoon break her heart, I imagine—But the ſcandal of this affair, will reſt upon the ſurvivors.—I don't think I ſhall ever be able to ſhew my face, at Monmouth, again.

Away! The moments now are too precious, to be waſted. Where is Harriet?

In her chamber, like a diſtracted wretch, tearing herſelf to pieces. I endeavoured to comfort her, as much as I could, by telling her how wrong ſhe had acted, and that ſhe might have lived to be a counteſs, if he had followed my advice.

Was this the conſolation you offer'd to her grief? How cou'd you be ſo barbarous? The proper ſpirit ſhe has ſhewn, in refuſing that worth⯑leſs lord, has replaced her in my heart—I will go try to comfort her.

Aye, ſo you may; you are the fitteſt to go together. For my part, I diſclaim the miſ⯑managment of this whole affair; and remember, I'll no longer be accountable, for meaſures, that I am not ſuffer'd to guide.

ACT V.

YOUR meeting with Sir William, was extremely unfortunate.

I moſt ſincerely wiſh we had not met; but that is paſt—

Then I ſuppoſe you think the worſt is over.

No, Frampton, 'tis to come.—Sir William has inſiſted upon my meeting him, this morning.

Impoſſible, my lord! you muſt not fight him. Think on the conſequences: if you ſhould be ſo unhappy, as to kill the father of the woman you have highly injured, the world wou'd cer⯑tainly unite againſt you, and drive you from ſociety.

In that caſe, I ſhou'd be but ill quali⯑fied, for ſolitude, I confeſs.—Now, my dear Frampton, as I know you are my friend, and as I wou'd not wiſh any other perſon ſhou'd be acquainted with this ſtory, I muſt deſire you will be my ſecond.

It is much beneath a man of honour, to make profeſſions, either of his friendſhip, or his courage; but, on this occaſion, I muſt tell you, that I wou'd hazard my life, for your ſervice, in any other cauſe; but I will not be concern'd, in this [79] infamous affair; and, I ſay, again, you muſt not raiſe your arm, againſt Sir William.

You do not know how I am circum⯑ſtanced. He has compell'd me, to this duel; ſaid he wou'd brand me, for a coward, if I declin'd it.—What wou'd you have me do?

Marry his daughter.

No—Tho' I love her, with the trueſt fondneſs, I will not wed her, upon ſuch terms; nor ſuffer her to think ſo meanly of me, as to ſuppoſe I poorly barter'd a coward's hand, to ſave his worth⯑leſs life.

Yet, conſider, my lord, that let the con⯑ſequences of this duel, be what they may, nothing can acquit you of that juſtice, you owe, both to her, and yourſelf.

I own that I have greatly wrong'd her.

It is now within your power, to make reparation, by becoming her huſband; but ſhou'd you deprive her of a father, ſhe never can be united to the man who kill'd him.

I will not kill him, Frampton—Urge me, no farther—My mind is torn to pieces.

Believe me, my lord, you are not in a right courſe, to heal it.

No matter; you have refus'd to be a witneſs of my conduct, Mr. Frampton.

And do ſo, ſtill: I never had the leaſt reaſon to doubt your bravery; and as this is an affair, in which only principals can be concern'd, I hope it will be no imputation, upon mine, if I decline ſeeing your lordſhip engaged in a ſtrife, where I cannot wiſh you ſucceſs.

I ſhall not preſs you; but have yet a requeſt to make.

Name it, my lord.

If I ſhould fall, deliver this letter, to my father; and—if there be any circumſtance of my miſconduct, left untold, which may do Harriet juſtice, inform him of it, fully.—I muſt now go ſeek, for a leſs cautious friend, than Mr. Frampton.

Your lordſhip will ſcarcely ever find a ſincerer. (Exit lord Euſtace.) Of what oppoſite qua⯑lities, is this young man compounded? What a mixture, of good, and evil! But are we not all made of the ſame materials? The devil himſelf cannot always miſlead a man, that has principles; they will recur, in ſpite of him, and make their owner act rightly, upon trying occaſions.—This letter to his father, ſhews him to be a man of honor.—Something muſt be done, to preſerve him.—I cannot give him up.—An experiment, tho' a hazardous one, muſt be made, directly.

When ſhall my tortured mind find reſt! Gracious heaven, preſerve me from diſtraction! Perhaps, in a few moments, my father's ſword may pierce my huſband's heart.—Why has that tender name eſcap'd my lips? Reſentment ſhould have ſtopt its paſſage to my tongue, and ſighs oppoſed its utterance.

I don't ſee any harm, child, in your calling him your huſband, tho' to be ſure he is not ſo, in law.—But I wou'd have you hope the beſt, Harriet.

No, I will hope no more—What ſhou'd I hope?—My pride, my reaſon might have ſcorn'd him, living, but I will love him, and lament him, [81] dead?—Wou'd I had died, the hour before I liſten'd to your counſel, and ſet at nought, the au⯑thority of my father.—Your cruel kindneſs has undone me.

I ſhou'd not have thought of meeting ſuch a return, for that kindneſs, from you, Miſs Evans.

Forgive, and pity my diſtraction, madam! 'Tis I that have brought ruin, on ye all—But if you ever loved me, think of ſome means, to find my brother out: he may prevent this duel, and ſave me from the loweſt depth of miſery.

Really, child, you are extremely ignorant; you talk as if you were at Mohmouth, where our family are known, and properly reſpected—but in ſuch a place as London, it may poſſibly be as difficult, to find out an Ap Evans, as any of thoſe muſhroom gentry, whoſe Table does not con⯑tain above three generations.

My deareſt aunt, do not place bars before my only hope; let all our ſervants be ſent out to ſeek him.

Well, child, if it will make you eaſy, they ſhall go, directly; tho' I am of opinion it will be but a fruitleſs inquiry. But the being too eaſily prevail'd upon, is my greateſt foible—I wiſh I had a little of Sir William's obſtinacy, about me.

Conſider, madam, I am on the rack; do not loſe time, I beg of you.

Well, be compoſed, I will ſend them; they ſhall ſearch all the genteel coffee-houſes, at the Weſt end of the town—it is impoſſible he ſhou'd be in the city.—But don't let your father know, that I told you of the duel: he thinks women are never to be truſted with any thing; and has no [82] more reſpect for the empreſs-queen, or the czarina that I have for a county juſtice.

How can ſhe be inſenſible, to griefs like mine!

What, up ſo early, Harriet! Who has diſturbed your reſt?

O Sir! where is that powerful opiate to be found, that can reſtore it?

The conſciouſneſs of your own heart, and my forgiveneſs of your only fault, ſhou'd ſet your mind at peace.

What! while that fault endangers your dear life, and robs my brother of the beſt of fathers?—unworthy as I am to call you by that name.

Her grief almoſt unmans me.

—Why are you agitated thus?

O do not make my brother hate me, too!—Will he not call me parricide?—or if—

Who has acquainted you, with this affair? I did not think there was a heart ſo brutal.—But do not, Harriet, thus alarm yourſelf—all may be yet repaired.

Never, Sir, never! for here I vow, that ſhou'd lord Euſtace arm his hand, againſt your life, no power on earth, ſhall ever make me his.

Harriet, the laws of honour muſt be ſatisfied; and when I was firſt bleſt, with the fond name of father, yours then became my moſt peculiar care; nor life, nor aught on earth, is half ſo dear to me.—Nay, Harriet, do not weep! I blame you not; your youth, and innocence, have been deceiv'd.

You are too good, too gentle to me, Sir; I have deſerv'd all the diſtreſs I feel.—Yet hear me, [83] Sir—If this muſt be—might not my brother, Sir, dear as he is to me—

My determination cannot now be alter'd: retire, my child.

Captain Loyd, Sir, deſires to ſee your ho⯑nor.

Shew him up.

Oh, Sir!

Leave me, my Harriet, leave me.

My father!

My heart bleeds for her.

I have crouded all the ſail I cou'd make, to come up with you, baronet; and now that I am here, I ſhould be glad to know, in what ſoundings we are, and whether we are to ſteer ſtarboard, or larboard?

My letter, I believe, captain, muſt have given you to underſtand the reaſon, of my deſiring to ſee you; at preſent, I am unhappily engaged, in a duel, and the opinion I have, both of your bravery, and friendſhip, made me look upon you as the pro⯑pereſt perſon of my acquaintance, to be my ſecond.

As to that matter, Sir William, I think, I have diſcharged as many broadſides, as any gentle⯑man in the navy—tho' I never yet drew a trigger, out of the line; but powder and ball, I ſuppoſe, do pretty much the ſame execution, by land, as by ſea; tho' ſtanding fair to the windward, is, ſometimes, of great uſe to us, baronet.

It is of little conſequence, which way the wind ſits, at preſent, captain.

I can't ſay much to that, Sir William.—But I wiſh you had acquainted me with this buſineſs, a day or two ago, I ſhou'd have lik'd to have made a little will—But, 'tis no great matter, neither—For if I ſhould pop over, you daughter's huſband will be my heir.

There is not the leaſt occaſion, for that precaution, captain, as your life will not be endan⯑ger'd.

How ſo? When the ſhip is once engaged, muſt not every man aboard her, fight? All but the chaplain, and he ſhou'd be buſy, in his way, too.

In this caſe, my friend, you need be no farther concern'd, than to ſee that the laws of honor, are not violated.

Hold, hold, Sir William! this may do, for ſome of your freſh water ſparks, but Jerry Loyd will never lie to, when the ſignal's given for chace—no lug-ſail work, for me; I ſhall come pouring down upon them.—But, pray, who is your antago⯑niſt? And what is the cauſe of your quarrel? Was it a drunken buſineſs?—I was pretty jolly, my⯑ſelf, laſt night, but don't remember that I had words, with any one, except the waiter.

I ſhou'd be aſham'd, captain, were I weak enough to run into one vice, from the con⯑ſequences of another, or hazard my life, this day, for having been guilty of exceſs, laſt night.

Well! if that is not the caſe, I don't know what it is. For I think you are not quarrelſome, when you are ſober.—But have you breakfaſted? Tho' you may have no great appetite, my ſtomach has been ready for a meſs, this half hour, I can tell you.

We ſhall find every thing prepar'd, in the next room.

Let us make to the ſtore-room, directly; and while we are laying in our proviſions, you may tell me who is your man, and all about it.

Let your maſter know, that I am here.

This is the moſt romantic affair, my lord, that ever I heard of. To ſet out determined to ſtand your enemy's fire, without returning it!

The wrongs, I have done him, and his family, ſhou'd be atoned, and not increaſed, colo⯑nel; and were it now within my power, I wou'd not take his life, even to ſave my own.

There I think you are right, my lord; but I can't ſay I ſhou'd carry-my politeneſs, ſo far, as to make him a compliment, of mine.

There is ſomething much higher than po⯑liteneſs, in the queſtion, at preſent—juſtice, colonel—A man may diſpenſe with the one, but not the other.

I am intirely of your opinion; but as your ſentiments are ſo very delicate, and that you really love the girl, why may not I, as your ſecond, ſtep in, and ſave the exploſion of gunpowder, and the lady's character, by preventing the duel?

I will not ſuffer it.

As you intend to offer her your hand, when this buſineſs is over, I don't ſee why you ſhou'd run the hazard, of loſing life or limb; and if the father be a man of honor, as you ſay he is, I ſhou'd think—

I will not be reſtrained! No, I will ruſh be⯑tween their cruel ſwords!

My brother, here! then heaven has heard my prayer.

My ſon!

My father!

Will you not ſpeak to me?

Are you her brother?

Yes, I have that diſhonour—Ill fated girl!

What can this mean? Are you come hi⯑ther, to abet the man, who has diſgraced your ſiſter?

My father can't ſuppoſe it.

Retire, this moment, then, and take her with you—My lord, I am ready to attend you, ſingly.

You ſhall not go, for I will cling, for ever, here.

I cannot bear this ſight—Pray hear me, Sir.

Take her away.

This is no time for expoſtulation—Come, my lord—

Nay then, Sir, I muſt interfere—I cannot ſuffer you to turn aſſaſſin, even for her—Lord Eu⯑ſtace has not charg'd his piſtols, nor does he mean to raiſe his arm againſt you—You cannot take his life, upon theſe terms.

Does he deſpiſe me, then?

A little gleam of hope, breaks in upon me.

Your ſon can anſwer that, Sir William.

With truth, my lord, I ſay you do not—Now, you muſt anſwer me.

Your being perfectly acquainted with my intentions, towards your ſiſter, before I knew that you were related to her, ſhou'd, I think, be a ſufficient anſwer, to any demand you can poſſibly have to make.

By no means, my lord; tho' your tender⯑neſs for the weakneſs you have cauſed, may incline you to repair her loſt honor, I muſt and will, be guardian of my own; and nothing but your meet⯑ing me, on fair and equal terms, can heal the wound you have given it.

Now, Harry, you are my ſon.

Inhuman brother! will nothing, but his life, content your rage? Let me die for him.

My angel Harriet!—But ſince it muſt be ſo, I am ready, colonel.

I hope your lordſhip thinks I ſtand acquitted of my obligations to you, by preventing your en⯑gaging, on ſuch unequal terms, for that unworthy girl.

You wrong her much; it is I alone am guilty.

It is true, my ſon; Harriet is inno⯑cent.

If that be true, I have a double right to venge⯑ance!

You have a right to chuſe your repa⯑ration, Sir, and I attend you.

When ſhall my miſeries end!

I hope, this moment, madam.

What can this mean?

Frampton!

I have no ſort of buſineſs, with your lord⯑ſhip, [88] my commiſſion is directed to Sir William Evans, and lady Euſtace.

Do not inſult me, Sir; I am not lady Euſtace.

Nor ever ſhall be.

That is a point, that will not, I think, admit of being conteſted.

You are miſtaken, Sir; but this is trifling.

I am on the rack—explain yourſelf, my friend.

You muſt give me leave to ſpeak, then—When I ſaw the diſtreſs, and anxiety of your mind, I was fully ſatisfied of your honourable intentions, towards this lady, from the letter you entruſted me with, which yet remains unopened.—I determin'd, if poſſible, to preſerve both your life, and honour, for her ſake, by preventing your duel, with her fa⯑ther, and your marriage, with lady Anne Mount⯑fort.

The firſt event, Sir, has been prevented, without your aſſiſtance, and I will venture to promiſe, that the ſecond ſhall never take place.

I am quite of your opinion, Sir. As I came, this moment from lord Delville, to acknow⯑ledge this fair lady, as his ſon's wife—but this letter Sir William, will more fully explain his lordſhip's ſentiments.

My generous friend! my guardian angel!

My lord, I neither deſire, nor deſerve, your thanks.—If I have been, in any way, ſervice⯑able to you, attribute it to my real attachment, to your truly amiable wife.

I do not underſtand all this.

'Tis as I gueſs'd, exactly.—All ſmoke, and no fire.—My nephew, here! Then ſomething may be done—I rejoice to ſee you, Harry.

Lord Delville has behav'd, like a man of honour; but yet I muſt inform you, Sir, that the generoſity of his conduct, cannot efface the baſeneſs of his ſon—My daughter ſhall never be his wife—He has diſgrac'd her.

Never, Sir! Here is my witneſs—this letter, which I now entreat my Harriet to peruſe, will fully prove, that had I fallen by your hand, her honour wou'd have been preſerv'd.

I will not read it.

I think that was behaving like a man of quality.

Let me entreat you, Sir William, to look it over, as I can, with truth and honour, atteſt the ſincerity of the writer.

There need no farther vouchers. Let Har⯑riet now determine, for herſelf.

The ſtruggle is too great.—I cannot ſpeak—Leave me, my lord—

Never, whilſt I have life, will I forſake you.

It cannot be, my lord—Tho' I have the higheſt ſenſe of gratitude, for lord Delville's good⯑neſs to me, and tho' I believe you perfectly ſincere, in what you ſay, at preſent; yet the humiliating ſitu⯑ation, into which you have plunged me, the diſtreſs you have brought upon my family, your attachment to another lady——

With ſhame I muſt confeſs my trifling with a lady, whom I cou'd not have lov'd, even had my Harriet been unknown to me.

I think I may venture to aſſure your lordſhip, that lady Anne Mountfort will be very ready to forgive your want of paſſion for her, as her parti⯑ality for me, might, perhaps, have been the cauſe of her blindneſs, to your ſuperior merits.

I congratulate your good fortune, co⯑lonel; and am indebted to your generoſity, for remov⯑ing every ſhadow of difficulty, on lady Anne's ac⯑count.

Nephew, I wiſh you joy—There will be one wom of quality, at leaſt, in the family.

Weak as I am, my lord, you cannot ſhake my reſolution

I have no hope, but in your interpoſi⯑tion, Sir: you are her father, and have been moſt offended; yet you, perhaps, have the goodneſs to forgive!

Aye, and give, too, my lord; the man who ſincerely repents of error, is farther remov'd from vice, than one who has ne'er been guilty—This letter is a ſufficient, and convincing proof, of your contrition. Take her; ſhe is, and ſhall be yours.

My wife!

The commands of a father, muſt not be re⯑ſiſted—O! my lord, how different are my preſent ſenſations, from thoſe I ſuſtained, when I ventur'd to beſtow this hand, without his ſanction!—But take it; it is yours, for ever, now.

Then every wiſh of my fond heart is ac⯑compliſhed.

Joy to your lordſhip, and my deareſt Harriet!

I ſincerely wiſh your ladyſhip all the hap⯑pineſs, which I well know you have deſerv'd.

And you, my friend, ſhall ſhare it with us, who have ſteer'd my courſe to this bleſt har⯑bour, thro' all the ſhoals and quick-ſands of my folly. [91] —You ſhall be happy, too, if ought within my for⯑tune, or my power, can render you ſo.

Continue to preſerve your preſent bliſs, my lord, and I am over-paid.

I think I have a right to partake, in your ladyſhip's felicity, from the principal ſhare I have had, in bringing this event to paſs. I hope that lord Delville has been properly inform'd—

—That man is my perpetual torment.

Why, hey-day, Sir William! What wind's a blowing, now? You ſeem to have caſt anchor, when I thought you were putting out to ſea.—Here is the whole crew aſſembled; Miſs Winifred, and all.—Do women fight duels? If I had them on board the Dreadnought, I'd clap them all under hatches, before ſhe engaged.—But come along, baronet, you don't mean to ſlack ſail, now, I hope—I thought, by this time, we ſhou'd have made a few eyelet holes, in the enemy's rigging.

I hope, my good friend, you will excuſe my ſeeming inattention, to your impatient bravery, when I tell you, that our conteſt has ended happily, and that you may now wiſh all this company, as well as lord Euſtace, joy.

He is to be married, then, it ſeems—I hope, madam, you'll believe me, another time.

Yes, when you tell truth, captain—But, at preſent, you happen to be a little out, in your ſoundings, for the ſhip's name is not the lady Anne, but the lovely Harriet—The country girl, you talked of.

Well, well, all is one to me.—So ſhe is bound for the port of matrimony, I am content— [92] and ſo I wiſh your lordſhip, your ladyſhip, and all your ſhips, a proſperous voyage, to the iſland of happineſs.